April 26, 2016 – Why paint?

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I’ve just started a new big painting. When my coaching sister Susan, gave Happy a home up in the wild grasslands of Canada last year, we decided it was easier to ship it unframed. So, for almost a year, there’s been a beautiful frame for a 40” square painting, sitting up in my hubby’s workshop. It’s been begging for a new painting, so that it can be out of potential harm’s way – and up on a wall somewhere. I’ve spent a lot of time figuring out what that might be. Not every image calls to be made into a painting this big.

What has come up, is another with blossoms and blue sky – following in Happy’s vein. The trip to Filoli with Sue and Lenore, gave me the images to draw from. This one is a combination of two branches, one of which had a bee on it. But it needed more. So I’m doing something I’ve not really done before – I’m “faking it”, by bringing in two other bees from other images I took. Yes, it would have been amazing if I had been able to capture this whole thing, just like this – the two branches and the three bees. But I didn’t. And I want the painting to really come alive, like I was, when I was there with Sue on that perfect spring day, obsessing about getting the perfect apple blossom pictures to paint from.

When I’m looking through a bunch of images I’ve taken, most of them don’t “work.” I look for a certain something in a composition – the light, the arrangement of the flowers or fruit – whatever the subject is – it has to meet me. There is an instrument in the center of my chest that feels it. It is a “yes” – a spark of energy, that expands when I see the one to paint. Sometimes it’s elusive – I want to paint it, but am not sure. So, then I project it amongst several other images at the size I might paint them. I could get the internal go-ahead at this point. But if there’s something in me that is trying to force it, I compare it in my mind to what I’ve already painted. If it doesn’t hold its own amongst the rest of my work, I keep looking.

Those of you who’ve painted with me know, that I paint the furthest away to the closest up. This means I’d paint the sky and the out of focus background first, then the branches and leaves, before painting the in-focus blossoms. I save the focal point for last – in this one, it’s the bees. I do this for two reasons – one is to keep my motivation going. I paint the part I’m least interested in or I find the hardest first, saving my favorite part for last. The other is, if, when painting the background, I, paint over the main focus by accident, it’s much easier to clean it up before I’ve painted – say, the subtle shading of a white petal. I’d have to fix what I’d already painted.

The actual painting process of this one, is off to a bit of a bumpy start. The blue sky looks blotchy to me – but I’m living with it and am moving on. I’m now into the hardest part – the fuzzy background. There is a lot of it in this one. As much as I’ve been enjoying the actual painting, it’s taking a very long time! Just that little section – roughly 6”x7” or so – has taken me 4 painting sessions (between 1-2 hours each) to paint. I think I’m going to need to shift my process and paint some of the blossom petals – with their larger expanses – or I’ll make myself crazy, painting fuzzy circles for days and days. I was hoping to get this finished by mid-June, to enter in the Marin County Fair. We shall see!

While I’ve been painting, I’m continuing to accompany myself, with more Krista Tippett. Over the weekend, I heard “Einstein’s God.” Albert Einstein was an incredible man. Beyond his forwarding and expanding our understanding of the nature of the universe, he had a wise and compassionate heart. I learned he loved music, and took his violin wherever he went. He said something about the place of art in our spiritual lives,that had me go back and re-listen last night, so I could transcribe it for you. He said that his God was not a personal God, but a cosmic God, that gives him a feeling of “nobility and marvelous order which are revealed in nature and in the world of thought. Individual existence strikes [us] as a sort of prison and [we want] to experience the universe as a single, significant whole… In my view it is the most important function of art and science, to awaken this feeling and keep it alive in those who are receptive to it.” [emphasis mine]

I’m a meaning seeker and am always on the lookout, for what is happening beneath the surface of the ordinary activities of our lives. What he says resonates strongly in me. Yes, I paint flowers and fruit (mostly) and there is always a bit of fear that it will be perceived as trifling, as decoration, as simply pretty. But this is what calls to me. I want to recreate – through my unique view, the aliveness I experience in the world. This is the purpose of the instrument at the center of me. It tells me what to paint, how big it should be, what colors to use – all of it. I do this because I am compelled to make manifest, my experience of the “single significant whole”, that Einstein described.

I look at my earlier work and see that this instrument, wasn’t tuned the way it is now. Some of things I painted, I’d not choose to now. Just like playing a musical instrument, with practice, our “voice” comes through more clearly. You see we all have this instrument – at various levels of attunement. In each of us, it is there to receive and transmit something that is special and unique, in all of existence. It’s the thing that Martha Graham refers to in this famous quote: “There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique.” She’s a dancer, so she talks about action, but I say, there is also a receiver that is uniquely us.

I’m seeing a thread in these posts in the past weeks, that seems to be around the question of “why paint, why create?” My sense, is that there are many answers for this, differing for each of us. We may start out wanting a new hobby or we may be following a long-held desire, to make art that astonishes us. Regardless, I know that by giving ourselves over to our creative desires, we exercise our instruments, revealing to the world something it has never seen before. And I hold that by doing so, we change the course of our lives. Though it may be in tiny increments, we even change the course of all of life.

I want to close by sharing more words from Albert Einstein. He wrote them in a letter to the Queen of Belgium, who was said to be suffering with profound grief.

“And yet, as always, the springtime sun brings forth new life and we may rejoice because of this new life and contribute to its unfolding. And Mozart remains as beautiful and tender as he always was and always will be. There is, after all, something eternal that lies beyond the hand of fate and all of our human delusions. And such eternals lie closer to an older person than to a younger one – oscillating between fear and hope. For us there remains the privilege of experiencing beauty and truth in their purest forms.”

This, is why I paint.

With my love,

Cara

April 19, 2016 – The stillness in every painting

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The radio in my car is most often tuned to KQED – the NPR station in San Francisco. I really like classical music, but I just can’t listen to it all the time – it can get tedious to me – and the other music stations are so filled with incredibly annoying commercials and too much pop music, that it’s almost as annoying to me.   I’m old and I just can’t relate to it. Plus, I do like to stay engaged with what’s happening in the world. My favorite shows are the interview shows – Forum and Fresh Air. The hosts of these shows, interview guests who are almost always fascinating to me, opening my world. And sometimes what I hear, can touch my heart or even change me.

Many of the interviews are of authors, who are on tour sharing their newly published books. A week ago yesterday, Michael Krasny, the host of Forum, interviewed Krista Tippett, who has a new book out called, “Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living.” Krista Tippett is the host of a radio show called, On Being. She has a wonderful, warm voice that expresses a joyful heart and a sharp mind. I heard just pieces of the interview as I did a few errands on my way to my hubby’s office, and I can’t remember ever resonating with a guest on Forum as much. So I listened to the whole show that evening from the archive, which then had me go to the On Being website to find more.

I have the dim sense that I’ve visited this site before, and listened to one of her interviews – but I’m asking myself how I’ve never delved into the richness that is Krista Tippett’s world. Oh my goodness! This is the pool I swim in – the intersection of spirituality, identity, the frontier of our understanding of our existence and the power of story. Besides the weekly interviews, there are columnists like Parker Palmer, Sharon Salzburg and a few others who I want to get to know. I don’t know where I’m going to find the time to take it all in!

I’ve already listened to her interviews of Martin Sheen, the poets David Whyte and Mary Oliver and an episode called, “The Magic Shop of the Brain” where she interviews a Stanford neurosurgeon, called James Doty – in part – about how the brain and the heart communicate. I am able to easily split my attention between painting and listening – to music or even to people talking.  I love that I can paint and “read” at the same time. There are some paintings that I can remember the book I listened to as I painted: Faith was “The Help,” Dazzling was “The Paris Wife,” Jubilee was “The Hundred Food Journey” – to name a few. Now, I can’t wait to dive into this treasure trove of goodness as I paint. The episodes go all the way back to September 2001 – just after 9/11 – where she discusses, “Where was God?” with several – as they are described – “great religious minds.”

I know I am who I am in large part because of this compulsion in me, to understand and grow my consciousness. And to have such a source of perspectives from others, who have spent their lives deeply considering and discovering, ignites the desire in me to hear and learn more.

I took a break from writing to walk Bo this morning, before the day warms up too much. He’s a black doggy and prefers the cool of the morning. While winding up and down the hill, I had one ear bud in listening to Krista interview a poet – new to me – Maria Howe – another episode I could listen to again for all its pearls. In this conversation, they talked about two things that brought me to painting and our world: one is the ordinary sacred. Marie’s brother died of AIDS at 28. She recited one of her poems about him at the end of his life, called The Gate, about one such ordinary moment around a cheese and mustard sandwich, that had tears spill from my eyes, as I huffed and puffed up the trail.

This had me think about my painting from last summer called “Douce”, and how it started by my taking a jar that had held jam, and the last three blooming things in our drought-stricken garden last summer. I collected them and spent a short time taking pictures of it, sitting on the weathered grey fence rail in the front yard in the early evening sun. The background is the just the shadowy asphalt of the street. It’s all ordinary and – at least to me – it carries the transcendent too. When I think about it, most of what we paint is this – the beauty, or interest or whimsy from our regular lives that our attention was pulled to. Even a trip to a gorgeous garden – like Filoli a couple of weeks ago – and I zoom in to a world that is created by seeing only a very small part of it. A cluster of apple blossoms, though beautiful, is ordinary too.  Its ultimate purpose is to attract pollinating bees, so it can become fruit to feed bellies.

The other thing that I heard in the conversation, was that at the heart of every poem is silence. They even said that the heart of everything is silence. Moving this idea to our visual world, it came to me that there is stillness at the heart of every painting. Our paintings record, they document, a moment in the life of a flower or something to eat, or a patch of the earth, or a human or other creature’s face – all of which are in a state of constant change – on their way from the past heading to the future. The camera and then our eyes, brains and brushes bring that moment, the stillness of that moment, to the paper for it to live on.

It may seem that these are lofty ideas that many people don’t have an inclination towards, but for me they bring meaning to my life – to the moments that make up all of our lives. The thought of a life devoid of meaning, is bleak and even pointless. For some reason, this is bringing to mind several tender moments in the past week I had with artists in our groups – when they shared with me a bit of the burden they carry with them into our painting time. Each of them expressed how the time we spend together, takes their burdens off their shoulders for a while, as they paint. It’s so good to have that relief, but I know that our burdens are still there – present in someway in our brushes and in the gestures that make up our paintings. It is my firm belief, that we bring all of it along with us, as we do what we do – including making our artwork.

The end result then, is that these paintings are the alchemy of the ordinary sacred, the stillness of the moment that called to us, the burdens – and joys – of our lives – as well as our struggle to work with our art materials as we paint. A whole lot goes into making art – it’s no wonder we can be afraid of it! It seems good that we aren’t present to all of this all the time, or we’d never get down to it. I just hope that now and then the magic of what we are doing does sift in – and in doing so, it connects us to the silence and stillness that is in every moment – every momment that ever was. When we do, we are in touch with the eternal.

With my love,

Cara

April 12, 2016 – Like potatoes on Mars

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I’m part of a coaching group – there are 6 of us, all women, whose intent it is, to make an impact in a purposeful way with our work. We are each building businesses – we’re heeding a call, to make real in the world, the work of our hearts. We are led and guided by our beloved coach, Lissa Boles. We also guide and en-courage each other, with thoughtful feedback and reflections of our own. The weekly meetings of this group of women foster my evolution as a person, in addition, to supporting the unfolding of my work – my business, as it becomes real in the world.

Through my time with this group, I’ve also come to understand that what I’m up to, goes well beyond transferring the skills of painting in watercolor. I love watercolor, I love to make these paintings and to share with others, what I have learned about how it works – with the water, the paint and the paper. And I see, that there’s something else that’s more distinctly me, that I bring as I teach. I am a guide for the inner and outer process of becoming an artist, a creator. I didn’t set out to do this, but as time has gone on and as I’ve been witness to hours and hours of artists making paintings, something in me, has had me pay attention to what we say and how it is for us (me included), as we do what we do. This has given me a way to hold artists and their work, and talk about their process, that normalizes the challenges we go through.

More than a dozen years ago, I was in a session with Donna, (that is My Donna) at a time when I was still working in San Francisco, in the tech world. I told her that getting on the bus to go to San Francisco, felt like slamming my body against a concrete wall. I wanted to do anything, that would keep me from having to commute and attend meetings about things that I no longer cared anything about. I told her I had thought I might become a bookkeeper. I was doing the books for my hubby’s company, so maybe I could do it for others too. She told me I was up to other things. She said I was a teacher, and suggested I look into the website (www.thecoaches.com) of a life coach training company, that another client had told her about. I went home and looked it up. It turns out The Coaches Training Institute is headquartered right here in San Rafael. Reading the curriculum, I said to myself, “this is so me!” I had never felt this at home in any kind of work before.

At the end of the coach training and leadership program that I did afterwards, I was pretty much paralyzed at the thought of creating a practice as a life coach. What I realize now, is that though I loved all that I learned, I needed a vehicle for these conversations – an activity, a process that was real and had tangible results. After Shannon Brown hounded me long enough, I tiptoed out and gathered a group of five artists in September of 2011, to “paint together.” It’s clear to me now, that both my love of watercolor painting and the “in my bones” coach in me , who looks at the whole person in front of me, and all aspects of their life – pretty much all the time – have been combined to give me work, that I feel born to do. What has ultimately come of all this, is the creation of a special environment, that feeds creative expression – specifically in the form of watercolor painting.

Last Friday was the opening reception, for a solo show, of the work of Susie Rosenberg – one of the artists who came that first day in 2011. She has a show of 15 or so of her gorgeous watercolors, on display this month. Walking in to see so many of her paintings gathered all in one place, was a thrill for me. And she was beaming. I’m so glad that a whole bunch of her fellow artists from our groups, came to share in the celebration too. As she introduced me to people in her life at the reception, she called me her “inspiration.” But I take no credit for the energy-filled, inventive, and refined work she’s done. These ideas came through Susie, and it was her hand on the brush, for every square inch of painting. But what I do see, is that the environment that has come to me to create, has supported her evolution as an artist. And just like the old “lead a horse to water…” no one can make anyone paint, but us. She’s dedicated herself to her work; she’s missed very few weeks over the 4 and-a-half years, and she has painted as much as possible, in-between our weekly sessions. This has played an enormous part in the development of her work, and the number of paintings she has to show.

Last year’s movie “The Martian”, with Matt Damon is coming to mind. I love the scene when he goes into the greenhouse he’s built, to find his first sprouted potato plant. (Near the end of this clip…) As he touches it gently, he says “hey there” to the little sprout – the only other living thing on the planet. Nothing grows on Mars, so he had to create the right environment, including compost for the soil (from packets of his fellow astronauts poop), and water (from burning hydrogen). Whether or not the science in this movie is accurate, it tells a great story about creating an environment that fosters life,.

For the most part, the “normal” world isn’t as in-hospitable to creative expression, as Mars is to growing plants, but – providing an eco-system for our creative lives, does play a part in what we create – which sometimes has a sizable impact. There are some, in our group, who say there’s no way they can paint at home, because of distractions and other challenges, so the time to paint and be supported, and in the company of like-hearted artists is treasured.

I believe that the work that is in us, has a life of its own. The impetus to paint comes from mysterious sources. And what we paint does too – our art chooses us. But just as potatoes won’t sprout on Mars without the help of an astronaut botanist, our painting lives thrive when they are fertilized and watered – by the structure of a commitment, the freedom of full permission, and an enthusiastic rooting section of those who care about us and our work.

I’m guessing that when we all gathered in 2011, Susie didn’t imagine herself standing in a gallery space surrounded by her artwork on the walls – for sale! Just as I never imagined that I was heading down the path to my life’s work, as I tiptoed out to lead them that day. But does the potato sprout know it will grow bushy and tall, and create big round roots filled with energy, that sustain others up the food chain? Sometimes we do set out to accomplish specific goals, but sometimes – and I think often times – just putting ourselves where there is enough nourishment, water and sunlight, ends up creating a life that we couldn’t have ever imagined.

With my gratitude and love,

Cara

April 5, 2016 – What Brings Us Alive

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My mom and dad host a dinner almost every Sunday evening. By Sunday morning, Mom sends a text or email to my three brothers and me and our spouses – this is what Dad’s cooking, who is coming? This past Sunday, the four of us siblings were all there. It’s so good to connect with my brothers and their loved ones. I hadn’t seen my brothers Matt or Mike in several weeks, as we’d been missing each other – especially Mike – he lives in San Francisco and has a busy travel schedule, with his super-demanding job with Apple Computer. He is responsible for the build-outs and remodels of Apple stores all over the country. Before getting into corporate construction management, Mike was a builder and general contractor. On Sunday he came in late, just as we’d started eating. He had just come from Sacramento, where he was helping build a new building for the folks who run the rafting company, where he and Julie take a river trip every summer. He had spent the weekend framing and sheeting the new roof.

After working all weekend and a 2-hour drive, he practically burst through the door, filled with energy. He seemed taller and younger – his face looked more angular. And the slight sunburn on his face gave him a healthy ruggedness. He even moved differently in his body. As he chowed down on a big plate of food – he’d worked really hard and had to refuel! – I kept marveling at how alive he was. When I told him so, he said he felt alive. He’d been up and down a ladder probably 50 times all day, and it seemed like he could have gone 50 more. He said it felt great to put his bags on and do something physical, tangible. All the practical knowledge of building a roof – which can be quite complicated – was right there – he’d not forgotten any of it. He said he wants to figure out how to retire, so he can go to work for our oldest brother Joe, doing physical work, building stuff. How’s that?! Retire so he can go work hard! I’ve not been able to stop thinking about him, and the impact that doing something that he loves to do and feels made to do, had on his physical body, his presence – his whole being.

I came home and shared this with my Joseph and asked him if, for him, that thing was flying airplanes. He said it was. He comes home from flying a different guy, like he’s had fresh jolt of life-force. I’ve been up with him a couple of times and know that flying is immensely consuming, he’s focused on nothing but the checklist, the instruments, the radio communications. He’s in full command of the airplane – I can tell he’s a really, really good pilot. It engages his brain, his knowledge and I think there’s something about the rigor that’s required – making literally life and death decisions – that appeals to him. On top of that, he’s on top of the world – my guy is a big-picture guy and the perspective from thousands of feet in the air, is how he sees.

This had me wonder: what it is for me? What brings me so alive like this? You’d think it would be painting, wouldn’t you? As much as I am compelled to paint and love color and creating beauty, the actual act of painting in watercolor, in the way I do it, doesn’t impact me this way. For me, painting is more like something I must do, in order to stay in good shape – if I don’t, I get crabby. But I don’t feel like Mike looked on Sunday, after I’ve been painting.

Then I reflected what I did on Saturday. I spent the day with Lenore and Sue, two new friends I’ve met through our watercolor groups, at Filoli, a gorgeous garden in Woodside, south of San Francisco. Filoli is an estate, established about 100 years ago, that was donated to the County of San Mateo in the 70’s. The mansion is surrounded by 16 acres of beautifully maintained formal gardens. It was a perfect spring day, to walk through a flower-filled garden. There were still plenty of tulips in pots; the tree peonies were going full force, the camellias were at the end of their bloom, but the rhododendrons were just getting started. Enormous purple and white wisterias, that grace the sides of the mansion were at their peak, fragrant and buzzing with bees. Just a couple of climbing roses were blooming, in a few weeks, the rose garden will explode with color and scent.

Sue and I discovered that we both love apple blossoms, their sweet, chubby flowers with just a hint of pink on the buds – and green leaves at the same time as the flowers. We found ourselves completely obsessed with this one apple tree, and took a whole bunch of pictures, in hopes that one will call out “paint me!” It was so fun to be with someone who loves something, just as crazily as I do. Lenore eventually lured us away to see the pink dogwoods, in prime, full bloom. Oh. My. Goodness! Beauty everywhere. On Saturday, I experienced in my body, why we use the expression “breath taking.” Re-living it now as I write, I feel the energy rise in me, expanding my chest with joy and aliveness. Being in a place like this, brings me alive.

Lying in bed this morning, I had another memory sift back to me. It was last October, after an 11-hour flight, I was riding in an airport shuttle van, as it entered the city of Paris. Like carbonation, I felt energy bubble through me at the sight of those Paris buildings, with their blue and white street signs on the corners. Paris. I was there, really there. Though I’d slept little on the plane and my body was reeling from being whooshed 9 time zones away, I had the energy to walk for several hours before having a bite to eat, and giving my body what it was craving on the flight, to be resting fully horizontal. I am a different version of me when I’m in Paris. This has me thinking it’s time to set aside my hesitations, and put another Pilgrimage on the calendar. Even if I end up going all by myself. Paris brings me alive.

It’s more subtle, but I also feel myself come alive at the start of every painting group, as everyone arrives filled with appreciation for each other, the time we get to spend together – and for me too. Our groups have a restorative impact and it’s as if they all arrive famished, to a lavish table of food. That I get to provide the environment for this kind of nourishment, fills me with purpose and fulfillment – a different kind of alive.

There’s always stuff in life that we don’t want to do, but have to. Even so, I woke today, realizing that even if we can’t do the things that bring us really alive like this every day, if we are determined to, we can carve out the space and time to do them more. I’m not going to become a gardener or move to Paris, but writing this today has me see how important it is, to get enough of our own particular kind of life-fuel.

Mike’s aliveness on Sunday, had an impact on all of us in the room – and it inspired me to share it with you today. When we are alive, it has a ripple effect; aliveness is compelling and it’s contagious. So, what brings you alive. I’d love to know.

With my love,

Cara

March 29, 2016 – Painting redemption

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Most weeks, by the time Tuesday morning rolls around, I know what I’m going to write about. Today isn’t one of them. I’m stuck today. I didn’t sleep well – I woke at something like 3:30 and lay awake for a couple of hours. After getting back to sleep, I woke up about 7:15, really groggy. I was in a fog as I made my tea, pondering the possibilities. What am I going to write about today? Yikes! So, I took my hike with Bo before writing today in hopes that it might give me some clarity. One idea seemed to resonate. I started writing and after about 400 words, it felt flat and lifeless, and I had no idea where to take it. Ugh.

I keep a file in my “Posts” folder called “Ideas for Posts.” So I just went to the file. The first sentence is this: “I want for us to have the capacity for our own suffering.” Oh, yay! Suffering! Now isn’t that a cheery thing to write about? But it grabbed me. And it seems a fitting follow-on to last week’s missive about grieving. Easter was two days ago, but it appears I’m still in Lent. So, why would we want to have the capacity for our own suffering? Wouldn’t we want to do all we can to be rid of it? We go to the doctor, the therapist, our loved ones, other professionals to seek healing, resolution – to be free from our pain – whatever form it takes. Yes, this is the natural thing to do, and I do all those things. I don’t want to suffer any more than anyone else.

But guess what? We will still suffer. It’s part of the bargain. We get to taste a bright, ripe raspberry or sip and smell coffee in the morning, we get to listen to the birds chirping, we get to caress a dog’s soft ear, we get to see the color green on the springtime hills and the vivid blue-violet of the Dutch irises, that have just bloomed among the grass. We get to read and be inspired by the words of a poem or a moving story. And we get to love each other and experience others loving us. There is no light without darkness, so to get all these goodies, we must endure some suffering too.

Since I’ve started to notice when people have the capacity for their own suffering – and when they don’t – it’s become really obvious to me. I met someone a couple of years ago who is coming to mind. She had lived a very difficult life and was telling me all about it. As she was sharing her story: drug addiction, prison time, losing her children, I felt heavier and heavier. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle what she was sharing; the heaviness I felt come from the place from which she was sharing it. It felt to me, that she had little capacity for her own suffering. There was no container for it, so it spilled out on to me. Although she was living a life free of all these conditions, she wasn’t, at that point anyway, free from the darkness of it. There wasn’t yet any triumph over it – no redemption.

I’ve had many conversations with redeemed people, who have lived lives just as trouble-filled. These people, who have gained the capacity for their own suffering, have spirits that shine even more brightly, than those who’ve never lived in the dark. I’m finding it hard to articulate how this is, but what comes to me, is that redeemed people have fully digested their suffering. They’ve gained perspective, and reaped the rewards of it – which I believe are always there. Even as suffering returns, (as it does over and over), they continue to have the capacity to hold it, to contain it. The sad thing is, is that I find it hard to have compassion for those who can’t hold their suffering – I just feel repelled. It’s as if there is an unconscious intent to drag me into their darkness. On the other hand, I feel drawn to those who are suffering with awareness and perspective – even if that perspective is that this is really, really hard and awful. With these people, I find an easy connection and the compassion just flows from me.

So what does all this have to do with art and being creative? I speak on no authority besides my own – but my sense is that it has everything to do with our art and our creative lives. When I first learned to paint, I was still living the dark – married to an alcoholic and desperately lonely for real connection. I was able to paint only very sporadically, and what I painted had little energy in it. A couple of years later, I was working towards extricating myself from that life, and had no inclination to paint at all. The refuge that my creative life is now, which I spoke about last week, wasn’t yet available to me. I was still doing life-triage and building capacity for my own darkness.

But as my capacity has developed, to understand and have a place to hold my suffering, my art and creative life becomes a companion to it. I’m not one to paint my process, as in, to paint my anger or my wild, disturbing dreams. I get there is great value in doing that, but what I’m called to do, is to paint my redemption. My most recent painting “Together”, is a reflection of a break in a long standing friendship. But even those that don’t have that direct connection, they are a reflection of what I have the capacity to hold within me – as it is with all of us.

I just thought of this recent painting by Win, one of the artists in our Thursday group. Win was there the very first day I led a painting group at the Fairfax Church, four and a half years ago. She has lost two people very close to her – her mother and her son. The anniversaries of their deaths are at the beginning of the year, which renews her grief in their loss. In February, she showed me the image that was the inspiration for this painting. She wanted to paint it but was uncertain about painting a fading rose. I encouraged her to – and the result is stunning. “Mourning”, contains Win’s love for her mother and son, and her grief in their not being here anymore. The same beauty in this painting shows up in her every Thursday, too. In our hello and goodbye hugs, I can feel her tender heart as well as her love and joy at being here, and sharing her life with us.

I come back to my deep appreciation for having an active, integrated creative life – for the way we can reflect our humanness – our love and our suffering – in these creative works. I know that many people come to our groups for instruction, help with technique and color and all the tech support I provide, but what I see they are actually doing, what we are actually doing is painting our redemption. Whether we know it or not. There’s hardly a better reason to learn to paint.

With my love,

Cara

March 22, 2016 – Easter Saturday

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In the past several weeks a very close, long-standing friendship took a painful turn and in the past few days, has very possibly ended. We’ve been friends for more than 25 years and have been through so much together. It’s hard for me to really grasp that six weeks ago everything was seemingly ok, and now we are not in each other’s lives. At the same time, it is clear to me that the spirit is moving through all of it. There was something that needed to arise, to be known and made conscious. This something has brought me to a new place inside myself – almost the next “version” of me. This shift could not have been stopped or prevented. It had to happen. And, my heart is heavy and full as I grieve what once was between us.

We don’t choose to experience grief – it’s never fun or easy. There’s little energy, certainly no fire for new endeavors. When I’m grieving, I feel raw and it’s hard to have light conversations with people – especially those who don’t know what’s going on. In times like this, I watch others who are interacting with each other normally as if they are in another dimension, one that I’m not a part of. But there’s also something precious about it – there’s an opportunity to care for ourselves exquisitely. I learned this after we lost our dog BJ to an awful accident, and I was in acute grief. Because of this I was called to be really, really tender with myself, in a way that I otherwise wouldn’t. And in that, it occurred to me that I was living through a time that had its own gifts. Grieving is a deeply feminine experience. We can’t direct how it goes. It has its own pace, rhythm and duration. We just have to ride it through.

It has occurred to me, that I’m in an Easter Saturday/Holy Saturday time. I was raised culturally Christian, but we didn’t go to church or actively practice Christian traditions. My family’s celebrations of Easter and Christmas were entirely secular. Later in life, I spent a decade or so as an active member of a very progressive Christian church, through which I’ve become connected to the deep themes of this faith tradition – in ways that I can easily see threading through my own life. Since I’ve become a seeker of this deeper understanding, Rev. Cynthia Bourgeault is one who has been provided me with illumination. She is a mystic and Episcopal priest, who writes and teaches about Christianity and especially about Mary Magdalene, in ways that are both completely inspiring and completely mind-blowing. She’s pushing the edge of Christian understanding, and in doing so, gives me access to it that requires no translation, making the roots of this 2,000 year old tradition accessible and applicable to me in ways, that mainstream Christianity just doesn’t.

In a recording of hers I listened to a few years ago, she talked about where Jesus’ spirit was on Saturday, the day after he died, and before he was resurrected. While all those who were close to him, who loved, surely were deeply grieving and in despair, he was, as the tradition calls it, in the Harrowing of Hades – or hell. The way Cynthia Bourgeault spoke of it, though, brought me to tears. She said he was bringing the light – his light – to the souls living in the darkest place of existence. This is the invitation we have when we are in grief, and when tending to those who are grieving – to simply shine the light of love into the dark. Offering myself tenderness when I’m so sad is that light of love, shone on myself.

Another teacher who makes Christianity accessible to me, is Father Richard Rohr. What he teaches is also both deeply rooted in the tradition and so out there, that it’s hard to believe that he is a priest within the Catholic Church. (He and Cynthia Bourgeault are kindred spirits and teach together at times.) Sometime last year, Oprah had Richard Rohr on her Super Soul Sunday program. In their interview, he said something that stuck with me: if we don’t transform our pain, it will be transmitted. It’s certain. We will pass it on to others. Since loss is inevitable in our worldly lives – everything dies – we all experience grief. So, we all have Holy Saturday times – though they generally last much longer than a single day. In these times, we have the choice to operate out of our pain, thereby passing it on, or we can tend to it, thereby transforming it, which grows our capacities to hold others and become greater expressions of love.

I have been graced to have been given the understanding, support and determination, even, to choose the latter path – at least with the biggest losses in my life. The ending of my first marriage and way of being in relationship, not having been able to have any children of my own and the sudden loss of our beloved pup, were all followed by periods of grief. After a Holy Saturday time, they were also all followed by resurrections. I am married to my Joseph and have a deeply committed partnership, that I don’t believe would ever have been possible with my first husband. We have our sweet, smart “Ambassador of Happiness,” Bo-Doggy, who I am certain is the reincarnation of BJ. And I live a fulfilling life filled with making art and teaching and guiding others on their creative journeys – a life that I know I’d not have if we were raising kids. This may seem sort of transactional, maybe even too pat. But it’s my reality and I have to believe there is something to it.

I have been, and will continue to do what I do, while I am sad over this friendship. Along with tending to my home and family, I’m painting every day, writing every week and leading our painting groups – all of which are both tinged with what’s been going on for me, and are, that light shining into my darkness. This painting (above) that I just finished, is connected to this friendship. You can read about it in my gallery. Painting it over the past three weeks has felt right, just as I painted BJ right after he died, which I wanted to do while I still remembered what it felt like to touch him. For the most part, my art is not intentionally expressive of my inner process. I mostly paint what appeals to me – what I think is beautiful enough to spend my time on. But sometimes it is, which makes having an active creative life, a blessing and a refuge. It’s what I wish for us all, to have a place to take our grief and pain, to help transform it, so that what we transmit instead, is some form of beauty.

To come all the way through our Holy Saturday times, it helps to have faith – that there is a re-birth – of some sort – at the end of it. For those of us for whom this is our tradition, this week is Holy Week. It’s a walk through the cycle of death and rebirth – which takes place during the spring (rebirth) here in the northern half of our planet. This week feeds our faith that death isn’t the end of the story. And, in order to fully arrive on Sunday, we must tend to our grief on Saturday. Whether you follow this tradition or not, and whether you are currently in a time of grief, celebration, or some place between, I wish for you to notice and be fed by the beauty that is always here.

With my love,

Cara

March 15, 2016 – Sorta Perfect

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Last week Paulette, one of our Thursday faithfuls, forwarded to me an email with a plea for my help in responding to it. She’d been offered an opportunity to do a demonstration for a watercolor organization. First, I must say how wonderful and gratifying it is for me, to have artists in our groups garner responses like this for their work. I am a proud mama-leader to have artists of such caliber in my world. But, there was an “ee-gads” in Paulette’s response, which I completely understand and want to explore today. You see, I’ve been asked a few times over the years by various watercolor groups, to do demonstrations too. I’ve had that same “ee-gads” response and have always begged off.

My fear is that in a short painting demonstration, people – likely other artists who are hungry to learn – want to see magic. They want to see me paint a few brush strokes and “voila! It’s a flower!” But that’s not the way it works for some of us – Paulette and me included. When you look at our finished work, there is indeed something to it. The paintings live as if they are real. And they often trigger a desire in other – less experienced – artists to want to know how to paint like this. For starters, there’s a lot more to how we paint than technique. The images we choose to paint, have striking light and we hope a compelling – or at least interesting – composition. For me, I have to sense there’s something there in the image, for me to spend all the time I do painting it. But the painting part is mostly quite a struggle. Paulette and I tease that we have to “torture” our work into being.

Just yesterday, working on this rose painting, there was a leaf that had gotten too dark and the shadow on it had a hard edge that was really distracting. I tried to fix it which made it worse. So I lifted the whole thing and started over. I’ve painted the yellow green of the leaf – not as light and transparent as I’d wanted, but it’ll do. I’ve yet to paint the shadow back in – so now if you look at it closely, to my eye, it still looks like quite a mess. This is not the work and process that I think people are expecting to see in a demonstration. And yet, I wonder if it isn’t exactly what I should be demonstrating. As much as mastery is thrilling to behold, we come by it in a mundane, down-in-the-trenches way. This seems to me to be a much more helpful, and even hopeful message than “voila, it’s a flower.”

I receive email letters twice a week from “The Painter’s Keys.” On Tuesday, comes one from the late Robert Genn – from his archive of posts before he died. His daughter, Sara, also an artist, sends a letter on Fridays. Her message from last week touched me and – along with Paulette – inspired what I’m sharing with you today. She starts here:

Carefully curated images on social media of shiny children and food, vacations and relationships presented by normal breathing humans, are irking social scientists. Apparently, the suffocating display of a polished facsimile of human experience without evidence of the associated toil, rather than delivering the desired feeling of connection and love, is alienating us and giving us the blues.

She goes on about the impact of struggle and toil in our art work. I found myself saying, “here, here.” Though there is a part of us that longs to be able to breeze easily through our paintings, it’s mostly not how it goes. For some time now, I’ve held that the struggle that it takes actually gives our work more of something – more of us, more of our humanity – and thereby imbues the art with another kind of magic that’s hard to put a finger on.

I did an art festival in a big building in Fort Mason on a rainy weekend in November 2007, my first year showing my work. It was a bust. At any given time, the number of exhibiters far exceeded the number of festival goers. The show cost me $600, plus an investment in overhead lights and all my time and effort. All weekend I sold only $40. Because there were so few people there, we spent a lot of time meeting other artists and their work. A lovely woman, a jeweler, came to visit my booth and in looking at my paintings – Paris Roses and Twin Dahlias were there – she said “oh, you are going to be famous – there is a real emotional quality in your work.” At the time I found what she said incredulous, but I’ve never forgotten it. I’m not sure about the famous part, but that she saw or felt emotion in my work, was the first clue for me that we are in our work. I believe that much of this comes through our struggling.

There is another piece coming to me now – tenacity and faithfulness to our vision, both play a big part. For whatever reason, ever since I started taking watercolor painting seriously, about 15 years ago, I’ve made myself finish every painting. By doing so, I’ve learned a ton. If something wasn’t working out, didn’t please me, I’d try to figure out how and why, and then do what I could to bring it closer to my vision. It’s not always completely successful. There are parts of paintings – paintings I’ve sold and that are quite beloved by some of you – that I still cringe if I look closely at them. The overall is fine, but those parts…! Nevertheless, by sticking with it, I’ve kept lots of paintings from being tucked away in a stack in the studio.

I see this at play in our groups. An artist will show me a painting they’ve worked really hard on. Either they are really ready to be “done” – or they wonder if they should just give up on it. I or someone else in the group almost always sees something that we’d do – if it were our painting – that will take it further along. One of the best parts of doing what I do, is seeing the appreciation – and wonder, even – in an artist who is pleased with the work they were ready to abandon.

The seeking of perfection is a funny thing. It’s a force that pulls us along, but it’s also a way we can punish ourselves and reject our work. I wish I could remember the exact situation, but recently I found myself saying the phrase “sorta perfect.” It was in response to something that happened that was unexpected and undesired, but which ended up with a result that was actually better in the end. As I said it, I was struck by its paradox. Perfect – as we usually think of it – isn’t a part-way thing. Perfect is perfect.

Today, in looking at all of this, I’m embracing “sorta perfect” as the best kind of perfection – a more sophisticated way to say it is “wabi-sabi.” But I like “sorta perfect.” Sorta perfect is life, it’s human. It speaks to our vulnerability, as well as carries an appreciation for us and what we do. I want for us all to remember that in any given moment, we are all doing the best we can, with our current skills and abilities. Here’s to our sorta perfection!

Love,

Cara

March 8, 2016 – Fine tuning my promise to paint every day

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It’s been over two months since I promised to paint every day, and I haven’t missed a day yet. Though one day in January, all I did was paint colored squares in preparation for a color class, and there have been more than a few days that I’ve painted for only a 10 or 15 minutes. But making the promise – and making it publicly to all of you – has had a marked effect on my relationship with time, scheduling and my dedication to paint. There have been days that I did not start out painting – which is the best way for me to start any day. And as 9:00 or 10:00 at night rolled around, I realized I’d not painted. Because of my commitment, I’ve picked myself up and gone into my studio (which is just one of the bedrooms in our house) and worked on a painting. In the past, I’d absolutely have just let it go for the day.

At the end of January, I went to LA for a workshop and a visit with my aunt and uncle. In order to have something to paint to take with me, I drew a small one of roses and raindrops, and I made myself a teeny little palette of paints. I painted each day before the workshop, as well as in the airport – both on the way there and back – a first! There was even one night – it was after 11:00 – I was in bed, cozy and warm and ready to call it a day – and I called bullshit on myself, when I told myself that I had painted. I had really just fiddled around for a few minutes. So, I got out of bed, wrapped up in my bathrobe, turned on the space heater at my feet under my painting table, listened to the silence of the sleeping house, and painted for half an hour. It was probably the most precious time I’ve spent painting yet this year.

As successful as this commitment has been so far, I see it’s time to guide myself to another place, with my promise to paint every day. I’ve been holding it largely as something I need to “get in” each day. I set the commitment as a way to bring meditation into my life on a regular basis. And the way I’ve been doing it – and more importantly, the way I’ve been holding it – has often not been in the spirit of meditation. I’ve been aware of the deeply-felt place painting holds in my life for a while now. I remember one day – something like 8 years ago – talking to Sara, when she was the pastor at the church I used to go to. What came out of my mouth was that for me, painting is a devotion.

As I was putting away the dishes from last night and thinking about what I’d write about today, I remembered saying this – and wondered, what really is a devotion? So I looked it up! (I am letting myself look things up for my posts!). English is such a rich language and there are often many synonyms for a single word. The collection of synonyms can define a little universe which can say a lot. Here they are for devotion: loyalty, faithfulness, fidelity, constancy, commitment, adherence, allegiance, dedication, fondness, love, admiration, affection, care. When I look at these words, I see two things – there’s steadfastness in the words from “loyalty” through “dedication”, and there’s a heart-centeredness in the words from “fondness” to “care” – a steadfast love. I’ve been doing the steadfast part – what I’m feeling the lack of, and wanting to bring in – is my heart – or more of my heart.

This is one part of it, but there’s another – a distinction I learned from Alison: there is a masculine (produce results) and feminine (in the timelessness of the moment) way to do just about anything. I can get ready in the morning, choose my clothes, do my hair and makeup, take my vitamins with the idea that I have to get it all done in as short a time as possible, efficiency expert front and center – OR I can feel my hands on my face as I put on my moisturizer, look at myself in the eye for a second as I put on my eye makeup, choose clothes that I feel good and lovely in. Who emerges from my bathroom is a whole different person depending upon which I am able to choose. Cooking is another arena to see this – I can produce food for dinner, or I can lovingly prepare a meal to nourish our bodies.

Time is what makes the difference – either time is limited and I’ve got to get a move on, or I have all… the… time… in… the… world. Here’s the thing, time is limited on this earthly plane. We’ve only so much in a day and in a lifetime. So how do I give myself the experience of getting myself ready, cooking, painting – living my life, a time-limited universe – in such a way that I feel I have all the time in the world?

I feel resistance in me as I realize what this means. I need to actually schedule my time and have priorities. When I worked in the corporate world and had a boss and commitments to others, I was very good (well, a whole lot better anyway) at scheduling and “time-management.” But now, that I work for myself I have been rather loose with time – especially on the days that I don’t teach – the days that are all mine, to do with what I see fit. I let myself get pulled away by all kinds of things that are not on my radar. I schedule my appointments and meetings with others, but not my painting time, my marketing time, my email time. It’s really time. In order to make my work my devotion, my prayer, it needs me to protect it from the other things that are crowding it out.

As I think about spending time every day looking at how I’m going to spend this day of my life, with an actual calendar, the resistance is re-doubling inside me, making it really apparent why I’ve not been doing it. This part of me needs my attention! I’m making the promise to that part of me – in front of you – I will listen to hear what it has to say, what there is to caution me about – what its fears are. Because I now know I must provide containers – pockets of time – to get lost in my painting – every day. Even if the pocket of time is 15 minutes, I want to have set it with intention – not just squeezed it in. I know that when I do, it’s much more likely that I can arrive to it with that sense of devotion.

I’m also aware of the break I’ve given myself as of last week – and that this may seem like self-improvement. But it’s clear to me, that “pink time” isn’t pink unless it’s given the space to be so. I know I won’t be perfect at this. But it is my intention to keep coming back to it, when I fall back on getting pulled here and there – and when my inner-teenager wants to rebel.

I feel a softness and a resolve in me as I finish this post. And I am so grateful for my relationship with you. Knowing you are there, knowing you are reading and listening – and taking on commitments of your own, as I’ve heard a few of you have, pulls me along on. It reinforces a central belief – that life is lived in connection – on the web of invisible threads that bind us.

With my love,

Cara

March 1, 2016 – Taking a pink break

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I am a thought-ful person – I mean to say not so much that I’m kind and I think of others – which I do aim to be and do – but that I am full of thoughts. I’ve been watching myself think, and am realizing how incredibly busy it is inside my head!

There’s almost always the “efficiency expert” – this is the one who plans ahead, nearly constantly, about how I am going to do everything, strategizing as how to maximize the results of my efforts. Like when I wash up after dinner: I very intentionally wash the sheet pans first, so they can lean up against the inside of the garden window, then skillets, then saucepans. Bowls are last, smallest to largest – all so that everything will dry well, and will fit on the drying pad without water getting everywhere. It’s like this all over my life. And even when I’m scattered, which I am plenty, my mind is keeping track of how in-efficient I’m being.

There’s the “relationship monitor”, who tells me that I really need to be in touch with this person or that, evaluating how that last conversation went and whether there is something else I need to say – if I may have hurt someone, or overlooked something. There’s always someone I’m overdue to get back to – an email or text message to reply to, an appreciation to offer. This part worries about whether I am giving enough, or saying enough to those who provide so much to me.

There’s the “look it up addict”, who is always on the lookout for what I don’t yet know. Here’s how this goes – just yesterday morning, at the start of the trail on my hike with Bo, I saw an oval bumper-sticker on a car that had the word “VIOLIN” on it. My mind went: violin, viola, cello… the last two instrument names have their roots in Italian, it seems, but what is “violin” in Italian? I took out my phone to find out it is “violino” and in then French, it’s “violon.” Viola is “viola” in Italian, but “alto” in French. Ok, that’s enough! Thank God for another part of me that had me put the phone back in my pocket, to be present with my dog on the trail in the beautiful sunshine!

There’s another version of this part of me that is compelled to not just know, but to understand. I want to be able to put everything into the grand scheme in some way – and these are big things – the dark side of humanity – violence and suffering, the evolution of human consciousness, climate change and our future, and this incredibly unusual and unpredictable US presidential election. This part reads the opinion pages of the paper, listens to public radio, reads emails from all kinds of people working to further the causes of humanity – all with the questions: “are we becoming more conscious?” or “how are we evolving?” in the back of my mind.

Added to these parts, there’s still the part of me that is food – and body – conscious, and the part that fears every little twinge, wondering if I could be really sick. There’s the part that worries about all the trash we generate – sorting garbage wherever I go. There’s the part that feels compelled to make something out of myself and my art business. This part that tells me I really need to be on social media more! And the part that makes and teaches art, always on the lookout for painting subjects and ideas about being a better teacher.

I’ve recently come to realize, how completely exhausting all this mental activity is! And I see a thread that runs all through these patterns. I am positively compelled to self-improve. I am rigorous with myself, turning things around in my brain, looking for the “lesson” for myself in all that challenges me. As much as this way of being has made me who I am now, has given me the capacities I have to perceive and understand and sometimes share helpful ideas and thoughts, I’m also really hard on myself.

It’s the season of Lent in the Christian calendar. I don’t hold myself tightly to the tradition of “giving something up” as a Lenten fast. But I have decided, even if I’m a bit late, that I am going to give up on self-improvement for a while. It’s time to give my precious self a break from the scrutiny and diligence. It’s time for more sweetness, acceptance and ease. And having some fun while I’m at it.

In preparation for this past weekend’s Oscars, I’ve gotten started on the fun part – I’ve been going to the movies! I’ve seen more movies in the past month, than in the past year. Brooklyn was my favorite – what a lovely, lovely film. But I also thoroughly enjoyed The Big Short, Spotlight, The Martian and The Bridge of Spies. 45 Years was powerful – not a feel – good movie as such – but rich with humanity. And my mom and dad and I went to a gorgeous documentary of the spectacular tenor, Jonas Kaufmann’s all-Puccini concert, at La Scala in Milan – what a big treat it was, to experience all that emotion-filled music and inspiring talent.

I’ve put away all the books on my nightstand, except two – “Lisette’s List” and “Delicious.” Both books were passed on to me by ladies in my groups – about things I love – art and food. I can feel the need for some time in museums – I’ve not seen the Pierre Bonnard exhibit at the Legion of Honor yet, and in gardens. I want to paint tulips! Filoli, here… I… come!

As part of this effort to give myself a break, I’ve decided to paint only what I really want to paint. I’ve been working away on one of deeply colored hydrangeas sitting on a decorated tile resting on a fountain. The colors are more jewel-y and muted – like late summer or early fall, when the image was taken. I’ve left paintings unfinished in the past, but last year I’d circled back and finished them all – giving me a sense of accomplishment – which has me reluctant to start a new stack of partial paintings that would “talk” to me. So I’d been dutifully working to finish it.

Spring has started in northern California – the earliest blossoming trees are full of petals, daffodils are up, the hills are green thanks to some rain this winter. All of this has me wanting to be painting with springtime colors. So Saturday, I drew two new paintings – both of roses in pinks, corals, a range of sunny greens. I’ve started in on the “fuzzy background” of one of them, looking forward to painting rose petals in tropical punch colors.

My sense is that what drives this part of me, to seek and transform into some increasingly improved-version of myself has in part, to do with shadow beliefs that doubt my value. There is no defeating shadow – not in me, not in you, not anywhere. My seeking has taught me that what we are here to do, is to shine the light of consciousness on it. For me, this means putting away the self-help books, turning off the radio, unless it’s something that feeds my feminine soul, feeding myself through my eyes, my ears, all my senses. I’m shining the light of love, of mercy, of grace on the driving, striving parts of me. And I’m letting myself live pink!

I invite you to shine the light of awareness on the parts of you that may be calling for it – and live in your color.

With my love,

Cara

February 23, 2016 – One of us flies away

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It was almost three years ago when I got a voicemail message from someone who was looking for an art class, an art group – a regular place to paint. She’d just moved up to Marin from Huntington Beach, in the LA area, where she had a watercolor group that she’d been attending for some time, and was missing terribly. She’d found my number through Perry’s, one of our local art stores. Mickey and I talked, I told her about us and she decided to join our Friday group. Starting in early April, 2013 until last Friday, Mickey came every week she could – which amounted to 116 weeks out of the 137, that we’ve met in that timeframe. She has been devoted – to us and to herself and her artwork. On Saturday, she’s on a plane to Portland, Oregon where she’s moving to join her son and his family. We are going to so miss her. And she us.

Friday we had a going-away/celebrating-our-time-together party. Our hearts were full and heavy all at the same time. I showed a slideshow video I’d put together of all of the watercolors that Mickey painted while she was with us, along with some of the photos of us I’d taken, so she’d have that to take with her.

Every week, I take pictures of each artist’s work-in-progress. I don’t know why, but something had me start doing this, not too long after I started leading the Tuesday (now Thursday) group in the fall of 2011. I miss some artists’ work some weeks, though and when I saw that I hadn’t captured some of Mickey’s paintings after she finished them, I called her earlier in the week, to see if I could come visit her and take new photos. I told her it was so that I could have a complete record of all she painted – I wanted the slideshow to be a surprise!

On a rainy afternoon last Wednesday, we had a sweet visit. She had framed a couple paintings, given away a couple more, and thrown away two she said were “busts.” The rest were stored in portfolios, which she pulled out from under the bed. It was really wonderful to see again, these paintings I’d watched come to be, week after week.

She told me she was trying to get her address changed with Social Security, and had been on hold for nearly an hour, and still had no luck. So I sat down at her computer to see what we could do online. And while there, she asked me if I wanted to see all her paintings. She’s kept a photo record of every one of her pieces of art. Other than the beautiful paintings she’d framed on her walls, I had no idea what she’d painted before she moved here. I was blown away by how prolific she’s been! I didn’t count, but she’s done dozens and dozens and dozens of paintings.

It was very clear how she felt about each one. A few, like the two she tossed from our time together, she called “a bust.” Some she said were “okay.” But some she really liked and called “successful – a really good painting.” She’s painted portraits, landscapes, buildings (barns, a Victorian house surrounded by flowering shrubs), flowers, fruits – all kinds of subjects. She knows where each one is and whether that person has it hanging or up not. Mickey is very connected to her body of work!

She’s kept in very regular contact, with some of the artists who she painted with two days a week, in Southern California. One of them still calls her every week! She’s also still connected to her teacher, who has come to visit every time he comes up here. She told me that some of them have been painting for 30 years, and that at 11 years, she a mere newcomer as an artist. The thing is, we just helped Mickey celebrate her 88th birthday at the end of January. I asked incredulously, “you started painting when you were 77 years old?” And she just twinkled back at me.

Mickey didn’t just start painting, she became a painter, an artist. She made making art a major part of her life, and she didn’t even start until she had outlived many, many people. What I told her I found so remarkable, is the force that is in her to just keep going. As soon as one painting was finished there was another idea, a plan for the next one. I didn’t have this kind of impetus to paint consistently, until I had an outlet, an audience. I found it really easy for life to crowd out my painting time. But not Mickey. Painting has ahold of her in a way that inspires and emboldens the rest of us.

Mickey has been living in an assisted living community, where she found many of her neighbors hard to relate to, as they aren’t as engaged in life as she. So, coming to her art group has been really important to her well-being. She told me not long after starting, “you are stuck with me! I’m not leaving, you know.” This has been the topic of a loving tease between us – I’ve – we’ve been so happy to have been stuck with her! And now that she’s moving away, she told us that though she’s made friends where she lives, what’s really hard is leaving us. She said “it’s intimate, this is home.”

Mickey is tiny – not even five feet tall, but inside that little body, is a spirit that has captured our hearts and shown us how it’s possible to be very alive, and creative well into our years. Sue, who is closer to my age, was traveling last week and couldn’t say goodbye to Mickey herself, so she emailed me: “Let her know that she has been a big inspiration to me as well … as I now intend to paint till I’m 100!” When I told this to Mickey, she said, “so do I!”

That’s our Mickey – gosh are we going to miss her something awful! But, I’ve heard that Portland has a beautiful rose garden, which I’ve never visited. We’re already plotting a trip this summer to see the roses, see our Mickey and paint together again.

I’m happy and grateful to you, Mickey, for being one of us. You are in our hearts always.

Love,

Cara