I’ve been working on wrapping up the paintings for my upcoming book that’s coming out in October.  My graphic designer and I are working through the manuscript layout now. I’ve been away from it for a long time. Scrolling through, I flashed on a very specific moment in the ICU with my late husband, Dan . . .

The brain likes representational art because we are wired to recognize patterns. We like looking at a painting of the beach as it directly calls up our beach memories and experiences . . .

This past week marked my late husband's birthday and death anniversary. They're only a week apart . . .

I loved my old life with my late husband. I was incredibly well loved by an amazing man with whom I was deeply in love and I had known nearly all my life . . .

There’s a full two-page spread in my sketchbook that says in huge letters, “IF YOU DON’T LIKE YOUR MARKS, YOU HAVE TO MOVE DIFFERENTLY.” What a breakthrough! I can’t believe something so simple could be so transformative in my painting practice . . .

So many find themselves caught up in the exhaustion of grief or despair. We might be numb or just worn out or plain depressed. I’m all for the miracle of modern medicine for those who need it, certainly, but sometimes I wonder if grief is so socially unacceptable that we call it depression . . .

After my late husband died, deep grief left me unable to enjoy almost anything. Nothing served as entertainment. I had no attention span for movies, books, or even television show series. Nothing worked. Even music wasn’t safe. The only thing I could stand was to sit outside, mostly by myself . . .

I cultivate deep, intimate relationships. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea and that’s ok. I just sort them out early. It’s not that everything has to be heavy all the time, but relationships are the only thing that matters on this earth . . .

New life started long before I could see it. It might even start before you’re aware that your old life is over. It’s shocking, overwhelming, and uncomfortable to get thrown out of your old life. I knew the moment my old life was over . . .

I paint the same way I live. I play the best hand I’m dealt. It’s a balance between technique and skill and what just happens on the canvas. I love the organic nature of the paint and embrace how the paint wants to behave. The canvas and I have a call-and-response type of relationship. The first explorations of any painting are full of expression and possibility . . .

How do you protect your creative energy? My husband, Edwin, noticed that he can ask me how I’m doing and I might even say I’m fine--I’m not even yet aware that I’m not fine. But he knows that when I’m not making art, I’m not really fine no matter what I say. That was a revelation to me. Art is the first thing to go and when it goes . . .

Painting has ebbed and flowed during different seasons over my entire life. In 2016 I decided to pursue painting more and invited a few of my dearest friends to join me in a painting class for my birthday. It was such fun to experience making art through the lens of each person. There were tremendous therapeutic benefits of painting through years of my late husband’s multiple health crises and eventual death. At first, I painted to distract myself from grief. I just toyed around a bit. I distracted myself with more supplies and fancier paints . . .

Comfort is a gift, I truly believe that, but it can also steal from us. It lulls us into thinking we have more time than we do. It robs us from taking action when we should. It keeps us from being vulnerable and telling the truth. It stunts our growth and imprisons us in our patterns. Sometimes I think we worship comfort. I watch people prioritize it over EVERYTHING and that scares me . . .

Finding order in times of chaos is a driving need for me. It’s true in my art and it’s true in my life. In an art sense, order brings me focus. It helps me remember what I love. Moving the eye around a canvas is the goal, but too many similar things in a painting confuse the focus. The constant question I hold the closest is what do I want the viewer to see?

Once I got thrown into this new life, I tumbled about for a bit. I think everyone does when they are cast into a new life. It is so overwhelming! Nothing is the same and I was so raw over it. Every single thing hurt.

Crisis is so hard. It takes SO MUCH energy to navigate. The constant demand. The fear of the unknown. The need to pay such incredibly close attention. It’s exhausting. I got news yesterday that a friend from college, waiting for a liver transplant, just had her 6th liver fail. Six times she’s prepared and hoped and prayed and then nothing. Still waiting. Still praying. Still hoping.

It’s a fresh new year. Maybe you find yourself in this new year with an entirely new life. Maybe you got kicked out of your old life – divorce, death of a loved one, loss of a job or career. It feels terrible. Everything hurts and feels unfamiliar. You need recovery time for sure, but that FIRST year is a tough one. All your comforts and all your habits are up for grabs. They don’t necessarily work anymore or maybe they just don’t feel good because they remind you of what you don’t have.

I spent some of my fall gathering good sticks and pinecones, milkweed pods, bird and wasp nests, dried sunflower heads, driftwood, and other bits of nature to live with us in our home. I filled my Christmas tree and decorations with it. I will keep some of those special little treasures in the house through my wintering.