September 13, 2016 – Painting our prayers – an invitation

“Heather, a Friday group artist, painting cherry blossoms – whether she thinks so or not, this is sacred practice.”

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I start with a confession. I didn’t paint two more days – this past Saturday or Sunday. I share this not as a mea culpa, but because of how much I noticed it and missed it. I take to heart the promise I made, not just to keep my word, but also because of what painting is to me. I really missed what even a few minutes of it does for me – and to me. I didn’t not paint because I couldn’t have. I was home and passed by my studio a zillion times. But I allowed myself to ignore the pull to my painting and instead, took care of the next thing on “the list.” I was also working on an extensive Photoshop project, for a special occasion commission – working with someone else’s photos, to put together something that is “Life in Full Color.” And it’s not coming easily. By the end of the day yesterday, I was still nowhere with the project, and I still hadn’t painted since Friday (and that was only for a few minutes). I came home from dinner with my mom and dad yesterday evening, and I dove into the painting of grapes – the one whose image I’m completely in love with. Even after just two days away, it was such a relief to be there with my brushes and paints, bringing through this image that has so captivated me.

This is a marked difference from times in the past, where days and days and days would go by, that I didn’t pick up a brush. Even just last year, I barely noticed that I’d not painted for several days – at least not consciously. The promise I made has changed my relationship with what I do. Though I knew it in my head that painting for me is a devotion, I feel now it more closely. Painting is one very important way that I pray. It’s funny how things can shift. I’ve told myself that the free and therefore fun part of what I do, has always been taking the photos and then playing with them in Photoshop – which is more an exploration; I don’t know where I’m headed. And I’ve held painting as the hard part. But these past few days, have me seeing how the painting part is where it gets real for me. It’s where my mark is made and it’s where I sense my love coming through.

“I’ve not gotten very far on this one since I last posted it two weeks ago. I feel it when I’m not painting now.”

I used to be a very regular and very active member of the Fairfax Community Church, when my beloved Sara was the pastor there. Sara officiated at our wedding 16 years ago. This experience with her, drew me to want to be with her more and be part of the community she led. Going to church almost every Sunday for 11 years, revealed part of me to me. In a post last year about my spiritual journey, I wrote this:

What is most precious to me now is that, along the way, I discovered the part of me that is deeply devotional. There is a place in the center of my chest, in my heart that longs to long, to revere, to surrender, to worship even – something greater than me.

Since Sara left (she’s now the chaplain at Marin General Hospital), and things changed at the church, I stopped going and have been staying home on Sunday mornings. I don’t feel the pull to go to church anymore. The years I was so engaged with the church community, I wasn’t part of the one that surrounds me now – it didn’t yet exist. Now that it does, I see how the precious nature of what we do and what happens when we gather in our groups each week and month, gives me much of what nourished me at church.

And yet there are things that I still miss. I miss the intention to be in worship, the explicit “this is devotion, this is prayer.” I’ve been tossing about an idea in this vein for a while. It now seems like it’s time to make it real. The idea is to gather on Sunday mornings in Larkspur – once a month (for now) – to paint together. I won’t teach. I won’t lead or intentionally hold the space for each artist’s creative process, as I usually do. I will instead, hold the space that the gathering is sacred – and joyous. I will be there with my painting and palette – but not all the extra supplies nor set up the projector. We’ll play music that suits this spirit – not necessarily religious (and I am open to suggestions!). We will paint a few hours in the morning – no more than 2 or 3. We will paint our prayers.

I could do this at home, all on my own – but I paint alone all the time. What I miss is being together, in what I’d call worship. Wherever two or more are gathered… Here’s another bit from that post from last year:

The clearest truth for me, is that [my faith] is a relational faith – as much as it is the source of infinite love exists in each of us, is each one of us – it’s most potent as the connection between two or more of us. I have a hard time putting words to my experience of it. It’s a feeling in my body. I have the sense that the center of my chest is expanding. Love is being received as well as emanating out from me. It’s heartwarming and heartbreaking all at the same time.

It came to me earlier this year that what I do, that what we do, is paint our love. And it is my belief that love is God. And I’ve come to believe, that there is no separation from the sacred and anything else. Connection is the nature of our universe. Putting my intention and attention on this, feeds my faith. I am inviting you to join me here.

There is no cost to come, but I’m thinking we will have a basket for donations, we could offer to someone who needs help. A woman came into the office last Thursday evening, asking for our help getting a place to live again, so she can bring her kids back under one roof. She’s doing this through an organization in San Francisco. It came to me, that she’s the perfect person to begin with.

This well-known Rumi poem has been with me, as I’ve written this post today, translated by Coleman Barks. I read a post by a Muslim blogger, that dismisses this translation, because it waters down Rumi’s Islamic religion. But this translation is all over the Internet and I appreciate how the words Coleman Barks used, made the wisdom, the spirit of Rumi accessible to millions of us.

If today, like every other day
we wake up empty and frightened.
We don’t have to open the door to the study
and begin reading.
We can take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do
there are hundreds of ways
to kneel and kiss the earth.

So, will you come, kneel and kiss the earth with brushes and watercolor with me? We’ll start this Sunday, September 18th at 10 in the morning. I’ll have coffee, tea and something to nibble on. Please let me know if you want to be there.

And, if Larkspur is too far for you, I invite you to join us – and paint from wherever in the world you are. I will set up a Zoom video conference so you can join us virtually. Please let me know if you want the link.

With my love,

Cara

September 6, 2016 – Schlep art, carry panels

“Hula, found her home this weekend – it’s always poignant to say goodbye to these paintings I spend all those hours with.”

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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.

“This year’s booth was one of my favorites ever – Lots of color, plenty of storage and table space.”

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

One, big apple – just in time for back-to-school.

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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.

Tropical peaches, Firelight and Melia – time and place are in these paintings.

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!

The image on the left, the just-started painting on the right. I’m in LOVE!

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

“Zoomed in to the lower part of this big painting I’m working on – it seems to be its own kind of universe”

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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.

“The soft colors of the evening light on the lake were nothing short of enchanting. Dave taught the kids about the phases of the moon (right).”

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…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With my love,

Cara

July 26, 2016 – The wisdom in not knowing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With my (redemptive) love,

Cara

July 19, 2016 – Holly

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

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

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

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

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

Holly’s fused glass bead necklaces had us enchanted!

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

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

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

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

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

With my love always,

Cara

July 12, 2016 – Our immortal creations

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

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

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

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

“Susie’s Temptation”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cara