Friday Letters

In my painting group, we have been talking about color theory in depth. It has been refreshing and grounding to return to the fundamentals of color. Last night after work, I entered the studio. Rather than dive into a painting, I started by pre-mixing 5 tints (color + white ) and 5 shades  (color + black) with a cool and warm version of yellow, red, and blue. The frustrations that I had kept with me from work began to melt as I focused on this straightforward task of mixing colors. After some time, I had a full palette with rows of colors moving from light to dark. I decided to take a small old panel and experiment with a palette knife rather than a brush. What you see above is the result. Pre-mixing colors opened up a new way of working for me. The painting itself became secondary.

Recently we had a good friend visit unexpectedly. It was such a treasure to see and spend time with him. During his visit he shared a book with me that has completely captured my attention, The Wild Edge of Sorrow, by Francis Weller.

 

It is wise, powerful and clear. It discusses grief in a way that is useful and grounded.

 

I want to spend this letter addressing sorrow, loss, and grief. In our culture, grief is an orphan.

My last Friday Letter about ma - or the energetic open space between things - has acted as a bell, brining my attention towards vast fields of space found amidst, well…amidst everything. I am observing how people sit together but separate at cafes, immersed in their phones with voluminous blankets of air and white noise between them. I see space invisibly hugging trees, bending around buildings, shifting clouds. I see the space between shadows of leaves casting a luminous pattern on the wall in my bedroom at night.

Ma

 

Two letters.

 

One sound.

 

A Japanese word that describes the fundamental forces in this world — the energized space between things, a pause.

 

This simple but oh so powerful word came to me in the middle of the night. 

 

 

Dandelions.

 

This little “weed” made my week. I decided to do a quick line drawing one afternoon of a bright, golden, fully in bloom dandelion. I felt like I entered the cosmos. Starting in the center and moving outwards, my pen traced the extraordinary unfolding of each petal. The next day I took that drawing and put it in a small 3x3 inch frame and hung it up. Every day I look at this little drawing and feel just so damn happy. This little exercise illuminated to me why I love art.

 

 

This week I had some pretty wonderful experiences and I attribute them to the discussions from my walking class, walking itself, and bringing my studio outside.

 

In class, we discussed two words: rupture and open. Students shared their experiences of rupture from the week before. It was extraordinary to hear all of the ways that paying attention to ruptures - from physical interruptions, to emotional or mental interruptions, to breaks or ruptures seen within nature - all contributed to a heightened awareness. There was something powerful about addressing these ruptures and giving them a little space to breathe. I observed both a dismantling of their power and a recognition of the gifts they can bring.

 

I am struggling to write this letter, and I am not exactly sure why. There has been an extraordinary spurt of growth - a return to the rhythm of the studio, a daily walk to center myself and my thoughts, an engaged and excited group of students for my Walking as Meditation course. And yet, I have been sitting up staring at a blank space unable to gather the thread for this letter. It is probably mostly because what feels real in my heart is not what I want to say publicly. I am editing before I even start.

I had the experience this week of working in the studio and feeling energized and strong. It began to feel nourishing again. I remembered the wisdom of making, of using painting to explore, to create, to attune with my soul. It felt empowering.

In preparation for my new class Walking as Meditation, [starting this Sunday April 7th] I have been walking daily. And it is changing everything. The simple rhythm of my foot steps. The sound of my heartbeat. Birds. Cars. The cacophony of my over-thinking brain beginning to stretch and slow to allow space for a little bit of presence. A return to my body. I designed this course because I needed it. And I am already shocked at the benefit.

Friends, I haven’t written for the last two Fridays as my dad entered into hospice care at the end of January. He passed away peacefully at home this Wednesday evening, the 21st of February. It was an extraordinary last few days spent with family. It was clear that this made his departure both gentle and graceful. A few days before, feeling the weight of what I knew was coming, I wrote these words that I would like to share with you today.

This week I picked up a book half finished from last year, Fires in the Dark, Healing the Unquiet Mind, by Kay Redfield Jamison. And I wondered why I had ever put it down. This is an extraordinary meditation on moving through the depths of pain, sorrow and the difficulties of being human. Jamison scans the history of the Western mind, pulling wisdom from scholars and healers through the ages. She also shares her personal journey healing from manic depression, making the book real and approachable. As she walked me through the canyons of her own sorrow, I appreciated her honesty and vulnerability in recognizing the courage and stamina it takes to first face and then heal pain and mental suffering.

And then I turned the page.

Today I am reflecting on communication and the power of words. Talking and writing. Two forms of communication that are so interwoven into our daily existence that it is easy to overlook just how powerful they are in creating our worlds. In my experience, talking, particularly speaking directly from the heart, is something that has not come easily to me. Even simple things like calling a stranger to ask for information or asking more questions at the doctor’s office to clarify a diagnosis, or asking for help in any form is something that I have resisted most of my life. That somehow I should have already known the answer or figured it out or not had the right to belong to whatever world words required of me to interact with the situation at hand. And these are basic levels of communication, stuff that has a pretty low level of risk. Add to that mix speaking to loved ones about things that are close to my heart and I have found a myriad of ways over the course of my life to avoid such endeavors.

As I scanned through images for this week’s letter, this painting study I created last year at about this time spoke to me. I was drawn to the muted, quiet colors and shapes. An internal landscape of steadiness. It is a small study, but one that feels deserving of further exploration and expansion. It speaks of cultivating inner quiet. Maybe it is a return to the Pacific Northwest and its diffuse light that has pulled me inward again. A desire to grow inner peace as the world continues to become over-heated and embroiled in conflict.

I am in Colorado this week spending time with my parents. As I was sorting through images to select for this week’s letter, I was drawn to this painting created just before we left Colorado and moved to Washington. What strikes me about it now is how it captures the colors and mood of the weather most days here in the PNW. As I think of the start of the year, I am suddenly intrigued to consider geography and navigation as reference points to chart a path for 2024. Usually I am obsessed with creating goals. But this painting got me thinking about geography instead and how location and our surroundings dramatically impact who we are and what we become.

Beauty and loss

 

Death is a mystery that we walk towards. A contract of being human, our life is defined by the two bookends, our birth and our death. And that is a beautiful contract.

It has been good to pause. In the last few weeks, I feel shifts moving within me that are generative. Stepping back from a number of things, including Friday Letters, has opened up space for me to observe and discern what I need to cultivate and what I need to let go of. I have listened to Krista Tippet’s interview with John O’Donohue multiple times. His words continue to impact me, nourishing my soul and providing an unexpected north star to my thinking. I have included a link to the talk at the bottom of the letter if you didn’t get a chance to listen last time. Of all of the poetics that sung out of O’Donohue’s mouth, this phrase - “Beauty as calling” - has stuck with me the most.

At the bookstore, I ran into a lovely customer in Poulsbo from Arizona for the weekend to photograph a wedding. Right after the store opened, he came in and asked for a recommendation for a place to grab breakfast or a coffee. Later in the day, he returned to ask if we had the following book:

Anam Cara, A Book of Celtic Wisdom by John O'Donohue

On Wednesday, a customer purchased A Philosophy of Walking. As I was ringing out her purchase she said “walking saved my life.” I wish I would have asked her more about that powerful statement. But yesterday, I understood a glimpse of what she meant. Walking put me in the rhythm of reality. It centered me and it heightened my awareness of the world. Drawing does the same for me. They are both tools that are right there, ready for me to use at anytime.

Summer is at its peak here in Washington. The rose bush I nervously cut back in April has bloomed an abundant number of gorgeous pink and orange flowers. Small pears appear on the tree we mistakenly thought was apple. Everything is a verdant green, despite the drying heat and sunny skies. The temperature is hot but stable. There is a sense of fullness to the long days. The sky begins to shift towards a pale blue as early as 4 a.m. and the last vestiges of light remain until after 10 p.m.

It is 3:30am. I am awake. My thoughts of sensibly writing this letter in the morning are surrendered to the night. It is so still. So quiet. There is magic in this time. As I wander downstairs to settle into writing, I am inspired to take a photo of the view outside. I am surprised by the snapshot, that somehow it captured the stars along with the night sky. When I look up at the split of a starry sky held between the dense tall trees, my perspective is cracked open. Wonder of the world that exists when all are asleep.

What is art about?  Why do paintings matter?  These are questions I ask myself daily, so as to be ever clear about the purpose of my craft and the worthiness of my devotion.  Today I was reading Joseph Campbell's Goddesses, Mysteries of the Feminine Divine and in his typical clear and illuminated way, he explained exactly what painting and art is all about.  In the history of humans, image making is core to our essence.  We have made images in a multitude of forms, often representing deities. What is the function of this image making?  Of this deity representation?  

Hello,

How are each of you?

Discernment: the ability to judge well

Discernment: (Christian context) perception in the absence of judgment with a view to obtaining spiritual guidance and understanding.

Hello,

 

How are each of you?

 

Last week I sent a bit of a mystery with my 3-2-1 format of three colors, 2 words, 1 question. This week I'd like to fill in the details!

 

 

 

 

 

How are each of you? What a change we have experienced in such a short amount of time! This letter is to reach out and provide some general updates from my studio as well as a bit of inspiration to hopefully keep your spirits up during this time.

This is the first edition in a series of "Friday Letters." It comes from a PDF I downloaded yesterday from Jamie Varon about how to work from home. She mentioned that she has been sending out Friday Letters as a regular practice for many years and I loved the idea. So here is your first letter, from me to you! If you want the work from home survival guide, the download link is below!