September 6, 2016 – Schlep art, carry panels

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Last week in my coaching group call the conversation arose about what constitutes a “healing business.” Implicit in the conversation was a pre-conceived notion that a healing business is mostly one that involves one-on-one interaction, where one person is the healer and the other is being healed. Where we ended up is, that though this can be true, healing comes in many forms. My coaching sister, Susan runs a place of lodging in the wild grasslands of Saskatchewan, Canada. The business she runs with her husband, involves doing plenty of laundry, making beds and cleaning toilets – doing plenty of physical work. They host hunters and other travelers (as did the previous proprietors), but it is their intention to establish a retreat center on their place – with an explicit intent to heal. Someone else on the call (I wish I could remember who) pointed out that even now, without the overt context as a retreat center, they are still making it possible that those who come stay with them are healed – by simply being on the land and in how they are welcomed and cared for by their hosts. And – by holding what they do as a healing business, it might make the relentless chores less arduous. Making up a bed for the next weary traveler’s body to rest in, rather than just longing for the day the business can hire someone to make beds, might change what it’s like to do the work.

With this past weekend’s Sausalito Art Festival before me, this conversation pointed me to someplace important. I have been able to see that the weekly and monthly groups that I offer are opportunities for healing, but it occurred to me that showing my own paintings to the world, is also a way I offer healing. I’ve been told before, that my art heals those who see it. I’ve witnessed it touching people. In the post I wrote right after last year’s festival, I shared several of them. The ladies from Austin came back again this year to see me. And the young woman who couldn’t stop crying too – this time with her new boyfriend and their sweet little dog. She shared how seeing my art just after she had moved here, not knowing anyone, had somehow helped her know everything was going to be ok. And then there are those who end up with the artwork – many of them enjoy looking at it – they find it beautiful – and that is enough. But I’ve heard from many too, who find something in the artwork – even a print or calendar or mug – that touches a place in them, that longed to be reached. Yes, this part of what I do is a “healing business” too.

I’ve been griping inside myself from just about the beginning, about how much hard, physical work these shows are – looking forward to when I either don’t do them anymore, or I can hire help to take all of that off me. There is a lot of packing, schlepping, unpacking, hoisting, fastening, labelling… And then it all happens in reverse, after the weekend is over. After our call, it occurred to me that my mindset, the frame I put around why I am going through all this effort to do a festival, could use an upgrade. We live in a physical world. The healing through my art happens because I actually put real paint on real paper, which goes in real frames. These real paintings all need to be supported, displayed in order for people to encounter them. So what if I go through the effort to set up and take down a festival, with the idea that physical work is a spiritual practice too: chop wood, carry water. And – that I do it in service to someone’s healing.

The plan at the end of the festival, was for me to button up my booth as I had the previous three nights, and then to come back in the morning to take it all down, after the majority of the artists had left. Since I live here and don’t have to get on the road today, this works great. But just as everyone was starting to pack up, something happened in the row behind my booth – a big, drunk man smashed through someone’s booth, causing damage and injury to her – and then attempted to climb up a really tall cyclone fence. There was the awful sound of people struggling physically against each other, a man was repeatedly screaming for security to come help. This whole thing really shook me up. Though he was taken away, I realized I wouldn’t sleep well, unless I got my artwork out of there last night. It ended up taking a while, because I hadn’t gotten my name on the list, for a cart to take it out to my car. In the past, I would have been anxious and crabby about being there so long after the festival had ended, and still not been loaded and out. But there wasn’t anyone else I was holding up – it was just me – and I was seeing to it that my irreplaceable paintings were safe. And even more amazing, I was not weary or feeling sorry for myself. I was just fine! Even this morning – I’m a bit tired – but not completely wiped out, like I have been after just about every show in the past. This is amazing!

There is another healing that happens through my doing festivals like this one, where people are engaged and connecting with the artwork. I’m healed too. Even in my 10th year of showing this artwork to the world, it hasn’t gotten tiresome to experience the impact it has on people. Twelve years ago, I faced the grief that I wasn’t going to give birth to any children – at least not on this go-round – and likely I’d not raise any children either, as we chose not to pursue adoption. It took doing something that mattered, really truly mattered to me, to reach in to touch this grief and give it a purpose. I absolutely know that if I’d had a child in 2004, I’d not have been at the Sausalito Art Festival this past weekend. The space in this life that was left by being childless, made possible the experience of witnessing the appreciation that my work received the past three days.

I’m still cozied up in bed as I write, warm and snuggly in my PJs, with Bo curled up on the other corner. And now it’s time to get myself up and dressed. I need to get down to the festival site, pack the truck and finish the job of putting it all away until next year. I’m so very grateful for all that supports me to make this possible – my husband, my incredible Mama, my friend Carla who helped set up, Jean from our Friday group who came yesterday to relieve me – and all those who stopped by to give me a bathroom break – and brought me glasses of champagne (no kidding!). And I’m grateful for my strong body too – my physical presence, that is able to take apart panels and load them into the truck. I am clearly a feminine being and I need to express this feminine in order to be whole – and this means I need rest and quiet time. But – and – it’s also fun to rock – because I am able to, I love to dig in and get stuff done.

So – here I go!

With my love and appreciation for you and how you allow me to offer healing to you – and for how you heal me as well,

Cara

August 30, 2016 – Our Love Affairs with our Paintings

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Last Wednesday, just after posting about how I was able to be really productive by not making myself do anything, but shifting gears to keep myself fresh and engaged, I called foul on myself. I had been using this as a strategy to keep going on a painting, that I was indeed making myself paint. I had intended – I had really wanted – to finish the big painting of apple blossoms and bees in time for my big festival this weekend. I wanted a big, new piece to show off – and deadlines offer helpful structure to me – they help me get things finished. But this can only go so far – especially when making art.

I took the photos that inspired this painting in March, when spring was busting out – everything was fresh with brand-new petals – which on that day, were lit through with bright sunshine. I dove in to paint it, but it is big and complex – I’ve yet to take on a painting, with as much detail over such a large space – and detail takes time to paint. I took a break to finish “Offering” to enter in the County Fair – and then to paint “Global” – the eggplants I started for the “Painting Shiny Things” Special Saturday in June. I returned to it and worked diligently, while up at Lake Tahoe this summer. I’ve painted on it, every day since the beginning of July – and have been having moments of sweet enjoyment doing so. But after a weekend up in the vineyards, surrounded by the fullness of ripe summer fruit – all in jewel-y colors, the need for something else crept in. It was no longer the time to paint softly colored blossoms. And making myself do so, felt like I was putting myself on a creative diet.

The time and place that we paint, matters. Looking back at these paintings, I can see how where I am in the world, and the time of year it is, is reflected in the artwork. I painted most of “Tropical Peaches” while on vacation in Kauai. The blues in the reflections of the light on the leaves became turquoise, as my eyes were filled with the color of the tropical ocean. On a later trip to Kauai I started “Firelight,” but then stopped because the hot reds, oranges and pinks felt incongruous, as I smelled the plumeria and felt the breezes on my skin. Instead I painted “Melia,” changing the pink flowers to white, to suit my softer mood. I picked up and finished “Firelight” late last year, when it was chilly – and there was real firelight in the fireplace. At this time and place, I found the rich colors warm and comforting.

This brings me to the life-of-its-own that each painting has. “Firelight” had been kicking around in my studio, unfinished, as I regarded it as “that old thing”, for a couple years. The same with “Raindance,” which, when finished, became a big favorite of all my work. I have to believe that if I’d pushed through to finish these two paintings when I had first started them, they could not have been the paintings they were. The time and place changed – and so did I.

Apart from time and place, I’ve noticed also that paintings seem to have a lifespan, going through several stages. Here are the ones I’ve been through:

• We begin with the Courtship Stage – before ever starting a painting, the idea of it captivates us. We think about it, play with images. We may have a long engagement with the idea – or we may start work on it right away. I’ve got a whole folder of these “candidates” that I sometimes visit – asking: are any of you coming through next?
• When the time comes to paint, usually – hopefully – we start out eager, hungry to paint it. The first paint to touch the paper is thrilling, as we dream of the finished painting. This is the Twitterpated Stage.
• After a while we may hit the Ugly Duckling Stage (which often goes by less delicate names) – the first layers look clunky, awkward, colors may be off. We can feel like we’ve lost our way.
• We might hit an Ee-Gads Stage – we’ve made a mistake, spilled something on it, mis-read our drawing, painting where we didn’t want to. This can bring the terror, that we’ve absolutely ruined it!
• After painting a while, we may wonder if we will ever be done with it – it seems to be taking so long! Welcome to the Sick and Tired Stage. This is where we might need a planned separation.
• Once enough of it starts coming together though, the spark that got us going can return, re-energizing us to see it through – to realize our vision – or maybe – because of time and place – it could be coming out differently, than we had even imagined. Regardless, we’ve arrived in the Homestretch.
• The Am I Done? Stage comes at or towards the end. It seems like it could be finished, but there are still places that might vex us, things that still look funny, awkward. For me, these parts can be all I can see – like the pimple that just arose on my chin. This is where we really, really need each other, to help us sort out what needs to be attended to and what is better to leave well enough alone.
• With any luck, we’ll eventually come to the Oh, There You Are! Stage. For me, this is after it’s been framed and I’ve moved in with the next painting. I’ve forgotten the parts that bugged me, and I can see what everyone else has been seeing all along – the spirit that the painting carries that is entirely apart from me.

I had started on this one here, the one big apple, with the thought that it might be good for the 2017 calendar. I started it at the San Anselmo Festival in late June, loving the colors. But then, fell flat when we hit the Ugly Ducking Stage, while I was painting the leaves. Last week, after deciding to set aside the big blossom painting, I picked it back up again. All that remained unpainted, was the apple. I dove in, playing with colors and textures, layering and having a great time. I finished it in one day – on Thursday – during my two groups. Just a few hours was all it took! It’s not one of my best, but I love the light and the freedom I took with the colors. I’m happy to report, that the leaf in the lower right that had me hating it, no longer bothers me. Thank goodness for how a little breather can settle everything down.

I used to say, that I only had two disciplines – that I finish every painting and I keep my website updated. Finishing every painting was a really good thing to do early on. It taught me a ton about how watercolor works – and how fixable it really is – contrary to what most people think. Now that I’m sure that I won’t fill my studio with partially painted sheets of watercolor paper, never finishing anything, I’ve allowed myself more freedom to set things aside. Maybe a temporary break-up with a painting, is just what we both need. The big blossom painting is tucked away, waiting for me to crave painting luminous petals again. And until then, I’m excited to be painting my newest infatuation – these Zinfandel grapes, that I took two Sunday mornings ago in Cloverdale. Oh, those yummy colors!

Just like any love affair, painting our love isn’t always bliss. We are related to our paintings and the creative process bringing them through us, like we are related to anything and anyone. How we relate changes day to day. I see how listening to our own voices and the voices of our paintings – and then responding accordingly, is the best kind of refreshment – allowing real intimacy with our creations and with their source – the source of all of us.

With my love,

Cara

August 23, 2016 – Offering the driver refreshments

 

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The Sausalito Art Festival is the weekend after next.  It’s a big deal in my art life.  Yes, it’s just an art festival, but it’s a big festival, it costs quite a bit of money to do and a whole lot of people will see me and this artwork there.  Many of you have found me there.  I’m fortunate enough to have been invited back for my ninth year and – as I always do – I want to put up a nice display.  This means there’s plenty to do:  I feel best when I have a brand new painting to hang; there are postcards and emails to send; my print inventory needs filling in.  And this year I got the wild idea to get the 2017 calendar done so I can show it off there.  This meant that I had to get the graphic design done – which I do all myself – and get it off to the printer early enough for delivery next week.

I led a Special Saturday class this past weekend after which I was charged up with so much to do with my Sunday.  My friend Vicki and I had talked late in the week and she too felt like she wanted to get a bunch done.  We agreed to check in with each other throughout the day to help each other stay on track.  It so worked!  We talked at 9:00 in the morning, at noon and then traded messages before the evening, sharing what we got done.  I ended up spending the day weaving between working on my painting, working in Photoshop on the calendar and doing laundry.  By working in shorter bursts doing something with my spatial brain, my logic brain and something physical, I was able to stay on track and not get distracted.

You who have been reading these journal entries a while might already get that I have a fairly entrenched internal whip-cracker.  I call it my “driver.”  I had the sweet idea years ago to give it a new job – instead of Charlton Heston hurling about in a chariot in Ben Hur,  I wanted to ask my driver to morph into  Morgan Freeman asking Jessica Tandy from Driving Miss Daisy “where to, Ma-am?”.   But the transformation is spotty at best.  I seem pretty hardwired to fill myself with all these ideas of things to do and then the driver kicks in to get to as many of them as I can.  The most painful way this shows up is when I’m trying to finish a painting for a deadline.  I have the inspiration, the skills and the privilege of the time in my life to make these paintings, and I can turn the actual painting of them into complete drudgery!

Given all this, Sunday was such a great success.  I painted first – it’s the most challenging and demanding of me – so I did it while I was freshest.  Then I popped over to Photoshop on my computer where I placed images, moved moons and holidays, chose colors and quotes for each month.  When that became tedious, I rotated the laundry and folded a load of clean clothes.   Each activity I switched to gave me a bit of refreshment to keep my energy up and the capacity to re-focus when I returned.  The best part was that I really didn’t feel like I was making myself do any of it.  I don’t mind laundry, but I generally don’t say,” oh, boy! I get to wash the clothes!”  But it was nice to notice the feel of the soft warm cloth on my hands as I folded.  And since I can only paint so long before what I’m doing starts to really suffer, it helped to also stay engaged with other things that needed my attention.  It was close to 4:00 in the afternoon when the pull of my Joseph and our Bo-doggy cozied up on the bed in the pink room overtook me. My eyes and brain were tired and I went to join them. It was Sunday, after all.

Thinking about all of this this morning I started realizing how easy it is to wish away our lives. When I’m doing something I don’t want to in that moment, my inner voices, unchecked, can be all complaints, all the time.  Like little kids on a car ride they ask, “are we there yet?”  Sylvia Boorstein, the Buddhist meditation teacher, says the nature of mind is to be dissatisfied.  I so get this. And yet I’d rather not give too much attention to that dissatisfied part of me.  I want to cultivate the habit of satisfaction. I want to try to remember that there is always something to appreciate:  the clouds or stars up in the sky, or the way the light lands on a tree, a favorite song that comes on the radio –  or in this very moment the feeling of the plush blanket on the backs of my legs as I sit here on the couch and type.

There is so much suffering in the world. We are fortunate beyond measure to be living the lives we are in relative safety and with more than we’d ever need to survive available to us ( this is our current reality, at least).  I feel helpless knowing that there’s little I can do from so far away to relieve their misery.  It seems the least I can do is to realize that any complaint I have is miniscule in comparison and appreciate the life I am living in as many moments I can.  That my husband doesn’t clean out the sink like I do after he does the dishes, or that the check-engine light has come on in my car for the third time in a month are barely blips on the radar of human suffering. After all, I have a car and a wonderful man in my life – who provides for me, who adores me and who helps out with the dishes!

It’s tricky because it’s not a good thing to shun any part of ourselves. I think it’s more about allowing this part to be while being aware of a larger, broader reality. This relates perfectly to the process of painting.  This dissatisfied mind is exactly why painting is so hard for the vast majority of us.  I say often that we have the unenviable job of painting our paintings. While our attention is right down where the brush meets the paper, the part of us whose nature is dissatisfaction is right there, on deck, chiming in.  I’ve been painting in earnest for a dozen or more years and I’ve yet to paint for more than a few minutes before I hear that voice.  I’ve got to believe that I’m never going to be free of it.  So I’m going to play with when I hear it.  I’ll notice how beautiful the golden yellow color I’m painting is, or marvel at how interesting the shapes of these petals are, or be curious about how I’m going to sort out painting the fuzzy stems to these buds.  There’s always something to satisfy us if we open to it.

And I’m going to plan for other activities to do when I need a break.  Being better with my time has been a puzzle and I’m wondering if this isn’t a piece of it. I’m wondering if this resistance to structure that has arisen in midlife isn’t some wise part of me that is refusing to drag myself through this one precious life.  I suspect it would rather I keep myself fresh and inspired and appreciating each thing I do as much as I can.  Maybe it is the nature of mind to be dissatisfied, but it’s the nature of heart to love – to appreciate.  Everyone alive has both a mind and a heart – what I see today is that life goes much better when we heed them both.

With my love,

Cara

August 16, 2016 – Just make beauty

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I spent this past weekend on a ranch and vineyard in Cloverdale with six other women-artist-friends. We took photos of the ripening grapes and other fruit, of big, tall sunflowers and of the breathtaking views from up on the hillside.  We feasted on beautiful late-summer food and wine, we celebrated a birthday, we swam in the pool, we laughed and shared lots of affection for each other.  And – we painted!  Originally planned as a weekend-retreat I’d lead, in a more formal and structured way, it changed shape such that I ended up being able to enjoy myself as just one of the group, without the expectation that I’d hold space for everyone or teach or direct the activities of the retreat.

I had no idea how much I needed to spend time like this – to follow my own curiosities and whims without wondering if the others were doing ok. I could spend two hours in the garage drawing a new painting, or obsess on finding just the right cluster of grapes, lit in just the right way that is magic.  I climbed up in a plum tree like I was a kid, to take pictures of one of the last groups of plums left hanging.  I timidly fed an apple to Bert, one of the horses.  I took myself on an early morning walk when I met a sweet little doggy and found an unkempt section of a vineyard that had the most amazing colors of leaves and dark blue-violet fruit.  I felt alive in the way I wrote about earlier this spring.  And, the feeling carries on in me – time spent this way is restorative.

I do also love time away with my hubby and our puppy dog.  But because of the nature of who I am and of our relationship, when we are together I find myself more often in care-taker mode – even if it’s not asked of me.  To be honest, if there is one other creature around, it can trigger my inner-care-taker, but she is pretty hard-wired to care for my Joe and my Bo.  Time like I spent last weekend fills me up in a whole other way.  And I’m so grateful to our hostess Sue who opened her ranch and home to us all – and to Laurie who provided a place to stay for the three of us from out of town.  I have a new painting of grapes started and at least a half dozen other strong contenders.  It’s energizing for me to have so many paintings in my inspiration pipeline.

I also think that there is something really special and important – at least for me – about spending time like this with other women. It’s not a given that being with a group of women is as easy and restorative as this weekend was.  Sometimes group dynamics are fraught with “issues” if there is someone who isn’t “with the program,” so to speak.  But not this group of women.  We all had an understanding of who was to take care of what and the spirit that surrounded and wove through the weekend – that we created together – was one of generosity and heartfelt care for each other.

When I came home and was unpacking the car on Sunday evening, I found a hand-made greeting card sitting on the dryer in the garage.  The hand-written message on the front was this:  “Tao – to be truly good you cease fighting the darkness.  You just make beauty. – Richard Watson”   I thought:  wow, isn’t this just the perfect message to cap my experience of the weekend with?   The part of me that is compelled to be so very purposeful, who feels so responsible to do my part to right the wrongs of the world, can have a hard time with taking time to just have fun – time for just pleasure.  I don’t have a well exercised play muscle.  I hardly read for purely enjoyment – I mostly read to learn or grow (though I do love to learn and grow!).  I read the movie reviews in the paper every Friday, but we hardly ever go out to the see them.  After dinner, I don’t watch TV, I paint, which I love and feel terribly privileged for the time to do, but it’s not play.  Painting for me requires energy and focus.  I get drawn into what’s going on in the world (pretty easy to do right now) and feel responsible to do what I can – which mostly is just contribute money.

But what if all I need to do is just make beauty?  What if making beauty is more than just making art?  What if it is how we talk to each other or the space that is created when we gather to paint in Larkspur?  What if the beauty I am already making is doing enough? Last night I listened to an interview of an author who wrote a book on Bobby Kennedy while I painted (see what I mean about being so purposeful…?!) He said that Bobby Kennedy recognized that you can’t try to work with people like George Wallace, you have to stand up to them.  This plants the question in me:  is standing up for what’s right “fighting the darkness?”  Or is standing up for what’s right another form of making beauty?  I think it depends upon who is doing it and why.

I’ve come to realize – and must remind myself all the time – that we must do what we are compelled to do – because of what matters most to us at our level of awareness.  But anything else isn’t ours to tend to.  It’s not good for me to get too emotionally involved in politics or a cause, unless I’m going to get up and take action because I care enough to.  Otherwise it feels like fighting the darkness – in an inert way, which is a waste of me.  Just because I can, doesn’t mean I must.  I must rinse out and re-use plastic bags – because I can’t not.   I can’t throw one into the trash that is still usable.  This doesn’t necessarily mean it’s your part too.  What we care about is personal.  It’s good to know that there are others who take care of things that are not mine to do.

It relieves the part of me that feels like there’s so much that needs doing in the world to know that there are forces at work in the evolution of our planet and humankind that are way beyond the power of any one of us. And yet we each make a contribution towards this evolution in our choices and in our actions.  Those choices and actions are personal, they are our own.  And I have to believe that having weekends like I’ve just had and making the paintings that will follow are positive contributions.  I tell myself that change comes in its own time.  To the part of me that feels obligated to fight the darkness, I tell that I’m here to make beauty – which to me means many things – the most obvious and visible is that I paint my love. You too?

With my love,

Cara

August 9, 2017 – Summer stargazing, connection and the future of Earth

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Last week, while up in Tahoe, my friend Steff and I went to Sugar Pine Point State Park, to gather with a few dozen others and listen to a ranger-led talk on the cosmos, after which, we all ventured out on a large pier to star gaze. Not only did I learn stuff in his kid-oriented talk – like the term “Goldilocks” planet – not too hot, not too cold, likely existence of water. The first one of which was discovered only in 1990, and since, then we’ve identified something like 40 such planets. Goldilocks planets conceivably could support some form of life – we could have company out there in the universe. We gazed for constellations – the Big Dipper has always been easy for me to spot, but I learned how to reliably find the Little Dipper too. Dave, the astronomer/ranger was there on the pier, to help us sort out other constellations amongst the dense stars and the splash of the Milky Way across the entire sky, clearly visible over our heads. Jutted out into the expanse of Lake Tahoe, with only a bit of light pollution from Reno to the northeast, we had a view of outer space that we, here in “civilization”, no longer have. Dave – with the help of the night sky – created a homespun kind of experience, that was altogether magical at the same time.

Steff and I could have gone out onto the pier to see the stars, on any given night on our own. But there was something really special about sharing the wonder, the discovery of what surrounds our planet-home, with other summer vacationers. Being with others – who also, were interested enough to venture out of their cabins and campsites and wait until dark to see the stars – made it communal – and an entirely different – richer and sweeter – experience – I felt connected.

Then on Sunday night after dinner at my folks, some of us got involved in a very engaged conversation about the presidential race, fears about what might happen if… We pondered the state of our country, planet and whether real change – especially in how we impact the climate – is truly possible. There is such a strong reaction to both the candidates, though much more to one than the other, in the circles I travel in. I hear many express something along the lines of “how can so many people be in support of someone like that?!” There’s a strong tendency to be aghast at this candidate, and jump on the scathing criticism bandwagon. We cannot relate to anyone who could possibly vote for this person. And, the thought is, if we make sure that as many people as we can, truly understand the likely ramifications of such a presidency, there’s no way that candidate could win, right? But I keep reminding – both myself and those I talk to – that we need to be paying attention not to what this candidate represents, regardless of how strong our reaction is to it, but instead, to how it is, that so many millions of people are saying a big “hell, yes!” to it. There have been off-the-wall candidates for President of the United States before – but none have gotten this kind of traction – have had this kind of resonance. There is a whole lot of making the “other” wrong and bad. We are disconnecting from each other – or not attempting connection in the first place.

Along my path to self-discovery, there is a thread and it is the word connection. It’s my #1 strength in the Strengthsfinder. It’s my first Noble Quality (as the thing that I want most for those I love), it’s in my Codes. Connection has many forms: I find connection between ideas, people, and I see how it creates patterns. Connection brings meaning – it’s why I write about each painting, so people can possibly connect what their eyes see – through story and words – to something deeper. My teaching has taken the form of regular groups, where those who come can forge a bond, a connection with each other. I understand now, why I’ve not been called to travel all over, teaching workshops like most art teachers seem to do. I’d rather stay home where connection is most alive for me.

I have an inner-meter that registers connection. If you watch for it, you’ll see it all over the place. It’s there in the camaraderie and joined purpose, in construction crews and amongst sports team members. It’s in the care and tenderness between parents and children, as they are out shopping. It’s there between humans and their pets – look for it in vet’s offices. I can sense it in well-done marketing. And the absence of it, is glaringly obvious too. There is a big bank chain that has someone at the door, welcoming people as they come in. This seems like a nice idea, but I always find it fake – assigning “welcome” to an entry-level employee. It seems much more natural and real to have a teller mention briefly, to people waiting in line that she or he knows they’re there and will get to them as soon as possible. When I get someone in a call center, who is able to speak to me human to human, it makes all the difference. When we remember we are all people, who have those we love and who love us, it’s another world.

Though I’m a connection seeker, it seems to me that cynicism is rampant these days. Bad news – conflict, violence – is far more reportable – and in the face of that, it’s easy to be pessimistic and dismissive. But it’s also the luxury of those of us who don’t really understand, how much we need and are dependent upon each other. This ties into what I shared about the past two weeks. Cynics aren’t curious; they already have made up their mind. There’s no place in them, in their point of view for, “I don’t know.” The capacity and willingness to connect, to be curious, to stand in not knowing, all take a bit – or a lot – of risk. We have to open a portal into our self, and step out of the security of our certainty.

The thing is, we don’t know what will happen. If we choose fear, protectionism, clinging to the familiar, we very well may not take action in time, wrecking the climate of this planet such that, it will not support the life that is currently here. It is possible that there could be immense suffering, a die-back of the human race. But, even in considering that possibility, I’m not going there. I cannot believe that we evolved as a species, to have the consciousness that we have – with all its creative capacities – to have it all go to hell in a handbasket.

Over the history of humankind, we have become more inclusive, more tolerant, more conscious, more awake and aware. It’s steady and progressive. This is the evolution of human consciousness – life is more precious, we are more connected and the world has gotten smaller and smaller. Thousands of years ago, the people in the next town were our arch enemy, competing for resources, now they are our community. The “other,” by in large, has gotten further and further away. I’m banking on this, carrying us into a new future – one that we cannot yet imagine.

I have to think that stargazing is a good thing to do, to forge connection with others and the planet we each share with them. Looking out into space is a powerful reminder, of how little Earth is, in the scope of the ever-expanding universe. From this perspective, we are all Earthlings – life here, has taken the form of human beings in us as its expression – along with all the animals and plants, that we share the biosphere with. This Friday night, is supposed to be the peak of a meteor shower. I’ll be up in Cloverdale, perched high up on a hill – the start of a painting weekend with friends. A perfect place to see the light show the cosmos has in store for us.

Wherever you’ll be, know that I’m aware of our connection and appreciating sharing this life with you.

With my love,

Cara

August 2, 2016 – Mindfulness, simplified…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With my love,

Cara

 

July 26, 2016 – The wisdom in not knowing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With my (redemptive) love,

Cara

July 19, 2016 – Holly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With my love always,

Cara

July 12, 2016 – Our immortal creations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cara

 

July 5, 2016 – The choice we DO have

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This morning as Bo and I were taking off down our street to head up the hill, we ran into Ed – a neighbor – washing his fishing boat.  I asked him if he’d been out fishing.  He said yes – and that it wasn’t very good.  The wind has been terrible, whipping up big waves that tossed him about, banging him against the console of the boat. He’s come home with his arms aching from holding something heavy all day – and not much fish.  He said he used to have bigger boats that would take it but it’s not worth it anymore, things have changed.  He said “what can we do but go on?”  To which I said “we really do have no choice.”  He agreed, we wished each other a good day and Bo and I took off.  This is how it is, isn’t it?  Life changes, we may complain and grouse – and we go on.  Fighting reality is ultimately futile, we have to accept and adapt – some of us more readily than others.  To the part about not having a choice though, I had another thought bubble up.  There is something we can choose – our attitude.  We absolutely have a choice as to how we show up, who we show up as, and how we frame reality in our minds.  This is sounding very Viktor Frankl.

And it brings me back to a conversation I had with my niece and her partner when they were here a month ago. They are in their early 20’s and both identify as “gender queer.”  Born female, they experience themselves as neither masculine nor feminine, but “gender neutral” – at least this is how I understand what “queer” means.  Until a couple of years ago Leigh was called Hannah – her first name.  We watched her evolve from a little girl into a teenager who was exploring her own style with long dark hair, sometimes with a big blonde streak, strong eye makeup and very bold, black eyeglasses.   In her late teens she cut her hair very short, wore much less makeup and left skirts behind.  Now she wears her hair very, very short, no longer colors it and wears clothes more closely associated with what we’d think men would wear – and we now know her by Leigh – her middle name.  Leigh doesn’t identify as a woman and I don’t experience her as one.  It is such a privilege to witness someone so close to me evolve or unfold, showing the world the truth of who they are.   She is so at home in and complete with this expression of her self – of her gender, or rather her lack of gender that my mind is caught by hearing and using words like “she,” “neice,” “daughter” and even her given name – Hannah – in reference to her.  Leigh agreed – she doesn’t find herself inside these terms either.  What an experience to be on the edge of human expression beyond the extent of our current language.   No doubt terms will evolve and one day be commonplace, and until they do, for convenience sake, I’ll keep using the feminine pronouns.

While they were here we were talking about how they didn’t choose who to be, they just were.   They didn’t choose to love each other, they just do.  These aren’t things that we do in an eeny-meeny-miny-mo kind of way.  I believe that who we love, and our own experience of our humanity are factory installed.  Then Leigh added:  but we do choose how we behave, the actions we take, what we say – we choose how we are with who we are and what we love.   Leigh could hide, she could resist, she could even reject herself as most LGBTQ people have for centuries – millennia – and many in the world still do.  But it is in choosing to allow ourselves be who we are and love who and what we love that we change the world.  We push out the edges of acceptance.  Those on the front lines do this with great courage and danger, even – and they still choose to do it.

I have so much admiration for these two young people. Leigh and Lena are remarkable: smart, creative, funny, joy-filled, tuned in, purposeful. They care about our impact on the planet and are working to change it more than anyone else I know.  My hope for our future is stoked by the fires that burn in their hearts, their brains, the light behind their eyes.  And their commitment to each other is more complete – they have more fully surrendered to the good of their union than just about any other couple I know – most of whom are decades older.  And, I’d venture to say that if they didn’t exercise their freedom to express themselves so genuinely, that some of their energy and passion for each other and the world would be trapped under the restraint.  We are all better off because of their choosing to be who they are – and love who and what they love.

These two are a bright, shiny example – in the most important way – of what I’ve been sharing with you these past several weeks – how vital it is to live our love, be our love and paint our love.  In a conversation with two of my coaching sisters last week, Maralyn, who works with people to have real, intimate, courageous, human relationships – said that this is how she “paints her love.”  For all of us doing our purposeful work – we are “painting our love.”  She has expanded for me what constitutes our “canvas” (though we watercolorists generally paint on paper) and what it means to “paint.”  Painting our love is even more than art-making.  But this not to trivialize painting!  For many of us painting is closely aligned with who we are – we must paint.

Today I hung eleven paintings in some offices at our local community college for the next two months.  The curator who helped hang the art suggested that I paint some abstract paintings – “to give gallery owners what they want.”  My immediate reaction was – I won’t paint to give gallery owners what they want.   I paint paintings that people can – in their minds – fall into.  My art asks of me to be about beauty, light and color – and emotion.  I know that what I paint isn’t what many who are finding great success paint, but I am choosing to be who I am, choosing love what I love, choosing to paint my love.

It’s in us, each of us – it’s in you – who you are and what you love.  By honoring who you are, choosing to act accordingly, you further the course of humanity.  So what are you waiting for?  I’m here to support you.

With my love,

Cara