small miracles

this evening we got a call from toni-ann.  Theres a baby duck! it was in my house and now it might be under the deck, do you want to come rescue a baby duck?  yes, of course.  another recruit.  me and james hop right to it.  i guess we're the go-to people in edison for all your animal rescue needs.  

we go running down the street,  across town, around the flutter inn and along the slough we walk with a salmon net in hand, trying to track the little bugger down.  more elusive than you think, that baby duck is; we can't seem to find it under any porch or bush.  every cat seems suspect, i eye them suspiciously.  every dark corner is a hiding spot, a possibility.  we ask john and mike, have you seen the baby duckling?  they point.  there it is, james says, and i see it: the tiniest of things,  brown like the mud, tearing ass down the middle of the slough.  we follow it closely with our eyes, but soon lose track of it under a dock.

 after waiting a few minutes for it to reappear, we give up, decide to go home, to let nature take its course.  will the baby duck die without our intervention?  maybe.  we'll never know.  sometimes it's hard to make that call, but really, nature does what she wants around here where she's left to be herself.  yes, she'll do what she wants, with that duckling and with us too.  sometimes it's the miracle of life she gives us, and sometimes its the hard lesson of death.  one thing i've learned is that i have very little control.  and it's all a miracle, every bit of it.  it's all beautiful, really, it's just a matter of how you look at it. 

more important things

i haven't felt much like writing lately.  or painting.   i've been waiting until the last minute to do it.  and then just slogging my way through it.  that's just the way it is sometimes, and sometimes you can't fight it.  call it procrastination, call it avoidance, call it adrenal exhaustion....call it what you will.  a few weeks back into this one-a-day thing, now i remember why i was so excited to be done with it, once and for all.  

i started a cleanse last weekend, thinking of all the things that needed spring cleaning, little ol' me might need it the very most. no sugar, no wheat, no dairy, no meat....no booze. that's an awful lot of no's.  i thought that maybe it would up my motivation and energy, but so far i feel like it's only kicked up a bunch of dust and made me miss all of my favorite vices.  they were, after all, something i looked forward to.  every day.

there are plenty of things i do feel like doing, things that i am excited about...like spacing out, weeding the garden, picking the twining morning glory off of branches.    i like to walk in the school field, watching the pups run, holding james hand and watching the clouds play on the hills in the distance.  

and i always have time and energy to  fill the bird feeders.  i could sit and watch them birdies eat forever.  yes, i love it so much it even distracts me, like a buzzing cell phone, distracts me from almost every other thing i'm doing. 

and lately, i anxiously await the birth of baby birds around the premises as their mamas sit long and hard on those eggs.  i love to listen to the new baby robins, two of them, gently testing out their voices, squawking above my bedroom door in the morning. 

i love to watch the flowers bloom around me.  i stare at the colors long and hard, trying to burn those blossoms into my retinas for when i want to paint a picture full of life, long after the flowers have all fallen.  spring has hit the valley fast and hard this year, like a freight train, and i'm standing at the edge of the track marveling at it's force and velocity.

needless to say, i get distracted from my work.  but all of these other things take precedence sometimes.  sometimes, work must wait. for more important things.

playing catch-up

it's not that i haven't been working...i have.  but i just can't seem to get myself to sit in front of the computer when it's sunny.  so here are the last five days worth of one-a-days.  now that it's raining, that rug in the backyard grass and the vulnerable little seedlings won't need me as much, and maybe one of these days, i can spit out some wisdom.  until then, i'll be trying desperately to squeeze everything  i can in to one short day.

lightness

 today, when we went to the river dike to walk the dogs, the grass was all mowed down.  i took it as a good sign, being that it was haircut day and all, looking for signs everywhere to help me muster up the courage to cut my hair in the first place.  it is, after all, a part of me, that hair is a timeline of my life.  but it's spring, and somehow, the new growth around me encourages me to shed the past.  the dogs reveled in the short grass path, the ability to see, how cutting the tangled tall grass makes space, makes way for new growth.  they ran joyfully hard and fast, two dogs full steam ahead, stopping every now and again to sniff the mounds of dry grass along the edges, hunting like coyotes for casualties of the mower blade, a mouse or vole carcass to swallow whole.  they are smart like that, instinctual, and we let them be wild on these walks.  for us, it's an exercise in trust.  because nature usually takes care of us, if we allow it the space to do so.  and we don't want to raise little obedient robots, after all. 

around one bend and then another we walked, until ahead, i spotted a coyote, hunting those same grass mounds as my pups.  colored grey as a sandy beach, all feral rough and fluffy, he didn't see us coming.  a rare sighting.  i froze, and then turned to make sure my boys were close.  coyotes are everywhere here, but they are elusive.  the wind must have been blowing in just the right direction, hiding our scent, so we were closer than i've ever been.  i took it as a good sign, and couldn't get the picture of that coyote out of my head as i drove up to town to get my long locks lopped.  

driving home with two cut braids in my bag, i felt lighter than i have in a while.

because

maybe you've noticed that the last few paintings haven't been for sale.  that's because i'm working on a series of illustrations for bellingham's subdued stringband jamboree.  who knows: these drawings might be on a poster, or maybe a ticket, a coaster, or maybe even a t-shirt.  but mostly, they're just a gift, a thank you, inspired by the enormously talented and supportive music community of this region, a community of players and listeners and venues that work really hard and give it everything they've got, for nothing more than the love of music and the joy it spreads.  there are few causes more worthy.

channeling

lately, my work has really started to remind me of my mom's.  i'm drawing animals in people costumes doing things that people do, if we were smarter we'd act more like animals and less like people, i think to myself.  i'm drawing while i'm sitting in the sunny backyard, surrounded by mourning doves, finches and hummingbirds, ducks, dogs and cats, all of my "friends" that i've somehow lured here to live here, with food water shelter and a soft voice only for them.  it's only natural that these creatures would make their way into my artwork.

 nowadays, there's a certain way that my hand wiggles to make the mouse's or bear's hair, or how i leave the highlights in the eye as two tiny dots of white, there's a finesse with the line, these certain things, that remind me of mom's illustrations.  i look at these pictures i've painted when they're done, and it feels like she drew them.  and sometimes, it feels strangely like i'm not even behind the wheel, like she's doing all the driving here.  it's a trance-like state, a deliberate intention with the work that i've never had before.  

all my life i searched for it, something to call my own, some purpose behind my pen....call it experience, call it a signature style, call it a good teacher's influence or just call it an idea that springs up amidst artists block....sometimes, it's hard to know what you want out of a piece of art that you're about to make.  sometimes, the pressure is frightening.  and sometimes, when you don't know any better, you think too long and too hard about it, and it comes out all wrong.  

nowadays, i've learned to just let the drawings draw themselves.

duality

max the cat's blindness is getting worse.  he started bumping into things today, going into the wrong corners, looking blankly into the sky.  it may be the fault of his kidneys, or it may be diabetes.  it may be high blood pressure.  or, it just may be old man blindness.   it's hard to know.  with a cat of sixteen going on twenty, sometimes its just so hard to know....what to do, or when to jump...when to go to the vet, when to spend another thousand dollars we don't have, on antibiotics and tooth extractions, on x-rays and blood tests....it's hard to know when to turn the lights off,  or when to do nothing and let nature take its course.  as with everything in life, sometimes you have to make the hard choices, and sometimes you just sit on your hands and wait for those choices to make themselves.  which is worse?  i don't really know.

yes, animal ownership is a challenge. it tests my patience, my courage, and my intuition, daily.  sometimes it takes everything out of me.  and sometimes it fills me up.  it's unpredictable, hard to know what card you're going to draw on any given day.  for instance, yesterday, i drew the JOKER.   

yesterday, just like every other day, i took the dogs for their evening run, this time by myself.  to the wide open field at the elementary school filled with glowing dandelions wishes we walked.  i let them off leash, and instantly, sunny bolted.  this doesn't usually happen.  usually, my dogs are good boys.  feeling helpless, i run off to find him, yelling sunny, get back here. COME HERE!!  I feel like an idiot.  soon he comes a'runnin, looking like mischief.  no sooner do i turn around to find samish chowing down on something by the tennis court.  i run over to try and stop him but sunny beats me to it.  they have a royal buffet until i huff and puff over there to find them feasting on a pile of smelly barf, hidden under grass.  ugh.  i leash them up, exasperated, and cry a little, feeling beaten at the game. i guess that's parenting for you:  every mistake is a lesson learned.

tomorrow's a new day, i tell myself, try to reassure myself.  and of course, it always is.  because today, those pups were perfect little angels, sleeping all day in the warm sun of the backyard while i worked.

harvest

the grass on the river dike is suddenly tall, up to my chest.  the false bamboo is wiggling through the dry silt on the river's edge.  the morning glory is twisting and twining it's way up up up the garden.  tractors chug along  waking up winter's mudpack.  it seems like it all happened in a flash overnight, while i wasn't looking.  i start to get that overwhelming feeling, like spring and summer all happens so fast, whizzes right by like the scenery from a car window.  i fear i need to soak it up harder this time and store it deep within me for the next long winter, the winter that comes on altogether too soon.  wearing shorts for the first time this year, walking through the tall grass, my legs feel the familiar sting of nettles, somehow comforting, like a pinch to wake you up from a long dark cold dream that wouldn't end.  the dogs are just wiggles in the grass, flickers of color hidden beneath the fronds, they run through the cut paths but can hardly be seen.  they cannot see out to where the valley opens up,  which makes them a little more nervous than usual, staying close to our feet so as not to get lost.  this is their first spring, ever.  you can tell it's overwhelming to them too.

my hair is long now, longer than it's ever been, long as that grass on the river's edge, almost to my elbows.  last time i talked to my dad, he reminded me:  it's been four years since mom passed, jessie, not three.  i guess i stopped keeping track, but my hair is a good measure.  the last time i really cut it, i cut it short... it was this time of year, about four years ago.  when your mom loses her hair, a woman's best accessory as kate describes it, you may find yourself wanting to lose your hair too, to take away the pain, to shake the vanity that we still somehow cling to until the very end.  and now, all i have is hair, long as i can grow it, my hair.  it's heavy, tangled, dirty, and hard to wash.  it's beautiful, and real, not as much ash-blond as my optimistic mother would describe it as the greyish brown of dry earth.  my dogs pull it, chew on the ends of my braids, and step on it, yanking from the roots.  james loves it, how it reminds him of the nurturing yet untamed hippie women of his childhood. that hair, it's mine, for better or worse: every cell of my being, every life experience is in there, every breath, every tear, for the last four years.  

this spring, i think it's time.  i think i'm ready for harvest.

find your voice

one of the things i like best about being an artist is that you can reinvent yourself every day if you want to.  this year, for this one-a-day project, i'm trying hard not to fall into the same ruts, working to stretch my technique and abilities, going for something different every single day.  I want to create new flavors of art that surprise even me, work that reflects not only my personality but the various influences and artists i've admired over the years.  influences are a major part of developing one's own style.  my mom used to tell me, if you like a certain piece of work, it behooves you to try and copy it, just to see how it's done.  as a student of painting in college, we were challenged to imitate the work of an old master.  my monet copy wasn't half shabby!  by examining the work closely, even if only through photos, and dissecting it with my eyes, i learned a little about the artists approach, something i could later consciously and subconsciously incorporate into my own work. because as i see it, there's no such thing as an original idea, but there's also no one with an original voice identical to yours.  so let er rip!  find your voice!  because the only thing worse than taking a risk and making a dumb mistake is making nothing at all, and the only thing worse than giving up is not trying.

digging holes

*

  

as of last week, thursdays are now "home days". james and i have committed to spending an entire day every thursday of every week bettering our barn-home and tying up loose ends.    it feels good to dedicate a day to work together towards our goals, to nest a little.  it has become increasingly necessary when almost all of our time is spent working for others.  you see, the problem was, i begin to panic inside my head if i don't feel like i'm making progress on the never-ending master list of tasks.  i look at every nagging issue, point at it, look at james and say, now why isn't that done yet?  poor james.  yeah, so i may freak out, i may go a little off the handle.  it's embarrassing.  i'm supposed to be a mature adult for god's sake!  now we certainly don't need any more panicky moments out of me, do we?  hence, the invention of thursday, home day, a new and constructive preventative measure.  so far, it's working great.

today was a day full of digging holes and planting four gigantic blueberry bushes that we had salvaged.  each hole was about four feet in diameter and had to be dug through a five inch layer of gravel.  the rain didn't deter us, it almost made the work more fun, the clean smell of water on grass, sifting rocks from the soil, getting muddy up to my elbows. I fed the eager ducks every nightcrawler i could find, dangling it in the air to catch their attention. they always come a'runnin, flapping their flippers through the puddles in a quick waddle. those ducks are smart, they know to follow us around when we dig in the garden, searching for fruits of the earth, keeping us busy company.  

afterward, we washed the earth from our hands, drank some water, admired our progress.  every day, it feels more like home.  

springtime

*

it's that time of year again where i really start to think about my mom a lot.  right about now, three years ago, she went into the hospital, which is where she would spend her last days.  i remember counting every blossom of every flower in my yard in portland... all of the plants i had planted, dirt under my nails in the hot sun, turning in the year-old kitchen compost, everything we ate becoming black gold, churned into the vapid soil to make hospitable beds out of dry clay.  i remember cutting those blossoms proudly to bring to her room, anything, anything to fight the beeping and buzzing and clicking of hospital ephemera, the sterility of plastic and the smell of sanitizer.  i would bring fresh flowers from my own garden, a new bouquet every time those flowers started to begin to wilt.  it was all i could do, everything i could do, even after she went to sleep and didn't wake up again. how it all flashes back sometimes, especially this time of year.

today, i woke up sad.  it happens when i don't expect it, even three years later.  i guess that's inevitable.  james asked me:  is there anything you can think of that will make you feel better?  outside, through the window, i could see the sun peeking through the clouds.  springtime.  suddenly, i knew exactly what to do.  I pulled up my sleeves, grabbed a spade, and set to work in the soil.  life abounds in the garden.

wild world 

it's a stretch

watercolor on paper 9x12

This evening I had to have a reality check with myself.  I realized: I have to be honest about what i can and can not do on a daily basis.  I am ambitious, but i don't have superpowers.  I am ambitious, but sometimes it gets me into trouble.  By aiming too high, I set myself up for failure.  This is something i learned the last time i did my daily painting project, working, scanning, typing frantically, tears in my eyes, delirious tired.. sure, I can paint a painting every day....but just barely.  Some days, it's a miracle that i can even find the time to wipe the boogers out of my sleepy eyes.   Stacking even more responsibility onto an already full dance card leaves me with two left feet.  I do a lot to keep this ship afloat, hustle hard to keep my animals, my bandmates, my friends, my family and all of my customers satisfied.  I work a hell of a lot of miracles around here.  But I admit: I just can't do it all.  It feels good to say it aloud, to let go.  So repeat after me:  I can't do everything.   I can't paint a painting every day and, on top of it, write something meaningful every day.  It's just impossible.    So there.   Now, it's out in the open.  This time around, things are different.  I'm a little smarter.  And as i wait impatiently for today's watercolor to dry, you'll have to wait until tomorrow to see it.  That's just how it's gonna have to be.

to each their own

watercolor on paper, 9x12

when it comes right down to it, even after a six month break, i can still whip out a realistic watercolor by staring at an object, painting what i see.  this one came remarkably easy, like i could do it blindfolded, like i was born to paint squished beer cans.   oh, how i love painting squished beer cans.  and yeah, i guess painting a particular way every day for a year conditions you.  in the process of that year, i didn't exactly love every painting i did.  some were downright awful.  but the errors are a necessary part of the trials.  and so i don't censor my little basket of loose leaf watercolors that sits on a table in my store.  i let people see them all, thumb through them, for better or worse.  i let it all hang out, and they can decide what to make of it.

  usually, people respond in an overwhelmingly positive way.  today, a biker couple giggled over a painting of a smooshed pack of  cigs, "this one's perfect for you", said the woman clad in black leather, then finding the bic lighter painting that could possibly be paired with it.  another couple of youngsters whispered back and forth, "this is my favorite, no, this is my favorite....oh, this one could go over the bed".  it's funny, hearing the comments, hidden behind the counter, when nobody knows it's me that painted those pictures. and then there's the other side of the coin.  today, while james was working, some fella picked up a painting, showed his whole family, and remarked something to the effect of, "can you believe it?  sixty dollars for this!?! who would pay sixty dollars for this??", hastily throwing the paper back into it's basket.  now that, my friends, is more honest than a college critique or a review in the paper.  luckily, i don't really care.  to each their own.

 

for the love of trouble

oh, puppies.    last night they got into my yarn stash and tangled four skeins of the *expensive* yarn to holy hell.   it's hard to get mad at those cute little faces, those big sad eyes, but i do my obligatory reprimanding, theatrical stomping and a deep booming voice, shaking the yarn at them, asking sternly whooo did this?  was it youuuu?  i'm silently laughing to myself as they both hide under the bed, tails tucked, until i decide it's over.  somehow, they seem to know while they're doing something mischievous that they're in the act of being bad boys.  but they still grab at socks, every now and again, after ripping holes in many a heel.  they know it's wrong.  but it's a guilty pleasure, that stinky sock tastes so damn good!, and defines the bad boy mentality to the core:  getting into trouble is half the fun!  i know these patterns well, i've watched it unfold time and again: i've been surrounded by "bad boys" my entire life, including my father, who hides it fairly well in his work clothes, (but i know better), including my brother, who has somehow lived through and witnessed more than what could be seen in a season of Cops, including a large portion of my friends and including nearly every fella i've ever dated.  but that's part of why i love em, what i love about them.  hell, my mamma was no angel, and  neither am i.  and maybe that's why i've always been drawn to "rebels": i do deeply understand the desire to bend the rules, to break the rules, to make your own set of rules.  i don't always understand the rules in the first place, or how one small set of people can govern what is best for the "greater good" of all people.  some rules just don't apply to me, and so i ignore them.  maybe that makes me some kind of a rebel.  or maybe i'm just like my puppies.  maybe rebellion is just a part of nature, after all.

find the time

*

yesterday started out as an epic fail.  i painted my one-a-day, but i hated it.  i drank too much coffee, and got all fried out.  i was cold, and couldn't get warm.  the fire wouldn't start.  i felt too whiny to make breakfast.  for some reason, i felt paralyzed, helpless against the weight of the world, in an over-dramatic, woah is me sort of way.  and i guess, when it all came around, it was the usual gripe, the house is dirty, i miss my mom, and life is just sooo overwhelming.  yet somehow, magically (but just like every other time), the gentle coaxing of james and his total dedication to making things better turned the ship around, and by two o'clock we had managed to get going on some very necessary household management duties. we spent the remainder of the day cleaning and sorting piles, the piles that grow when you're just too damn busy trying to make a buck to spend any time on yourself.   spinning john prine and drinking cranberry wine, we sorted and swept and sucked the corners clean until we had made a serious dent in what sometimes seems like the bain of my existence: stuff.  and still, there's more where that came from!  who needs an armless mannequin?  a revolving darkroom door?  a kid-sized mattress? or an old chaise lounge?  certainly not me. now, if i could only find the time to figure out what to do with it all.

mama coyote

keep trying

*

i get jealous easily.  my mom used to too.  i get jealous of other people's accomplishments.  maybe it's human nature, but it's kind of embarrassing.  my mom, well, she was an overachiever, and so am i.  she was extremely competitive, and not just at yahtzee or scrabble, but at life.  she wanted everything to be perfect, exactly, and didn't stop at sub-par.  she wanted perfection so badly that it could be intense at times.  she would get real catty if someone achieved something that she wanted, or if somebody was a better artist than her.  it wasn't easy for her to admit failure.  nor is it for me.  it's not one of those qualities that i love about myself, but i do think i inherited it from her, and so i embrace it as something preciously human.  mom was a tough cookie, and that disguised her vulnerability well.  so i guess it's her that's still keeping me on my toes.  having a mother that's crossed over into spirit-hood is way more powerful than a nagging phone call or a guilty conscience.

I know i can't stop in the tireless pursuit of greatness, constantly working to better my skills.  because those skills don't work themselves.  and, honestly, it's not easy to get noticed out there.  mom tried for years to get her illustrations published in children's books, sending out packets upon beautiful packets, beating her head against one brick wall after another only to get no response.  i watched from the sidelines, cheering her on.  and so i guess maybe that runs in the family too.  just last month i got another politically polite refusal letter from another artist's grant award that i didn't win.  the first couple of times i cried.  but now, i'm used to it.  i've toughened up a little.  and i guess i realized, you can't win the big prize if you don't enter the race in the first place.  and so it goes:  try, try, and try again.

safety

*

Sometimes i dream of living in a simpler world.  I get fried out easily by the busyness of modern society, by the speed at which information and media proliferates.  More often than not, something on the internet finds it's way under my skin and can bug me for days. I get overwhelmed and burned out by traffic, consumer culture, and automobiles.  The buzz or flicker of a screen can really piss me off.  I want to yell STOP!  and have everything around me freeze until i say go.  but i know this idea of simplicity i have, well, it's just a matter of perspective.  

My late uncle earl used to reminisce often of his childhood at the turn of the century.  His life was anything but simple.  As a youngster, his sister fell ill from tuberculosis.  Without the aid of modern medicine, she died, leaving a lingering feeling of loneliness in Earl.  Della's son Cecil came to live with earls family, which added financial pressure during what was already a depressed time.  Earl delivered papers as a little boy to help support his family financially.  His first house had neither running water, nor electricity.  He told a story once of walking the family's cow the six long miles from Ferndale to Bellingham when the family moved.   I can hardly begin imagine that happening today.  I grew up with push button heat, a machine to wash the dishes, and a car to drive me around.   It reminds me to be thankful for what i have in this modern era, rather than resentful of what i don't have.  I know i get the privilege to choose how simple i want my life to be.

fantastic

commission

 Just the other day, James called me a "blue collar" artist.  It's true, he said insistently.  Who works the way you do?  And maybe it's true.  I paint by the hour, I paint commissions, I paint on the cheap, I paint by the people for the people.  I haven't exactly made it big by art world standards, or even had a major solo exhibit in a gallery, but in my own little world, i do believe i have made it.  I've made it because i don't have to clock in or answer to anyone but myself and my clients, most of whom are friends.  Its a good life.  And I believe it's the only sustainable way to make it as an artist without "striking gold", so to speak.  I mean, you do the math: in this shriveled economy, it's a hell of a lot easier to sell ten paintings at sixty bucks than one at six hundred.  And so that's how I roll.  I work like anyone else who works.  I don't need high prices to inflate my ego.  Nope.  Because painting is my job, and i'm fast, efficient, creative, and damn good at it.  Take today, for instance.  I whipped out this little ditty of a commission and then spent the remainder of the day hand-lettering a sign, in the sun with the chirping birds and the sleeping dogs, neighbors and friends stopping by to chat over the fence.  Fucking fantastic, i tell you.  Fucking fantastic.

lasting impressions

gosh, the last couple of days there has been a lot of weird energy swirling around.  sometimes, negativity surges and creates what feels like a vortex.  it's hard to get out unscathed.  

for example: last night, a fight broke out in the bar, at the door right behind my stool.  it seemed contagious, like wild fire, and soon, bystanders were throwing what seemed like unsolicited punches in undeserved and unsuspecting directions.  luckily, i wasn't hurt.  i just stayed in my seat and pretended to be invisible.  but that's not to say that it didn't affect me, or leave me feeling quite haunted.

and then today, i had some weird customers in the store.  i had a fighting couple, whining at each other like immature brats, in front of me and their kids.  and then there was the nasty lady, looking for something specific,  who seethingly remarked at our recommendation,"i don't go there, it smells like cat piss".  and that's just the tip of the iceberg.  

i try not to let that stuff bother me, let it roll off, shake it off, but i can't say that it doesn't affect me. because i'm pretty sensitive.  it leaves an impression, a lasting odor, like a skunk hit by a car and rotting in the ditch.  and most of all, it makes me wish people would just try to be nicer to each other.

effortlessness

*

sometimes it's easy to have a good day.   today was easy, and good.  i am thankful for those kind of days, the days where i don't worry, days that i breeze through.  last night, with a little wine to do the coaxing,  i gave my major soliloquy over a bag of chips in the kitchen.  i told my story to james, in a way i never really had during our ten years of being together.   i remembered me before: my teenage years, my coming of age, the fine details, the gritty details.  i remembered in ways which i hadn't in so long.   moments, so many moments i've shuffled into the closet like a pile of dirty laundry i didn't want to air out.   it feels nice to lighten the load a little,  to let some stuff out, and to enjoy the simplicity of my new life, my adult life,where my sole purpose is to live in the now, to be nice, and to enjoy the smiles of my neighbors, promises of kindness like the budding blossoms on an apple tree, as spring in the valley comes optimistically upon us all.

nuance

*

today in conversation, i was explaining why i started the one-a-day up again.  i compared it to exercise.  i found that when i worked out my "artist muscles" regularly by painting every day, it was easy.  i had a flow, and found that i worked faster and better than ever.  ideas kept coming, like the siphoning of a hose. but as soon as i stopped, i stopped. i took a long break, a six month break.  i hardly picked up a paintbrush, nor did i have any desire to.  trying to start again was nearly impossible, excruciating, painful, like the first day of athletic training after a long summer off.  i looked at other people's art longingly.  i was out of shape.  i had disappeared.  where had i gone?

needless to say, it feels good to be back in the saddle again.  the work is different, new.  it references all sorts of disparate influences throughout my life.  i feel more freedom to change from day to day.  i'm not so terrified by a blank canvas.  i don't need to paint it exactly how my eyes see it.  and more than ever, i see my mom coming through, clear as a bell, in the nuances i've developed, the tricks i learned as a little girl watching over her shoulder, as she carved in ivory or washed in watercolor.  no mom, i haven't forgotten.   i'm just beginning to realize, to see her influences carved into me, in the same way the ocean carves the sandstone rock walls: slowly, yet determinedly, dramatically, over time.

taking care

 

my best ideas come when i'm least expecting it, usually when i'm driving or drifting off to sleep or doing something so entirely consuming i can't stop a minute to make note of it.  it's hard to hang on to those ideas, they seem to drift out of sight like dandelion seeds in the wind.  but sometimes they stick around, sometimes they grow on me.  these days, i carry a calendar around as an insurance policy. each day has a set of empty lines and each idea gets marked down so i don't lose track of it.  i go back often, retrieve seeds of ideas, put them together, they develop into paintings or projects or lists that get me from here to there. it seems to work, making my somewhat hodge-podge of a professional life more productive than it's ever been.

 even still, i have my moments.  today, i found myself trying to do too many things at once, remember too many things at once.  i opened my trusty notebook while driving windy old chuckanut, struggled one-handed to find a pencil in the bottom of my bottom-less bag.  the radio was blarin and i was rockin out, singing along, in an anthemic "TAKIN CARE OF BUSINESS, EVERY DAY!"  do you ever find that when you try to do too much at once, you get nothing done at all, or worse yet, you fuck shit up because you're in a hurry?  it happens.  but as mr. ben franklin said himself: an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.  stop it,  i had to say to myself.  slow the fuck down.  concentrate on one thing at a time.

i remember you

i remember it well.  meeting james was like meeting a wild animal face to face.  he was of the untamed sort, a free-thinking kind of fella, going about life in his own way, distinctly.   perfect for a girl like me, having grown up mostly protected and sheltered in a suburban kind of way, i was looking for someone outside of the box of normalcy, distinctly.   i was looking for an adventure, and i knew i had found it.  james, well, he was full of surprises, full of stories and ideas.  he lived in the moment, moment to moment, and was the first man i had ever met who was entirely self-employed, lived the way he wanted to live, by his own set of rules.  he was different.

james had holes in his jeans, holes in the elbows of his sweaters, holes in the floor and windows of his house where the air came through.  he wasn't afraid.  the edge of his hat was threadbare and worn, the color obscured by the years of "environment" it had collected.  james didn't give a fuck what people thought.  he had the biggest bluest eyes i had ever seen, full of fire and ferocity.  and i knew: i didn't have a chance.

on one of our first hangouts, james gave me the smallest cd i had ever seen, decorated with a tiny star in sharpie marker.  the cd held two songs, both of which he had written and recorded himself, alone in a yurt on an island i hadn't yet been to.  i listened, and listened again.  the music moved me in the way that only some music does.  and i knew: i didn't have a chance.

certain music, well it just becomes the soundtrack of your life.  those days, i listened to a lot of screeching weasel, rentals, the anniversary and misfits on my walk up the hill to school.  i never wore socks, always wore short pants so you could see my ankles.  i had bleach blond hair that was four inches long, wore studded belts, tried to be rock and roll before i knew what that meant.  i listened to elliott smith and the pixies while painting some of my first paintings.  and ten years ago, james played me neutral milk hotel. from then on, i couldn't get enough.   it was our soundtrack.

 last night, seeing jeff mangum in the flesh, hearing him play those songs i knew by heart, it all came flooding back. 

simplicity

*

i'm starting to figure it out.  how to live right, that is.  or rather, how to take care of business.  and how not to drive myself crazy with minutia.  it's not so complicated, but somehow, it's always eluded me.  here, i'll give you an example:  

i was tired of washing dishes.  we don't have a dishwasher, we do it all by hand.  it seemed to me that every day they piled up: in the sink, on the counter, everywhere.  especially silverware. and no matter how hard i tried to stay on top of it, it was like a plague.  the pile would grow and grow.  in a tiny kitchen, this just doesn't work.  so i started to observe my own behavior.  what i found was: every morning, when i went to use a fork to mix the cat food, i grabbed it from the drawer and then tossed it in the sink.  so i thought to myself:  lets get to the root of this problem.  i went through every cupboard and drawer, and filled a big box with give-aways.  things i didn't need.  things that were redundant.  i kept a small set of silverware in the drawer, four forks, four spoons and four knives, and hid some extras away, just  in case of company.  and now, suddenly, it's much easier to do the dishes.  

in short, this lesson can be applied to many areas of life.

1) simplify.

2) repeat as necessary.

coffee colored

*

it rained all day.  the water collected in the low spots in the yard and the ducks mucked around in it like they do.   i felt at home in the rain, quieted by the rain, thankful for the rain to douse last nights inaugural campfire.  i walked the dogs by the river, just me and my coffee, the river mimicking the color of my coffee with almond milk, the way it is when the water collects mud and silt on its way down down down the hills.  the grass is tall enough now that the water sneaks up, wicks into my rolled up jeans and somehow down into my boots.  i don't mind, no.  neither do the dogs, soaked the bone.  they were happy to be wrestling,  skirting and darting in the grass, little daredevils, the grass tall enough to hide their bodies, one tackle and tumble after another.   i wore the raincoat and the mud boots, my northwest washington uniform, but took the hood off so i could hear the sound of water hitting the ground and the rivers surface.  i always notice how people flinch and contort their faces in the rain, as if they don't like the rain.  i don't do that. i like the rain.  i was born here.  i belong here.  it just makes sense.

day of rest

*

by the time five o'clock sunday rolls around, i am darn ready to close the store and get outside.  after working my retail shifts, smiling my special "only for customers" smile, so much so that i fear my face might get stuck that way, i am pretty eager to get back to my sunshine and shovel, my dirt, my weeding and turning of new garden beds, to get my hands black in the mud.  by sunday at five, i am ready for the tourists to go home, to stop peeking over my fence, ready for them to give me my town back, and for the busy streets full of shiny black expensive cars and gurgling harley davidsons to be empty again, so i can walk my dogs down the center line, in a yes i live here, thank you sort of way.  yeah, sure, i depend on tourism.  but that dependency is a double-edged sword.  sometimes it's hard not to resent the situation, feeling like an monkey at a zoo begging for a measly peanut from passerby.  thankfully, sunday always brings monday, the quietest day, a day of rest. 

the road home

*

there is something breathtaking about the way the dandelions glow, sun shining, in a fat stripe along both sides of farm to market road, something that makes it so hard to believe the dandelion is considered a weed.  sure, it's hard to make them "go away" entirely.  their root systems dig deeply into the most barren landscapes, making the dandelion a bit of a renegade, a survivor, popping up again and again, seemingly strengthened by every futile attempt to dig it up and weaken its spirit, sneakily breaking off at the root to leave just a bit behind.  

  it's one of the first flowers to bloom around here, and a much needed burst of yellow among the drab washed out greys of winter.  i've seen many a honey bee collecting pollen from those blooms, and it makes me wonder why i ever pull them out in the first place.  we as humans are illogical like that, i suppose.  someone decided one day that the dandelion was a pest to their immaculate lawn of uninterrupted velvet green, and from that day forward, billions upon billions of dollars have gone into chemical potions designed to decimate the dandelions.  for what reason? some sort of manifest destiny, some lofty ideal of perfection.  but to me, the dandelion epitomizes perfection.  i always think to myself, when the world goes to shit, when shit hits the fan, it's the dandelions, the thistles and the morning glory, the rats and crows and seagulls, the pests and underdogs of nature that will make it through alive.

the future

*

the puppies are learning.  potty-training, sitting, laying down, and staying.  the word no in deep booming voice.  what good boy means.  and they can almost fetch.  during a sunny day in the backyard, i throw a chunk of a stick.  they will run for it, clumsily, enthusiastically pick it up, it fills up their entire mouth.  they bring it halfway to me, then get distracted by the other's antics, dropping the stick entirely to chew on their brothers ear or hind leg.

sometimes i am like that puppy, getting halfway to the finish line of some project before dropping it entirely to pursue something else.  

having puppies has taught me many things, but one thing for sure:  set lots of goals,  but set small goals.  set attainable goals, write them down.  cross them off, one at a time.  and most of all, slow down, for all good things come in time, with patience.  and some day, a long long time from now, you will look back on it all thinking how it went by in just the blink of an eye.

signs and signals

*

 I'm one of those people who searches for signals and signs from the universe to guide me through my day to day.   This, in a nutshell, is why i'm starting up the project again.  Let me explain.

Just yesterday, James and I were walking the puppies in the fallow and marshy duck fields a couple miles from home.  It was a normal walk, just like any other walk, except it was sunny and warm, the novel feeling of spring after a hard winter, with a sudden show of dainty wildflowers as far as the eye could see.  Otherwise, it was just like any other walk, with our two four-month old puppies, sunny-boy the color of a roasted marshmallow, flopping enthusiastically into the black green rank-smelling drainage ditch, and samish, the tri-color, eating leftover rodent entrails left by some feral yet picky eater.  

Our morning walks are where we talk, get some fresh air, hash things out.  So i was discussing the possibility of starting up the one-a-day project again.  Walking south towards the sun and our trusty van,  talking, talking, and suddenly something takes flight! We had spooked a short-eared owl, just five feet away, nearly scaring me out of my pants, unmistakeably weightless in the air under the power of its wings.   Continuing, we spooked another, this one so close i could feel the wind of its wings.  It was then i knew.  

I looked down to find a nest in the grass with two precious white eggs.  Magic. We quickly corralled the dogs and headed out as fast as we could, making sure the owls could resume brooding over those delicate and vulnerable eggs.  And it was then that i knew. I knew it was time, time to resume, to start the next chapter of my story.

365 days

warrior

we are what we repeatedly do. excellence, then, is not an act but a habit

-aristotle

i've done it, folks.  one year ago, i set a goal, a lofty one at that, and today i reached it. sure, i've flubbed a few times, complained a lot, blurred the requisites, moaned and groaned, but in the end, i pretty much stuck to it, made it work: one painting a day, for one year.  it's not a new idea; i know it's been done before.  but as a result of this project, a revolution happened inside of me.  i showed myself what i am capable of.  i healed many old wounds.  i found my voice.  "practice what you know, and it will help to make clear what now you do not know" said rembrandt.  through this journey of daily practice, i have learned some of the most valuable lessons life has to offer, lessons in self-discipline, motivation, communication, self-expression, creativity, humility, grief, healing, community, progress, persistence, accomplishment, and ambition.  today, one year later, i am a better version of me, and for that, i am so completely grateful.

looking back over this year, oh how it flew by... i realize: it took this magnitude of project to dig me out  from the sooty black ashes of my own grief over losing my mother.  today, looking back, i'm happier than i've ever been, and this project is to thank.  my daily practice brought me back...back to my mother, and back to life... to the legacy of a life lived through art, a life that endures, a life that extends far beyond our own mortal boundaries.

i have a lot of people to thank.  i'd like to thank my husband james, who has been a shining star throughout: his patience with my mood swings, his gentle encouragements holding me accountable, his pride in me that keeps me striving to be better, and his valiant rescue efforts whenever i'd fall.   i couldn't have done it without him.  and i'd like to thank you, my readers, my friends, my family, all of you out there: for your interest and support and love and investment in me.  because it takes a village....if people didn't care life wouldn't be worth living, art wouldn't be worth making.  but most of all, i have my mother to thank.  she's the one that badgered me to start it in the first place, years ago, you should do that jessie she said one day when we were sitting on the couch together snuggled under a blanket, looking through someone else's one-a-day on a little laptop screen.  because sometimes, it takes a push start to get the motor running.  and inspiration doesn't come out of thin air; it's the tree that grows tall and broad to shade us on a hot day, the flowers that bloom to feed the bees and produce fruit, its the fruit that feeds us, then falls to the ground to rot, the fruit that bears seed from which new life is born.  and creativity, it's the water of life, the ice that melts from the snow capped mountains, flows to the river that is breeding ground for the fishes, the river that winds through, finding the low spots, to feed the fields and water the coyotes, the water that flows to sea to become home for us all.  these are the things we must not keep for ourselves.  these are the things we must nurture, and share.  these are the things that keep us alive and well.  inspiration and creativity, our lifeblood, our sustenance.

you might wonder what's next for me.  as i've mentioned before, i have a long list.  it's a looooong list.  i plan to keep this blog going with regular posts on my creative endeavors...so as to keep me accountable.  and so we don't lose touch with one another.  it's a long road behind me.  it's a long road ahead.

thanks for everything.  i love you, i really do.

snow goose saga: part 5

just then, we saw jim and his wife crossing the bridge.  they were dropping pieces of bread down into the water for the geese, a daily ritual.  the two large geese clamored to get to the bread.  at very the same moment, a group of seven kayakers came out from under the bridge,surprising us all from out of nowhere, all geared up in fancy bright brand new kayaks, laughing and chattering loudly.  in a frenzy to get the bread, the large geese pecked fiercely at the smaller geese.  the three small geese, spooked by the cacophany, took flight.  as you know, these geese aren't the most graceful fliers.  barely two feet off of the surface of the water, they flew over the kayakers riding the incoming tide.  the birds, circling, accidentally brushed them with their feet and wings.  the kayakers, afraid, yelled loudly, spooking the geese further.  one put up a paddle in "self-defense" and knocked a goose into the water.  that goose attacked me! he screamed once and then twice, frantically splashing with his paddle at the helpless floating goose swimming towards him in the water, surrounded by kayakers with nowhere to go.  knock it off!  leave the goose alone! get the hell out of here and go back to where you came from!  jim yelled at the kayakers from the bridge.  the goose flew again, narrowly missing a swing from the paddle, back to the muddy banks, to land invisible somewhere in the tall grass.  my heart was in my throat, beating hard, and i had been holding my breath for who knows how long.  are they okay? i asked james. i think so he said, as the third goose struggled to find its way through the tall grass to meet the others on the bank.

snow goose saga: part 4

we drove to the river bridge and parked in the gravel off to the side, then walked to the bridge to stake out the scene.  there, we saw the two resident domestic ducks, big and fat and stately brown and white with orange feet, standing in the muddy low-tide banks of the river.  right next to them, dwarfed by their stature, stood two grey geese, exact replicas of the one we had in our backyard.  bingo!  we pulled the kennel out of the van, went down to the bank opposite of where they were at.  we held our breath, and opened the door.  the goose was confused.  he must have not see them.  he didn't get it at all.  he tried to walk the wrong way, up the bank.  we were panicked he would fly away before reuniting with his family, so we put him back in the kennel and walked him over to the other side to try again.  and again, we held our breath. and again, we opened the door.  this time, the goose saw his kind.  everyone stretched their necks up and honked.  it was a happy reunion.  then, all five geese went back to their business pecking at the mud, as if nothing had happened at all.  

snow goose saga: part 4

the day went on, and that rage-filled guy with the stick never came.  it was a relief.  i wasn't sure what i would have done had he seen the goose napping in my grass, had he wanted to hop my fence and pound that goose into oblivion.  but i do know it wouldn't have been pretty.  my hunch is, he wouldn't have won.  he would have run away screaming bloody murder.  because i do have a dark side, a fierce and protective mother lioness in there.  when tempted, she will pounce.  not to mention, i happen to prefer the company of animals to humans, thank you very much.

the day went on, but we were all pretty shook up by the turn of events.  we couldn't shake that creepy feeling.  was the goose dangerous?  not to us.  but it was a wild animal, and that was inarguable.  i watched as the ducks and goose started to bicker over access to a water bowl.  as an answer, i filled a large enamel roast pan.  the goose promptly got in, one foot and then another, until it was swimming....sort of.  this is ridiculous, i thought.  the goose filled the entire baking pan in a moment of dumb irony.  and then, in an attempt to dip down and bathe, the goose flipped entirely upside down!  it was awfully awkward, and all too apparent that the goose needed a water body, not just a twenty inch roast pan.  i picked it up and set it in the ducks' pool.  there, it bathed much like the ducks do, fluffing and dipping and flipping all about, splashing water everywhere.  it was a lovely sight, but even the kiddie pool seemed too small for that growing young goose.

the goose, freshly cleaned, got out and began preening.  pato and gonzo, curious as to what this bird was doing in their pool, this was their turf after all, approached the goose.  more confident than ever, the goose reached out and bit pato's hind feathers.  and at that moment, it was clear that the goose had the strength to seriously injure one of our ducks if it wanted to.  we had to do something.  we had to take the goose somewhere.

we studied our options.  wolf hollow wildlife sanctuary?  too far away, and the bird wasn't injured.  Cornet Bay, where we knew there were lots of resident geese? still too far... it seemed like the closer the better, considering that the goose might be on its home turf.  James had a hunch that someone local had released some juvenile geese for future hunting seasons.  We settled on the mouth of the Samish River, where we knew there were some domestic geese living, and good habitat to boot, put the goose into a kennel, and hopped in the van.