February 10, 2015 – Celebrating union

Niz and Jim – Mom and Dad – in the summer of 1959

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A week ago Friday, my mom and dad were married 55 years.  They met in 1959, when my mom did a summer school session at Cal Berkeley. Sissy, one of her sorority sisters from Long Beach State had married one of my dad’s buddies, Bob. My mom came over to stay with Sissy and Bob and they thought she and my dad might make a nice pair.  They met in a bar – Gene’s Bit of Bohemia in downtown San Anselmo.  My mom, working on a double major in chemistry and math, had grand plans for a career and travel in Europe.  Dad was glad for a date for the summer with a beautiful woman who wasn’t going to try to tie him down.  Almost all of his friends were married by then and he was (still is!) handsome and sweet – quite a catch.  But by the end of the summer, Mom’s plans were out the window – they were head over heels and making entirely other plans.

Dad was 28 and Mom was 21 when they married on January 30, 1960. In those days he was quite old to be starting a family, so they went right to work on making theirs as quickly as possible – my brother Joe was born before the end of the year. I’m second and was born just 11 months after Joe.  The four of us lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Daly City with cribs on either side of their bed.  My mom was working while Dad was finishing a degree in Biology/Botany and getting a teaching credential at SF State.  When she was pregnant with their third, my brother Matt, Dad started teaching at Drake High in San Anselmo. We then moved to Woodacre where they still live. Thirteen months after Matt, came Mike.  Joe was just 3 years, 8 months when Mike was born.  Three in (cloth) diapers at a time, she was a busy mom.  It’s great for all of us that she’s been blessed with the most abundant energy of any human I know!

The years have included some bumps for them (and us), some of them considerable. But their bond has weathered them all.  They are in a new “spring” in their relationship. They wake in the morning and see who can jump in first with “good morning, I love you.”  As in many marriages, the two of them are such different people – sometimes these differences make marriage seem impossible, but now it makes them fit like puzzle pieces, each the perfect match for the other. When asked the secret of their long marriage, Mom says that what she does is focus her energy on what my dad is, not on what he is not.

Sometime recently, I had this thought drift over me – about how remarkable marriage is.  In most families, the married people are the only two who don’t share any of the same genetics.  Parent-children and siblings almost always share DNA, which can have a powerful way of keeping us in relationship. We say blood is thicker than water – clichés are clichés because there is truth to them. And the two people (of any gender) in a marriage share no blood connection.  Sustaining that connection is an enormous challenge when our egos so easily make our mate into the “other” when pushed into the corner.  When I think in these terms, I’m not astonished at the number of marriages that end in divorce, I’m inspired by all those that don’t!

Not all of us have one life-long marriage as my parents have – and as have Joe’s parents – they’ve been married more than 60 years!  But for those of us who have been in marriages that have ended, being in another, as Joe and I have, can bring its own kind of blessing.  We know what it’s like to be with someone with whom coming back around became no longer possible. Breaking the promise I made to my first husband was the hardest choice I’ve had to make in my life, even as it was the life-affirming direction to take.  When it gets really hard – as I believe it does in all marriages – at least those that are fully alive – part of me has thought of leaving.  But then I remind myself that whatever this pain has to teach me will remain until it’s healed within me.  This is hard work – and so worth it.  The ripening, deepening of this relationship with this incredible man I’m married to, is the reward.

This week, I’m finally going to finish the painting I’ve been working on since November. Here it is – two persimmons after an early fall rain.  I’ve been lamenting how I started it in the autumn and it was meant to be painted then. We are now in winter, headed into spring, making it no longer “in season.”   But now, it seems the perfect painting to be working on just before Valentine’s Day.  Valentine’s Day is a mixed bag – it can be a hard day for anyone who isn’t in a situation to snuggle with a sweetheart.  For those who do though – to me – it’s a day to appreciate the miraculous bond that brings two people together to share in one life, and the sweetness that is there amidst the challenges.

It’s all here in this painting:  two, cheek to cheek, still sprinkled with the tears of rain (which you will see when it’s finished!). The name for this painting had not popped out until I was working on it last night.  Continuing with my intention to find one-word – if it’s the title of a song, even better – I poked around on iTunes looking up words that were coming to me:  “promise,” “embrace,” “vow.”  They all have songs written about them, but none were it. Then I landed on “Always.”  There are several songs with that title – Bon Jovi has one, and Atlantic Starr, but the one that fit was written by Irving Berlin in 1925 as a gift to his bride-to-be, Ellin.  Here’s Sinatra’s version. It strikes the right note for me. All-ways, in all ways.  The real always of being together and loving each other, one day at a time.  Congratulations on 55 years, Mom and Dad. I love you so very much.

Love,

Cara

February 3, 2015 – My love affair with food

Lunch on the Terrace – a wonderful home-made lunch I had with my mom and dad in France years ago:  salade nicoise, baguette, wine we bought the day before at the winery and my favorite comté cheese – yum!

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This morning is day 21 of a 30 day program eating only whole foods (it’s called Whole30).  I discovered it last fall and decided to give it a go after my hubby’s birthday in January.  I’m eating anything I want except: grains of any sort, legumes, dairy, sweeteners of any kind (natural or not) and alcohol. I’m eating lots of vegetables (including starchy root veggies), animal protein, fruits and nuts and seeds.  I’m not measuring or portioning, not worrying about how much fat – I’m just not eating those 5 kinds of food.  My motivation is to see if it will help my sleep and energy.  I’m in a woman’s mid-life transition and both have been challenging.  As I work on growing my work in the world, more energy would make life a lot easier and more fun. I’m awfully tired of being tired.

So far, the results have not been spectacular, though I do notice that my late-afternoon grogginess is gone.  But the “tiger blood” they describe in the program has not yet started coursing through my veins.  It may be that what I was eating was already healthful enough that there isn’t such a contrast. And I’m noticing that I’m finding it hard to not be grumpy these past few days. I think that’s partly because I made a promise to myself that by doing this, I’ve broken.

As have many females in our culture, I’ve internalized a lot of un-loving ideas about my body’s appearance and how it needs to be fed – ideas I’ve spent a long time working to undo.  When I was a teenager – though I was not overweight, I started to go on diets.  It was then when I heard that my grandma, who was in her 70’s and was overweight, was going on yet another diet.  I had the dreadful realization that I could spend my entire life this way, one diet after another.

My path took me to a book called “Thin Within” in my 20’s.  Judy Wardell wrote about “naturally thin people” who eat what they want, only when they are hungry, and stop when they are satisfied.  It was at this point that I got rid of the bathroom scale and have not owned one since.  My clothes tell me all I need to know about my size!  I’ve read a whole lot of Janine Roth’s books and did one of her retreats.  In 2006, through a program called Beyond Hunger, I took a vow – that I’d never go on a diet prescribed by anyone else again.  I have known all along that my body intuitively knows what it wants and needs to be fed, when and how much.

Alongside this struggle for peace with my body and food is a deep appreciation for the place that food has in our lives.  Growing and preparing food was important starting from very early on.  When I was a year and a half old, my parents moved our family – which then was just my brother Joe (who is 11 months older) and me – from a one-bedroom apartment in Daly City to a new house sitting on a bare half-acre out in Woodacre.  That first summer, my dad terraced the large side yard and planted a vegetable garden.  Soon after came my two younger brothers, Matt and Mike, a dozen or so fruit trees and a larger and larger garden.  Every summer since, my dad has planted his garden and fed us with the produce.  Growing up, sometimes our entire dinner came from the garden in the summertime.

My brother Matt lived with me in my little house in San Anselmo – the one I moved into in my mid-30’s, after my divorce.  He planted a little vegetable garden in our backyard.  I remember sitting in the sun one day, looking at the tomatoes when this thought came to me:  “it’s an absolute miracle that we can put a little seed in the soil, add water and sunlight and up comes a plant that grows these red fruits that I’ll put in my salad tonight.  And when I eat them, their cells will become my cells – linking my body to the dirt in our backyard.”

I wrote in November about how I love to cook and how central it is in my life. When I look at how central cooking is and how I so appreciate the beauty and blessing that food is, it just does not make sense that I’ve struggled so much with how to love and feed my body.  But then relationships – of all kinds – can be complex and even paradoxical.  Thus is mine with food!

Though I’m not doing this Whole30 plan for the same reasons I’ve dieted in the past – to lose weight – it’s still someone else’s idea about how my body ought to be fed.  I’m so missing oatmeal in the morning and a little bit of real milk in my tea. The Greek salad I had for lunch yesterday was crunchy and wholesome, but it would have been amazing with just a little feta cheese and a few of those multi-grain pita chips from Trader Joes that I love.

This all leads me to a theme that has been arising in these posts – my coming back to caring for myself.  The truth is what is really needed adjusting in my eating is not the what but the how.  I’ve been eating too much on the run, grabbing something to eat in the car on my way to lead a watercolor group, lunch at my desk while working.  Joe and I have even gotten away from eating dinner at the table together. I’ve been eating at the kitchen counter, reading or being on my iPad, while he’s in front of the TV. I’m missing savoring, and being aware of how it’s actually sacred to put tasty and wholesome food in my body.

I’m not sorry I’ve done 20 days of a Whole30. I’ve gotten a lot more conscious about what I’m eating. I’ve been creative in my cooking, finding ways to make food tasty without all the stuff I’ve been avoiding.  I learned I can make homemade mayonnaise in five minutes with an immersion blender. It’s gotten me away from mindless snacking on crunchy carbs and eating a lot more vegetables – deliciously prepared vegetables are my actually my favorite things to eat!  But I’m also finding myself eating more meat than is natural for me and my tummy isn’t happy about it.  I made a commitment to do this Whole30 thing and there is a voice that is protesting my thoughts of quitting on it. But, I’m paying attention to another voice, the one reminding me I took a vow to myself – this promise is what I’m committed to.

As I write this, it’s still early and my stomach is telling me it’s time for food.  I’m going to get ready for my day and make myself what I want to eat – a warm bowl of oatmeal with berries and milk – from a cow (not an almond).  As I do this, I’m doing something essential – I’m trusting myself, my body and its intuitive wisdom. We’ll see what it tells me in response!

Love,

Cara

January 27, 2015 – Roses in Winter

The “harvest” from our rosebushes a few springs ago.

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I love roses, I love to grow roses. When they are in bloom, I love to have cut roses all around the house – you know I love to paint them. I. Just. Love. Roses! I don’t care that they are thorny and need to be tended to.  What they bring to my life – their color, shape and scent are so worth it!  Every house I’ve lived in since I was 25, I’ve planted rosebushes – as many as I possibly could.  Scented are best, I love every shade of pink, orange, apricot, yellow and soft peach – those are my favorites.  The house that Joe and I lived in in Petaluma I planted more than 40 – and it didn’t have a huge yard!  I had roses everywhere! When we sold that house, I was bemoaning how hard it is to plant them and care for them and then have to keep leaving them behind – to which Joe said, “that’s what you do – you plant the world with roses.” He says the most insightful things to me!  The house we are in now has a garden that gets somewhat limited sun because of a big hill right behind us.  This has meant the roses don’t thrive like they would in a better growing situation, but I don’t care, I must have roses!

I know I’m not alone in my adoration of them.  They are probably the most beloved flower in the western world, if not everywhere. (I’m guessing the lotus and lily rival the rose in other parts of the world.) They touch us in a way that other flowers don’t. They are so elegant and complex, mostly not symmetrical which makes them so interesting to look into. And their symbolism is rich and deeply rooted in our psyche.

Like most plants they have their season – theirs is a long and generous one in Northern California.  Around here they start blooming in April, though last year, I went outside and was surprised to find one Peace rose and a bit of purple lavender in bloom right about Easter Sunday, in March – quite early, especially for our sun-challenged yard.  Here’s a  picture of them, which one day may become a painting.  They bloom on and off through October, maybe into November.  With the shift in our weather this year there were some (in other’s yards) that bloomed to Christmas!

In the middle of last week I was really restless. I had lots of things to do as well as telling myself that I really needed to be getting to that painting of the persimmons that I was hoping to have finished weeks ago, but all I wanted to do was go prune the rosebushes.  They hadn’t yet been given their winter trim and were all straggly and leggy.  We’re having a dry, mild January, so they’ve begun to send out their new shoots already.  They needed to be pruned and were so calling to me.

So, I put aside the computer, my paints and painting and spent not quite two hours in the softly warm sunshine pruning the roses.  It was the perfect thing for me to do.  At about the sixth plant, it hit me that pruning roses in the winter has a message for me.  Heading them back and trimming off the extraneous branches from last growing season, puts the plant into a dormancy, a rest. Then when it’s time, the new growth comes from strategically chosen branches, giving it room to flourish. Otherwise, there are too many small shoots out at the ends of too many small branches. It’s cleaner, clearer. The plant gets smaller at first, but in the end, it allows for more vigorous, “organized” growth, resulting in more full and beautiful blooms.

What occurred to me is that pruning can be an integral part of not just the cycle of the rosebush’s life, but of mine too.  I want to give myself the permission to prune my life in the winter – to give myself the time to see which branches of my life are the strongest, carrying the most vigorous life-force, and eliminate those that cross over, competing for resources.  Then, allow myself to be still a bit and store energy for sending new growth in just those directions.

I reflected back to the first several years of showing and selling my artwork, before I was teaching – leading others on their art journey.  I ended up not painting at all for two, three, even five months in the winter!  I imagine not painting again for five months and I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach! Could I really still do that?  What does being dormant for a time mean? Is a months-long break part of the rhythm I still need, or if have I grown my capacities for creating?

Nature is the quintessential example of the cycle of life, and since the insight landed on me as it did, I’m paying attention.  In my experience insight isn’t always clear and complete all at once – likely there’s more to be revealed.   What occurs to me most clearly today is that pruning means clearing space.  Today we had the carpets cleaned and everything is up off the floors in my studio.  A perfect opportunity to not put it all back!

With appreciation for you in my world –

Cara

January 20, 2015 – Creative habitat, safety, and freedom

Mickey, in our Friday group, working on her painting of waterbirds at a special day last fall at Pam’s house.

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Over the weekend I had a conversation with a watercolor student who had emailed me. She wanted to participate in a weekend workshop and was concerned that she was skilled enough to benefit from it.  She shared with me that she had an art teacher when she was young and in school who questioned what she was doing in such a way that she felt criticized – which shut down her art making for decades.

I shared with her a similar experience with a summer school class I took early in high school.  I’ve blocked out the specifics of what happened, but what I know I is that I was left with the sense that making art was not safe, that I was not an artist and would avoid any attempt at all costs.  There was a Fine Art requirement at my high school and I took Photography, which seemed to me the least art-like of any class I could take.  I now know, of course, I always have been an artist.  When I was a pre-teen, I loved colored felt pens – I made these elaborate, colorful flower montages with them.  But after that summer school experience, it wasn’t until I was in my early 30’s before I ventured back into making any kind of visual art.  Whatever that art teacher said to me, or whatever creative environment he created, I had the clear sense that I was not safe.

When I started leading groups of people in watercolor, I had the intuitive sense that my first priority was to have the environment be as safe as possible.  The part of us that wants to make art can be a very tender sprout when it first emerges – and continues to be if we keep growing in our work.  Every attempt we make seems like it is us and when it is judged, we are judged.

And, in order to learn something new, we have to open ourselves to allow it in.  In order to explore new terrain, we have to leave our familiar one.  Both of these things are inherently risky.  If we don’t have some sense of safety, we often stop ourselves.  I’m really talking about more than just making art.  It’s expressing ourselves, our truth, especially in any way that makes us vulnerable. Thinking back on to what I shared two weeks ago, about my evolution to live more in the feminine, and the image of resting in a hammock, this is not possible unless the environment is safe.  Being feminine requires safety as well.

I’ve not seen the movie “Selma” yet, but reading Mick Lasalle’s review in the San Francisco Chronicle of the movie has me thinking also about how Martin Luther King and the civil rights movement related to freedom and safety too.  In the review he wrote:  “It’s a testament to Martin Luther King’s vision and to the courage it took to pursue that vision. But it does something else, too. It shows the awfulness of being in possession of that vision, the terrible responsibility of it.”  Great figures in human history and evolution have had the courage to act, risking everything in the name of freedom.  Maybe such people have a kind of spiritual safety they act out of?

I believe that to be alive is to have the impetus to create – not just art, but anything.  And having the capacity to express it, to me, is freedom.  The Charlie Hebdo killings in Paris show another clear connection between freedom of expression and safety.   In some ways safety and freedom are in a direct relationship and in others, they are at odds.  Huh.

Much of what matters – maybe everything that really matters – that we create  and do in our lives requires us to risk in some way.  We can seek out safety and supportive environments, but in actuality, living our life is a solo journey.  Last week I was talking to an artist who was struggling with much larger scale painting than she’d ever done before.  I told her that I could offer guidance and encouragement, but it us each of us who must pick up the brush and paint our paintings.  If I were to paint it for her, it wouldn’t be her work, growing her capacities and giving her the satisfaction of having done it.

It is each of us who has to get behind the wheel of the car for the first time, ask that lovely lady to coffee, raise our hand to answer the question.  There are ways we can set life up to reduce the risk, but not eliminate it.  There still remains the possibility we will fail – which in a way is a kind of death.  In my life as a spiritual seeker, I’ve read many times, that to really live we must let ourselves die. I’m getting that this is what all the teachers I’ve read are talking about.  Hellen Keller comes to mind.  She famously said: “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature… Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.” Yet, what would her life have been if it were not for Anne Sullivan?  She’d probably have lived her life locked up,  shut away.  We do need each other in order to foster the environment where we can flourish.   Yes, ultimately we must choose to act, but we don’t have to do it alone.

To the adventure that is your life!

Love,

Cara

January 13, 2015 – The field we live in

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In response to last week’s post, my dear friend Dr. Victoria Bentley send me a beautiful reflection which included this:

The end of your blog made me think about how the inherent tension in things– between yin and yang, positive and negative poles, night and day, light and dark–is absolutely necessary for creation, may be the field on which our lives are played out…that your love of pink would not stand out so prominently in your life if it were not for the outward pull of the opposite pole.

And then Paris was attacked.  And I got all stirred up. Paris is a special place, that holds a special magic – for a lot of people on the planet – and I am one of them.  I went there for the first time when I was 22. I arrived at the Gare du Nord, off the train from Calais, having taken the ferry over from England.  Walking out into the streets, though I’d never been there before and did not actually know my way around, it was a familiar place. If we have past lives – and I believe we do – I have certainly lived there at some point.  I’ve been all over Europe and traveled some in the US and I have not been any place that felt like this.  I then spent a half a year there right after my divorce in my mid 30’s and it changed me.  A part of me I did not know existed was revealed to me there – ancient, lovely, refined, and very feminine.

When I told my dear Sister Mary that I’m planning on leading a small group of artists on a “pilgrimage” to Paris later this year, she exclaimed “Oh, Paris is the feminine heart of the world!”  I’d never heard anyone say this before, but it rings true to me.  This attack has inspired an enormous outpouring of solidarity and a move for unity.  I wonder if this isn’t related to what Paris – the City of Light – represents to the world – in addition to the obvious direct attack on freedom of expression.  We are inspired to rally around and protect that which we cherish.  I read this morning that 10,000 French troops have been mobilized to protect schools and other Jewish places all over France. A little girl was quoted as saying that she wanted to learn in peace.  The masculine protecting the feminine. And I don’t mean just male protecting female, the masculine and feminine live in all of us, in varying degrees.

The truth is, as much as my soul is so deeply feminine and my journey has been one to express it and live more from there, my life is my life because of what the masculine makes possible – how it provides for me.  I would not be an artist and a teacher if it were not for my husband providing for us as he has, while the business side of what I do grows.  And my incredible make-it-happen mom – besides being a creator of incredible beauty herself in her paintings – she makes so much possible for me: helping me with festivals, doing road-trips with me and making her real estate office available for our painting groups and workshops – all as a gift to me.  I cannot imagine how my life would have evolved as it has were it not for them.  Beauty and safe environments in which to create, to express our souls, are precious and give our lives a certain kind of meaning. But we exist in a physical universe, where we have physical needs.

There’s the masculine and the feminine, safety and freedom, that tension that Vicki wrote about.  Our universe has an inherent dual nature and the tension is where our lives are lived.   We need the feminine to inspire us, to move our hearts, to give meaning to our efforts – the “why” in what we do. And without the masculine we have no existence.  I’m just so inspired by what I’ve learned from Alison (Armstrong) – how the dance between the masculine and the feminine becomes an upward spiral by seeing how beautifully our differences fit together.  We can feed on each other instead of pulling one another down. We have largely moved beyond the “battle of the sexes” of the 70’s (a necessary step in our evolution).  Yet, it is still so easy to see the world from only our unique world view and diminish the other for not doing or being the way we are.   For me, it’s a constant balance between having the courage to express my truth and allowing myself to be contributed to by another whose voice is so not mine.

There’s so much more to say about this – I’d  love to hear what this stirs in you.

One piece that feels in me like it warrants more exploration is the whole idea of safety. That’ll be next week…

Until then, I send my love to you all –

Cara

January 6, 2015 – Living “pink” – as I see it

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When I first started to write these posts three months ago, fearing I’d need ideas to write each week, I hunted around in my computer for things I’d already written and I ran across this in an email I’d sent to my friend Vicki about a year ago:

My success and happiness and capacity for creativity and inventiveness and all that I want, including health and fitness and a fulfilling and fulfilled life are linked to my being a girl, allowing myself to be supported and provided for – and to take sweet, loving care of my body, to make it a priority and feel precious and beautiful and lovely and grace-filled.

There is a sensory field that this statement creates that I’m yearning to live in – that of trusting and allowing and a quiet celebration of my femininity.

For the past several new years, I’ve come back to this as my intention – to re-orient myself at the start of the year.  In my upbringing climbing trees with lots of boys, there wasn’t much example of what it meant to be feminine.  I would not change my early life in any way.  It’s served me to know how to really work and get stuff done.  But, it has seemed to initiate this quest for living in another way – even when I didn’t know what that way was, or at first, even that there was one.

I see the sign posts along my way:  I’m drawn to movies like “My Fair Lady” and “Dangerous Beauty” where the masculine/feminine dynamic is the central theme, when life set it up so that I’d have a “room of my own” I made it pink and soft and flowery (but not too), I was immediately drawn to Alison Armstrong and her work when I heard her talk about what it meant to run a business and still be feminine. She has become a treasured teacher and has contributed to this evolution in me more than anyone or anything else.

There has been a lot of talk about “feminine” or “feminine power” in the personal growth world in recent years.  And, as much as there is a part of me that celebrates this, much of it has missed the mark for me – it’s female-oriented, but it’s still largely masculine! This has led me to define for myself what “feminine” means.  It’s so much more than girly-ness, frilliness, and pink.  It’s a powerful way to be alive.  The image that comes to me – and it’s a felt image, rather than a visual image – is one of resting in a hammock.  I’m supported by the earth and gravity, at rest and at peace, trusting that all is well.  It’s a receptive space.  I feel myself looking out from behind my own eyes without any need to change what I see, I just take it in. It’s appreciative, warm and gracious.

It’s also responding to what comes my way, and allowing what is being created to come to life, like a pregnant woman does with her baby.  I first started showing my art because I was invited by my friend Eleanor Harvey to do Open Studios together at our church.  And I discovered I was a teacher because of the painters who kept asking, finally dragging me out from under my fears, to share what I know about painting watercolor. What was born of this is now my life and livelihood, without my intending to.

Through Alison’s work I identified my “noble qualities:” Freedom, Connection, Illumination, Trust and Loveliness. This is who I can be when I care for myself.  I felt I needed some kind of “permission” to become feminine – I had no connection between feminine and important.   I first needed to know that what I bring to the world from here does not just matter, but is actually what the world thirsts for.  Because the feminine is motivated externally, I keep reminding myself that self-care is not selfishly done just for me, but for who I can be for Joe, my family and friends, the painters in my groups – for my paintings, for you.

And it’s really hard to stay here – the feminine is overshadowed in our world by the masculine – taking action, being productive, accountable – making stuff happen. I often find myself charging into my day, my life, to-do list in hand, forgetting it entirely. And now that I know of what it feels like to be feminine in this way, it’s increasingly painful to do this. The sensitivity I shared last week is being revealed to me.

Here we are at the start of a shiny, new year and I sit again with this intention. I feel tender in my desire to live feminine; I am humbled by the strength of my deep-rooted habits that keep me running right over taking care of my body and need for rest and quiet time.  I look at my year-after-year desire to live more this way and say to myself, I’m still “here.” If I look back just a little, it’s hard to see progress. But if I head back 10 or even 20 years in my life, it’s clear I’ve come incredibly far.

This brings me back to my post about our old oak tree and its example of the long, season-after-season maturation needed to bear fruit.  What has just been revealed to me in this very moment, is that the feminine way of becoming feminine is to just allow it, in its own time.  It’s the ingrained “make it happen” in me that is having a problem with how long it’s taking!  That urgency – kept in balance – is good too, it keeps life moving along.  We need both parts.

While writing this post, I happened to glance out the window of my studio and saw the full moon just before going out of view for the day, in the pink sky of dawn. Lovely.

Wishing you a lovely day,

Cara

 

 

December 30, 2014 – My edge – exquisite softness for myself

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In 1998, when the movie “Saving Private Ryan” came out, Joe and I went to see it in the theater.  It was getting rave reviews, it was Spielberg, a great cast – everyone was seeing it, so we did too.  About ten minutes into the beach-landing scene I found myself sitting in my seat barely able to breathe.  I was so overwhelmed with the horror of what those men had experienced, it impacted my physical body. I had to leave the theater, remind myself where I was and that I was ok.  I waited a while, until the loud explosions coming from the theater died down and went back in to join Joe.  When it was over, walking out, driving home, we didn’t speak to each other. Not until the next morning were we able to talk about it.  Even though it’s an incredible story and film, I was sorry that I put myself through watching it.  I vowed to myself to never go see a violent  movie – especially a war movie – again.

I know that war is part of life on earth.  Humans are terribly violent and destructive to one another and there must be some value in telling these stories. (Though doing so hasn’t seemed to stop it from happening.)  But I lack the filter to keep energy out of my being – not just my mental and emotional being, but my physical being too.  I remember as a teenager passing out in the Kaiser Hospital elevator after having visited my grandma. There was no blood or anything gruesome, she was just in a lot of pain.  My psyche couldn’t handle her suffering and away went my consciousness.

Last night I stayed up until 12:30 on the computer, getting all the online store and credit card transactions from this month’s sales entered into QuickBooks.  The deposits were a puzzle to figure out, but I really wanted to get it done before year end.  I did this knowing that being up that late, looking into an electronic screen (two, actually) with my brain engaged with numbers would impact my sleep.  Sure enough, I had a hard time falling asleep and then woke up just three hours later.  I’ve got a little head cold, so depriving myself of sleep is so not what I needed.

All of this is to say that I’m coming to terms, 53 years into this life, that I am a really sensitive person.  Having been raised around a bunch of boys – my three brothers and all their friends – I didn’t have much in the way of an example or a reflection for my kind of sensibilities.  I climbed trees and did a lot of “boy stuff” not fully knowing how girly I really was inside.  I’ve been called a “trouper” all my life, for my capacity to dig in and work hard, even physically hard – like that tile work I did in college.  We keep doing what we are praised for – it’s a well-worn groove.

Becoming an artist and teacher in mid-life has brought to me praise of another sort entirely.  I am not just sensitive to violence, pain and working my brain too hard late at night, but also to how beauty is everywhere, how unique and precious each act of creation is, each attempt at making a watercolor painting.  I am grateful for my capacity to hold people in a particular way in their process of learning to paint, for my ability to see color, for the instrument that lives in the center of my chest that responds to inspiring visions – hearing them say “paint me.”

Tomorrow is the last day of 2014. Though it’s rather arbitrary, the calendar is a structure that we live around.  As such, we look at endings and beginnings. I’ve been shying away from New Year’s resolutions for several years. I’m so susceptible to the “bright-shiny”-ness of the hope for a “whole new me.”  Though it’s still useful to reflect and envision.  Looking back on this year, much of what I was so eager and hopeful for at the start has not come to be.  But what I do see is a profound deepening of my understanding and appreciation for who I am and what I’m here to do and offer.

I’m an artist and I am a teacher/guide/companion, particularly to others drawn to make the kind of art I do.  And the capacity to hold the possibility of  transforming their lives as I have mine.  These are gifts that are intertwined with my sensitivity. Gifts I did nothing to gain, other than to answer the call from outside me to bring them forth.  What I see this morning, is that in order to most fully serve, in the particular way only I can, I can’t live like I did when I set tile, or wrote computer code in the corporate world.  I can’t “do it all” in my little business either.

Life unfolds and reveals us to ourselves and each other in its own time and way.  It’s not new that I need to care for myself differently – I’ve even just shared this with you!  But my experience is that it keeps landing more deeply and clearly.  I can only go so far, watching myself live in a way that goes against my soul before my choices change.  It can be slow, but I stake my life and future on the knowledge that it is steady.

Looking into 2015, with a tender heart, I wish for Life in Full Color to expand, to find its way to bring life, light, color, inspiration to other hearts that resonate with it.  I wish for whatever is needed in me, for me to understand that Life in Full Color is so much more than me, and that bringing it more fully into being will take much more than me.  And I trust that at the end of December 2015, I will look back and see that something has moved and changed and grown.  It’s the nature of the universe.

Thank you, once again, for being there in my world, for having drawn this art, this teaching out of me, for giving me my life’s work.  Sending you my love and blessings for all you wish for in the coming days and months of the new year.

Love,

Cara

December 23, 2014 – Blessed by Black Labs

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Joe and I have had three black Labradors – all boys.  Well the first one, Bud, was really Joe’s dog. He was nine when Joe and I started dating – when I lived in a house that had white carpet and a white sofa.  It was my girly-girl house.  My dad called it my little “bijoux.”  After my divorce, I just knew that I’d share my life with another husband and I wanted a period of time when I could live in a more feminine and refined house than would be comfortable for the kind of guy’s-guy I’m attracted to!  The first time he came over with Bud, I put blankets down on the carpets and instructed them that he had to stay right over there, with all his black dog hair.

Joe was diagnosed with lymphoma six days after our first date.  So within a few weeks, we not only knew that he was going to become very sick from the chemotherapy treatments prescribed for him, but also that we were “the one” for each other.  So he, and his black dog moved in with me in my white house.  Joe had to stay overnight in the hospital for the second chemo treatment, leaving me at home with Bud, the black dog.  I’d never had a dog in my thirty-something life and I was actually a bit scared of him.  Poor guy, he must have been pretty uneasy with me too!

In the morning I had to leave him in the house to go to work in the city (San Francisco).  Since Joe’s dad was picking him up and bringing home about 8am, I thought Bud wouldn’t be there alone long.  Timing is NEVER as expected in the hospital though, and they were several hours late getting home. In the meantime, Bud had to pee. I’d shut all the doors to the bedrooms and bathroom in the hallway wanting to keep him as corralled as possible. He tried to get in to each room by chewing all of the door jambs, as well as scratching at the French door to the backyard before finally relieving himself on the white carpet in the living room. Joe came home to his girlfriend-of-one-month’s perfect white house with shredded door jambs and a big pee spot on the white rug.  Oh… no.

I guess I passed some kind of test when I didn’t completely freak out when he called me at work to tell me. Oh, well. What were we to do? He’s in the construction industry and got someone to repair the wood work and we had the carpet cleaned.  I had no idea I should have made him go for a pee before leaving!

About a year and a half after old Bud died, we got BJ (Buddy Junior). BJ and I were pals – we walked every day together and we played “stair-ball”- a game where he dropped the ball down the stairs and I threw it back up to him. He died suddenly in an accident when he was 5 and a half years old.  I watched it happen.  It was an awful experience.  I couldn’t sleep for a couple of nights, for the flashes of memory that kept coming up.  We missed our BJ-boy so much, it was a very difficult time. Was there ever going to be another dog who would play stair-ball?  Was I ever going to love another dog like I did him? Joe asked me, what if I could love another dog even more?  (Yes, he’s a pretty amazing guy.)

For anyone who doesn’t know, Labs shed. They shed a lot. All the time.  Fur goes everywhere. The furniture, our clothes – I find it in my food sometimes – and fur even sticks to the moist paint in my palette.  I mean everywhere. If we don’t sweep the hardwood floors for several days, dust bunnies of black dog hair form in the corners.  Pretty serious shedding.

There came a day after BJ died, a few weeks had passed, when I swept the hardwood floors and there was no dog hair.  I was not relieved for the lack of mess. My grief welled up anew. No dog hair meant no BJ.

Our dogs bring such great energy to our house and to our marriage.  They are family – so easy to love. As Valerie, a student of mine, puts it, there is a special chamber in our hearts for our love of them. But it’s still easy to get annoyed by the fur, the mess, the inconvenience.

We now have Bo (short for BoJangles). We got him four months after BJ died, at seven weeks old (I first held him at 3 weeks).  He’s now 4 and a half.  And I believe they share the same spirit – but that’s another post.  I can honestly say, that I have a completely transformed relationship with the dog hair that is all over our world. We have this pup, we have his fur.  It’s a great way to look at a lot of things:  a friend one day expressed her exasperation at her son’s finger prints all over the refrigerator – I gently reminded her she has a son!  Even though he never means to, my hubby tracks dirt in the house with his running shoes – and I have an awesome husband.  Our big oak tree out front drops leaves all over our yard, 365 days a year.  Yesterday Joe was bemoaning how he’d just cleaned up the side patio and the wind covered it again with leaves. I said “one day we won’t live under this tree.”  Joe said “and when we don’t, I will miss it.”

There’s another way of looking at this that helps my perfectionism take a step back.  Who says that the one who is “messy” is the one with the problem?  What if the problem is mine, needing everything to be so neat all the time?

I’m all about creating freedom – including for myself.  I can help myself free from my perfectionism by reminding myself that what I love will always come with something that will challenge me.  Everything in life is a mixed bag, as my God-mother Donna tells me.  I want to be free to enjoy the blessing part of the mix.

Right now, Bo-Doggy is lying flat on his side on his dog blanket on the bed with me as I write, occasionally taking a deep breath and letting it out with a sigh.  Yes, there’s dog fur on the blanket, and he’s an enormous blessing in our lives.  He’s also great at playing stair-ball. Even better than when he was BJ.   In this moment, his presence feels pretty miraculous. I’ll take that over a fur-free life any day.

May the magic of believing in miracles bring you joy and delight too.  I wish you a Merry Christmas, a Happy Channukah, a blessed Solstice or whatever you celebrate this time of year.  And a happy and healthy 2015.  I am so very grateful for you in my life.

Love,

Cara

December 16, 2014 – Let it shine

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This past week my coach, Lissa Boles, suggested I share with you why I now write a journal post every week.   In thinking about this, I reflected on how, as much as I love to write and am told how much people appreciate it, it was SO not that way for much of my life.  In high school I loved Math, Physics, Chemistry and French. Proving geometric theorems was fun!  Give me any math word problem – I ate ‘em up!  But, I got through English. Blue books were not my friends.  This carried into college. I remember reading Voltaire for a Humanities class and being required to write an essay about character motivation in light of the era or something like that – and being totally, thoroughly flummoxed!  I had not a clue!  My brain just does NOT work that way!

My degree is in Computer Science and all my electives were natural sciences, classes about the natural world:  Oceanography, Geography, Geology, Meteorology.  I love maps and categorizing things.  I have a brain that loves to find order in disorder. But writing?  I subscribed to something I heard my dad say:  “writing is easy, all you have to do is stare at a piece of paper until your forehead bleeds!”  That is, until it was about something I cared about – writing stories of my experiences.  When I was going to a church that occasionally invited members of the community to offer reflections as part of the Sunday services, I started writing stories to share.  But, I really got going when preparing for my first Open Studios.  I was inspired to write a little story for each painting and put together an “Art Journal.”  I remember sitting outside on the patio with my laptop on my lap, just tapping away, one painting after the other.  I have continued for each new painting I’ve done since.  And all these stories are on my website, helping to further illuminate the images I paint.

What comes to me now is that the impetus to write has sprung from these places:

• I am a seeker and have been following a path of self-development for decades, demonstrating my tendency to “look under the rock.”
• Witnessing others making art for the past three years in my painting groups, has caused me to consciously observe, and start to see patterns in the creative process.
• I’m a connecter – I see patterns, similarities, parallels (there’s that logic brain, who knew?!) And it seems useful to share the connections I see.
• What I write, like the well of paintings, is in me – there’s that quote from the Gospel of St. Thomas I included in a post in November – and I do not want to be destroyed!

For at least a few years I’ve had the sense that I had something to write, to share, beyond writing about my art.  When I started regularly posting at the beginning of October, it was in spite of the fear that I’d not keep it up – that I’d get pulled away and peter out.  This remains a risk and a possibility, but I’m into my third month and writing a post for Tuesday is becoming what I do.  The discipline is good for me. It’s growing me to do this.  At first, I thought I would need lots of feedback and response in order to keep doing it. Even though I’m getting very little, it’s ok, I’m still writing!

I appreciate very much when I hear that you read what I write and tell me that it was worthwhile for you to read it.  It definitely fuels me to keep this up. And what I didn’t expect would happen as I have continued this practice, is that I am sticking with it even if you don’t.  I am doing this because it is in me, just as I paint because the paintings are in me.  At the same time, I do need you. I didn’t start to paint with much regularity until I had an audience. Until there were people who might be wondering – and even wanting – what I might paint next.  So as it is with this journal.  If I didn’t post these online, available for you to read them, I wouldn’t feel compelled to write them.  It sounds like I’m contradicting myself.  It’s subtle, but there is a distinction.  I write because it’s in me, and I keep writing because you are there to receive it.

Sharing what comes of me – of us – is risky. We are revealed, exposed and open to judgment. And we have to face the voices inside that might say “who are you to do this?”  But the seeker in me wins out.  I write – and paint – because I am fully on the bandwagon that we are all invited on – to let our light shine.  Who doesn’t feel more alive singing “This Little Light of Mine”? (Don’t believe me, watch/hear Bruce Springsteen lead it here. I dare you to sing along!)

This piece from Maryanne Williamson is so often quoted, but it is so worth including here:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

I write – and I paint – for us, which in my experience is where God lives most powerfully – in our connection. In these darkest days, this darkest season here in the northern hemisphere, when we celebrate the light, I invite you to join me, in whatever way you are called to – to let it shine.

Love,

Cara

 

 

December 9, 2014 – Stepping back

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One of my most treasured friendships is with an extraordinary woman named Randi. We met at the start of her first, my second year of college. We were suite-mates in the dorm El Conquistador in San Diego. She was not quite 17, I was not quite 19.  Though over the decades (!) we have woven in and out of being in regular communication, this is one of those friendships that picks right up where it left off, the closeness and ease never abating. Life took Randi east, to business school at Wharton and a brilliantly successful career in the health-related business world.  She is married to one of the most unique and special guys I know and together they have a remarkable daughter, now in college.  I love that though our life circumstances and even the filters through which we take life in are so incredibly different, we have such a deep appreciation for each other.  She said yesterday in a message to me that she grounds me and I inspire her. What a blessing.

We had a chat on New Year’s Day not quite a year ago that resulted in her coming out in March to learn to paint.  I love sharing painting with her. And she mentors me in how I run my art and teaching business. She’s just unflappable, always looking for the strategy or solution for my current “problem.”

Last week, on the way to the Thursday group, my tall latte cup full of roobois tea and milk went flying all over the front of my car, my pant leg and my new white jacket!  I had slammed on the breaks after looking down for one second and the cars in front of me had stopped for a bus pulling out.  I had gotten myself all frazzled with all that was on my plate: I had six cases of new mugs to put in individual boxes, art to bring in to hang for the open house on the weekend, prints to prepare, the announcement email to craft and send. The calendar orders were coming in along with the questions and problems with the online system. Instead of walking Bo (and myself) I’d spent all morning responding to these emails.  I now have a whole new appreciation for customer service departments!  So, I didn’t think straight about putting my tea in one of my new steel travel mugs with a lid before getting on the road!

My thoughts were all over the place, like flies buzzing around the kitchen, suddenly switching directions!  I knew I had to shift my energy, so I called Randi.

With humor and wisdom, she met me where I was and reinforced something I’ve known – that ultimately, what I need to be doing is primarily painting and teaching –the two things that no one else can do.  Yes.  I need help. Ten minutes into the conversation, I felt like a different person. Even though there wasn’t any help on the way, I had another perspective on the situation. I was no longer down in it, where all I could see were the thick trees. She helped me rise up and see the forest.

It occurred to me that this is parallel to what I see happen in the artists in my groups – and in me – when we paint.  It’s so easy to pick apart what we are doing when we are close in, intimate with the detail.  The critical voice in my head is telling me that the shapes are awkward, the colors are off, that it looks contrived and not natural like the thing I’m attempting to represent. I said all these things to myself about the in-progress painting of persimmons I’m slowly working on above. What it takes is stepping back.  I put the painting across the room and it can be astonishing how different it looks.  It allows me to see the painting that is emerging, in its entirety.  From here I can also see what’s needed – where I want it to be darker or softer or more vibrant.

I love my Thursdays and Fridays. I walk around our space while everyone is working on their paintings, exclaiming how incredible their work is.  They often look at me in faint disbelief.   So, I ask if I can hold up their paintings for them.  Without fail, the rest of the group responds with great appreciation and often specific feedback about what they like.  And then I see on the painter’s face a dawning of the vision that the rest of us have for their work.

It’s a bummer that this is how it goes!  We cannot appreciate our work in the way that others can.  It’s like all the cooks I know (me included) who can’t enjoy the food we’ve prepared like the rest of the diners do.  For me it takes not just physical distance, stepping back, but also time.  Generally it’s a few months after finishing a painting, when it’s up and framed, that the parts of it that still bug me start to fade and I begin to see what everyone else does.

Being down in the details of our paintings, our work is necessary.  It’s being engaged – getting stuff done – the rubber and the road.  But a life-diet of nothing but engagement brings on monotony, tedium, boredom, hyper-criticism and overwhelm. In talking about how we view our artwork, when we are working intently on it, I find myself using the analogy that it’s like looking at our chin with a 10x mirror (yikes), instead of looking back and taking in our whole face, including our shining eyes.  We need perspective to take in the broad view, to see it in context. From here we can see whole other possibilities and respond in a much more useful way.

It’s powerful for me to me to think about my life as a creation, just like a painting.  My moment last week was a 10x mirror moment, and I’m grateful for Randi helping me to step back.  We need each other for this.  As a connection-oriented being, I love that it’s set up this way – that our best life doesn’t come out of operating completely independently (as if that’s really possible, anyway).  We are channels for creation. When we are in the process, as whatever we are creating is actively coming through us, it takes others to reflect to us the beauty of our hard work – or at least to remind us to step back and take a breath.  As we wind up the year it’s a good time to do just this. Yes, I am listening to myself as I write this!

Wishing you moments of reflection in the midst of what can be a busy season.

Love,

Cara