I Built a Fairy House

Early this year I received an email inviting me to participate in an annual fairy art exhibition at Sands Point, NY. Last year I did a painting titled “The Bird Fairy” and this year I thought, I’d really love to build a fairy house which is something I’ve wanted to do for many years. Since I was a kid, I’ve always loved all things having to do with elves and fairies and even named my first cat Tinkerbell.

When I began to think of how to design and construct the fairy house, ideas came to mind. Biomorphic shapes, rounded forms. Drawing them out didn’t really help as I just couldn’t figure out how my drawings could be translated into material form and built to stand on their own. This is when I placed some materials on a table and just began to play. Like the intuitive process when I paint or dance, I let it be spontaneous and allowed things to form on their own. That is when it took shape.

The exhibition has strict rules about using only natural materials on the exterior. The inner structure can be made of anything, but whatever is seen with the eye has to be items from nature and nothing that is picked or killed (a rule I really like). Luckily, as I began the house, whenever I went out for walks in nature I found a lot of downed branches, leaves, and bark. We had had a lot of wind storms over the past few months and after each one I went out and found parts to add to my house. I did purchase some dried moss and a bouquet of small magenta roses on sale after Valentine’s day, but mostly everything else were things I already had or found.

There were times I almost gave up because it felt like a puzzle I couldn’t solve. Seriously, my brain was aching at times and I often had to take a few days off from working on it. The amount of detail and the time put into piecing together each little area felt overwhelming, but as it came together and I felt such peace in the work, and peace in sitting and simply gazing at it, a dwelling I was building, the joy of it lead the way to finishing it. I love this house.

When I entered it into the Fairy House Invitational, the form asked what the name of the house is. I came up with one name that was not quite right, and then thought about the way the house feels and came up with the name Treacle Chirp Cottage. It feels very right. The fairy house stands about two feet tall and it is large but light to lift.

And it lifted me to make. After having gone through a depression over the winter, I really needed something to focus on that reminded me of my abilities as I continue to heal from the strokes. I think this house helped me in many ways and I’ll miss it while it’s at the exhibition in May. At the same time, I hope it makes people feel the same sense of comfort, sweetness, and magic that it makes me feel.

A few posts ago I wrote someplace that I could use a little fairy magic. Well, it wasn’t long after I wrote that, that the email came with the invitation to enter the fairy art exhibition. If we call out, even with just our hearts, there is always an answer. There is a whole big wide world out there and in many corners of it are lovely people planning beautiful, whimsical things. Mr. Rogers said, “Look for the helpers.” I say, look for the helpers, the artists, the creatives, the healers, and the dreamers. Or just let your heart call to them, as I did. Then there will be a doorway open to some of the most wondrous things.

Art and Identity

Here I am circa 1990 or ‘91 wearing my painting pants and holding my cat Daisy. Those pants a few years later would be immortalized when my boyfriend at the time rescued them from the trash and had a 12” x 12” square of them framed in an elaborate gold frame as a gift for me. Friends always said the painting pants looked like art themselves.

This is a photo of me that one of my dearest friends posted on her social media page (which I later saw) after I had strokes in January 2022. It was scary for all of us, and that makes me so sad but also grateful that there are a few who care about me that much. This is the photo, of all photos of me there have been. She chose this one. Maybe because this one clearly says “artist”. That is how most people think of me. But these days I’m not sure how to think of myself. After the strokes, my first thing was to move my right hand and see if the ability to draw was still there. It was, thankfully, even though it is not how it used to be. Not quite precise and more easily tired. Painting was another thing that called, as it was something I’d done for decades and suppose Artist is the main title I can claim, above all others. So painted I did, and many circles. They are here in their own gallery on my website, all from 2022. Did I paint because I wanted to or because it was what I knew best?

Who are we, really? Are we what we do? What happens if our abilities change, or our desire for them diminishes… what then are we? The technical skills are still there after decades of doing it, and the little callous at the top of my right middle finger from holding pencils and brushes which I was so proud to get in my mid teenage years as a symbol of the dedication to my craft. Suppose I’m seeking, as I feel so very, very different and some people who know me don’t want to see me identifying with being a stroke survivor, and all of them want to see me happy.

But that’s the thing. I AM a stroke survivor and there is no weakness in saying that, especially because I’m saying it not from a place of victimhood, but from a place of strength, power, and resilience. When I led my first flute workshop at a local assisted living facility last year, walked in with my cane, spoke slowly and simply, told the residents I was a stroke survivor and then proceeded to lead the presentation from a powerful stance with the intention of empowering them as well, if they were open to it, it made a difference. People came up to me afterward to thank me. One lady walked with her walker and asked if she could hug me. She said I helped her and gave her hope because she had had a stroke too and she was teary and said she was scared and I knew EXACTLY how she was feeling and yet told her to have hope and that we can still heal. This is why I tell people I am a stroke survivor. It helps others to see if I can do what I am doing and that I haven’t given up, they don’t have to give up either. I’m a stroke survivor and watch what I can do, wobbly as I am, visibly diminished from the abilities I used to have, still going every single day as best as I can. The flute program was just one example. I’m a flute player. I’m an artist. I’m a stroke survivor who continues to move through what I’m feeling, believing somehow (hoping, sometimes barely by a thread) that my life might make a difference somehow in this crazy messed up world.

So as I struggle to figure out who I am now and who I am becoming as I continue to heal and change day to day… sure, I am an artist… sure, I am a flute player… sure, I am still a shamanic practitioner… but the catchall label that seems to fit best is stroke survivor, because everything else gets filtered through that. And there it is, and here I am. Hello, who are you? I am a stroke survivor.

A Bilious Wind, Expression of the Dark

This is one of my recent paintings, mostly finished. It emerged in a torrent one night after having struggled intensely with emotional distress… about my own issues (mostly health) and about the state of the world and its wars. This is a painting about war.

I have never seen a war in the way most people think of war when they hear the word. But there are obvious wars between countries, and then there are internal wars. Struggles with memories of past hurts and losses that come to the forefront of the consciousness so vividly and quickly that it feels like yesterday and all manner of fears and pains result from these triggers. This is what prompted me one night to pick up a brush.

No need for me to go into particulars about my internal wars, my “dark night of the soul”, and anyone who might actually read this won’t need to be further informed, as I’ve already shared so much in my writing here. One thing I will say is that art is a powerful healer. Healing doesn’t necessarily mean that everything is pretty and safe and all better now with unicorns and rainbows dancing about. Real, true, deep healing means going into the dark places, the darkest spaces, the most painful spots within and instead of covering them up with a smile, to dive deep deep deep into the dark water, wrestle with what is found there, face it head on, feel whatever comes up for us without judgment, with compassion, and work our way through it all. Art is my way to do that.

Darkness needs a place to go. If we hold it inside, not only will it take a toll on our mental and physical health, but it might come out in ways we wouldn’t choose it to, For instance, people who start wars - the big kinds of wars, attacking other human beings, embracing violence, and committing genocide. We’ve seen it happen and always say never again, and then there it is. On a personal level, if we hold our darkness inside because we judge it as being inappropriate to share, or others prefer us to have a smile on our face when we’re in agony, it still has to go somewhere. It will eat us up. War eats things up.

My painting above is about both kinds of war, personal and external. I did it for myself and definitely felt lighter afterward, so much so that I began another painting about war titled “Grounded Storm” which I’ll post when it is finished. Even though I did it for myself, as I was painting, I absolutely was almost consumed with thoughts of anger and helplessness about what is happening in our world today. This painting speaks to all forms of war. So does “Grounded Storm”, also almost complete.

I am loving this new way of working. It feels free. I didn’t know what direction my art was going to go in and certainly I couldn’t choose what it would be with my conscious mind. Not with the head. I had to let it lead me. Before I began I had no idea what would come. I wanted to do abstraction, or keep to my weirdly surreal representational imagery, or go back to the Circle Paintings for some peace. None of them felt right and as I said, it wasn’t a matter for the head to decide. I had to get into a place of PLAY. Get the paints out and just GO. That’s when it happened. And one thing that surprised me was the draw to use black paint, which I hadn’t used in decades. God, the black felt good.

Darkness has to go someplace and I don’t want it inside of me. On a canvas is better and the journey of it getting there from inside of me is one of the most cathartic things I can do. Do I want to bring beauty into the world? Of course I do! But as an artist, I see tons of beautiful art by other artists that I’d love to have done myself, but their art is not the way my art wants to move out of me. I have to honor my own personal gift which I am so grateful for having been given, to create. Honor my authentic self-expression. Do what James Baldwin said: “All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up.” I’ll keep painting this way as long as I need to. If more beautiful “palatable” works eventually emerge one day, authentically, then so be it. I look forward to being lighter on the inside, however that manages to happen.

In the Furnace

“Furnace” was the final painting of 2023. When we’re in the dark and there is no way to scream, we can pick up a paintbrush. There was one person who knew me well many years ago, who is now gone. That person knew my sadness from losing loved ones and from my own health issues. More than that, that person knew that painting is in my blood and bones and if I go too long without it, I’m just not right. This is true for all forms of creative expression I’ve dabbled in over the years, but oil painting is one of my strongest medicines.

Just a few weeks ago I was thinking back on the year as many of us do at year’s end. I was thinking about the past few years and how painful they’ve been, excruciating at times. I’ve thought of the book “Dark Night of the Soul” by Thomas Moore which I read many years ago and found comfort in its words. I suppose that’s what I am in now once again, a dark night. Everything goes in cycles it seems. Just a few weeks ago as I pondered my life - the past and the future - those I’ve loved and lost in whatever form, endeavors that have failed, the many dreams that had to die, the way I feel when I stand up each morning off-balance since the strokes and how my body has changed… all off it pierced me with such torment that I was struck with the wherewithal to go pick up a brush. In a calm fury, “Furnace” emerged.

There have been times when I’ve expressed something visually in raw umber that spoke well on its own without needing further clarification of color or definition. This is one of those. My judging self wondered if it was finished. My heart knew it was.

So, why “furnace”? I could say that I vaguely recall a story (not sure if it is true) about Frida Kahlo’s hair flinging upward into flames as her body went into the fire of the crematorium. I might not be remembering this correctly but what a gruesomely gorgeously vivid image that is! A woman’s hair has so much symbolism. Another example might be the sight Dante Gabriel Rossetti saw when Lizzie Siddal’s body was exhumed at Highgate Cemetery in London so that he could retrieve the only copy of a set of poems he had buried with her and noted that her bright red hair had continued to grow in death, filling her coffin. And a furnace certainly has its symbolism, and fire, a major transformer. I suppose that is what I am going through now. A major transformation. To be honest, the title as many of my titles do, came like a flash in my mind as I was painting. It’s almost as if my paintings tell me their names.

Speaking of transformation, it’s very painful to let go of what was… my former body and its abilities, my former brain and its sharp cognition. I am tempted to compare myself prematurely with the mythological creature, the Phoenix, but I’m not feeling very magical these days. Quite more like Maleficent after her wings had been brutally severed. She did get them back eventually, but then again, that is Disney for you. I could seriously use a little fairy magic right now.

The painting I started after this one that I am still working on is titled “Sprout”, and she is not yet ready to come to the surface. But the painting will be finished soon. A sprout is still a sprout, even before it emerges into the light. Hopefully that is true for me as well.

The Birds Know The Flutes

The is so much beauty around and I truly love where I live. I could do without leaf blowers, chainsaws cutting down perfectly healthy trees, and chemicals on unnaturally green lawns that make their way into local waters. This is suburbia. But there are still unspoiled places, wild places that are the home of many critters, and nature preserves that are legally protected by humans who care. These are the places I seek out and wander in, and play flutes in if there is no-one around. The day this photo was taken, I visited this place for the first time, as a friend had told me about it and said she had been going there for decades. What a lovely place it is, and that day was particularly beautiful with autumn colors at their peak, little wind, mild temperatures, and golden afternoon light.

I notice a lot of the time when I’m playing the flutes, that birds start to chirp and sing. They respond to it and it’s the most beautiful thing. It happened here and happens most places outdoors when I play the flutes. Such a joy to hear the birds.

I’m one of those humans who ridiculously whistles at times, hoping the birds will respond, but they never do, not to human whistling. But to the flutes, yes. Perhaps it is because it’s a wooden sound. Perhaps the birds hear similar sounds when the wind blows through branches. When the birds respond, it’s like we’re all having a conversation together. One of the many joys of playing these beautiful flutes. Big heartfelt thanks to Julian for gifts that have brought me great joy, peace, and that have changed my life.

Let Us Speak For Them

"Let Us Speak For Them", oil on canvas, is a painting I did a couple of years ago. I recently put it up on my wall and am realizing how much love I feel from it. I never plan my paintings. I think I remember that as I was painting this one, I was thinking of everyone and everything that needs us to speak for them... children, the elderly, animals, the land, trees, forest. As a stroke survivor, when the aphasia is bad and I can't think of words or need to rest for a while, I feel this way. When I do my flute presentation for people at assisted living facilities, some are more verbally responsive than others, all have different abilities, and I try to address each one of them as it feels best to. Connect. They're in there, just as I am still here even when I have difficulty. I think there are times when we all need to speak for each other.

A Birthday and 9-11

I wrote the folllowing several years ago:
Having a birthday that falls on 9-11 makes one think very deeply about the meaning of life. On that tragic day, so many of us lost people we knew, friends, family. The world was hit hard, punched in its gut. Celebrating a birthday was the furthest thing from my mind. The following year before September, I started an online support group for people whose birthday fell on September 11th. I wasn't sure what kind of reception it would get, but it didn't take long before people started posting and sharing how guilty they felt, like I did, about celebrating on a day when such a tragic event had occurred. The group lasted a few years and then petered out. One thing us 9-11 babies concluded was that we need to keep celebrating, not stop. We need to celebrate our 9-11 birthdays because there are so many who would have given anything to have one more day of life. So I celebrate, and I remember as well.

In 2011, the 10th anniversary of 9-11, I did a 9-11 butoh "Walk of Remembrance" through Huntington Village, starting at the library and ending at the 9-11 memorial in Heckscher Park. I needed to do it. I remembered with a full heart... those I knew who perished, and those I didn't. It was done with great reverence and love. Afterward, some friends and I went out to celebrate my birthday, and life. Here's to LIFE.

The Journey Continues

Today is the last day before I enter the last year of my 50s. Yesterday I went to a favorite place, knowing it was open and that there would be music there, not knowing if I would go until I was actually there as sometimes my body lets me know it's a rest day instead of a doing-day, and I always need to listen to that. I always do my morning prayers, beginning with, "Thank you." I give thanks for my life, for the fact that I can walk, see, hear, play music, paint, dance a bit, and be independent most days, especially since the strokes last year. These are all Blessings.

Where I live is a blessing. I love all the GREEN and forests, freshwater streams, the sea, beach, gardens, wilder places as well as more manicured gold coast estates to wander around where I can enjoy landscape design, architecture, and incredible art within the walls of old mansions that are now museums. My great-grandfather from Poland worked at one estate as a groundskeeper for many years and I drove past it yesterday. My Polish grandfather worked at another one when he was in his 20's (I recently discovered) and I drove past that, too. So much family history in these parts. This was all part of my meandering yesterday.

When I have a whole day where I've actually gotten enough sleep and feel drawn to go out into nature, enjoy driving, and the fact that I CAN drive (not on highways anymore or on rainy nights), but I can. I have always loved driving, and sometimes... often, since last year I am in complete silence as I go along. It is what is soothing to me. When I have these days when I CAN, there is a sense of peace and inner fulfillment that can't be described. Going at my own pace without need for speech, talking, putting thoughts into words for others, it is strenuous for me though I can do it. Having this peace and mobility is a Blessing. This is the day I took for myself yesterday.

This photo is the one I wanted to post today on the last day before I enter the last year of my 50s, near a bridge I crossed, to enter a beautiful serene place and also to leave it. But I kept that serenity with me after I left. And I received GIFTS! The gift of MUSIC... music that spoke to my heart. Hearing the music that helped me find my slow movement again, my butoh. Being in a place where families wandered with their sweet, precious little children and being so glad for them. Sincerely.

Though my life turned out differently, it has been all that it could have been, given circumstances of when/where/how I was born on a Friday night during a thunderstorm and the circumstances I was born into. No regrets... just looking back at all I have done with what I was given. Looking back at all the Blessings. Looking back at how close to death I came many times, and somehow was saved. Allowing myself peace and a lot of time and space to let the inner things gently rise to the surface... all of it... to give it a good, careful, compassionate look and be so very kind to myself, and pat myself on the back for all I've given of myself to this life so far and how I've faced the most difficult times... with grace, with moxy, with heartful awareness, and with incredible resilience.

And I stand here now, a bit wobbly, often unable to acknowledge my strengths though it's getting easier as I choose to do it, often uncertain of my future but having great faith in whatever powers there be that have never, ever let me down. Being here in my new body since last year, not quite knowing where I'm going though attempting to put some stepping stones in place for myself as I can. Standing on one side of a bridge. The Hermit card in the Tarot. The Fool. The Sun. The Nine of Pentacles. The Five of Cups. The Eight of Cups. The Empress. All of me. Here. Now. With Gratitude for this moment. Happy last day of 58 to me. I've come a long way, baby. Tomorrow the journey will continue.

My Flute Journey

The flutes are so important to me, not only soothing but healing and fun. And I had no idea this year, that playing flutes would become such an important part of my journey.

I have been playing different flutes since I was a teenager. My first flute was a bamboo flute that is played to the side, that I bought at a craft fair. I loved it and played it so much and still play it. Shortly after, still a teenager, I began listening to Renaissance music so my parents bought me a recorder flute. I still have that and enjoy playing it. Then, after my father passed away in 2007, I inherited his Native American-style flute. The sound of it was so earthy and soothing. I began playing it often.

Last year when I had the strokes, I left my father’s flute in my car on the hottest summer days and only realized earlier this year that it had cracked. That's when I researched flutes actually made by Native Americans (many say they are but aren't) and I found Blue Bear flutes where I got my Googol pine flute. I was so happy with it that I made a video giving Blue Bear Flutes a great review. The video review has since received hundreds of views on my YouTube channel. That is also how a very kind, generous man wrote to me and offered me flutes he could no longer play. They are flutes I could never have afforded to buy myself, and were in different keys, giving me more options. I began playing them every day and I love it. I even play to backing tracks, which helps me play with a certain tempo and expand my playing in other ways. In June, a drum and music circle was born in a nearby park where everyone is kind enough to ask me to play my flutes while they drum. It's such a great joy!

Because of the flutes, I have a new dream that can be realized through a few different avenues. One is to eventually find other musicians to play music with, preferably funk/jazz (my favorite) where I’ll play my flute and the others will play the instruments they play (I have absolutely no preconceived notions of what these instruments might be). We’ll perhaps create compositions to play out for the public or be completely improvisational. Either way, we’ll be - not a band, more of an ensemble though that sounds so formal - a group that will meet regularly and play what we love playing, creating together. Finding the other members of this group will be perhaps the toughest part, but I believe that if it’s meant to be, it will happen.

Another way my dream of playing flutes can be applied is to help others, as the flutes have helped me. In an online stroke survivor support group, I shared about my aphasia and said that music is helping, particularly flutes. If it's helping me, it can help others too. So one of my new goals is to reach out and help others with the flutes, especially many stroke survivors who, as I do, have an easier time communicating through art and music than with speaking. I will play for them and help them find their voice by guiding them to play their own flutes. The man who sent me flutes, sent me extras to gift to people who would like to play them for their own healing, so I am saving them for this purpose. (Thank you, Julian!)

I now have a sense of purpose, for the first time since the strokes. I have a new dream, though I know I am still very much in Healing Mode, with balance issues, crushing fatigue, and other things. So I will go slowly toward this new venture.

Artists Without Egos

Here’s a little flashback into one art exhibition I had in 1995 or thereabouts. This series of exhibitions which took place at Sea Cliff Beach in Sea Cliff, NY on Sundays with a different artist each week, was appropriately named. The artist goes there for one day, hangs their art, sits there for about 6 or 7 hours, and then takes everything down and goes home. If an artist has high expectations, this was not the show for them, hence the name “Artists Without Egos”. I was grateful for the show, though. Always am grateful, as you never know who will see it.

Years ago (years before this photo was taken), I was honored to meet the artist Mort Kunstler who I was introduced to by a family member. Mr. Kunstler invited me to go talk with him about art, about being an artist, and he had suggestions for me. He shared his story with me of his humble beginnings and said to show my art wherever and whenever I could, as often as possible, as you never know who’s going to see it. This is exactly what I have done ever since and he was right. There were times when I might have thought that a small non-gallery exhibition would be a waste of time, but I went for it anyway and something really good happened. Sometimes it was a sale, or the sale of five paintings at once - when I least expected it. That was great advice that Mr. Kunstler gave me and I am still grateful for the time he spent talking with me that day.

It was nice sitting at the beach the day this photo was taken and having a few friends stop by to see my art. There were no sales that day but it was okay. It was part of being an artist - getting my art out there however I could. Getting it out into the fresh air, out of the stacks in my studio space, to be seen by anyone who would care to look. No-one can see it at all if it isn’t out there, so there it is.

Remembering a Special Someone

I am remembering, missing, and deeply grieving a special someone who left this life tragically and way too soon in August of last year. He was my partner for fourteen years and my fiance for many of those years. Douglas would have been fifty-four years old today, having been born on the day the astronauts walked on the moon.

Emotions are so hard to put into words, especially when there are many at once. And how does one describe a person, any person, but particularly one who was so multifaceted, multitalented, and often a conundrum.

I miss him being in the world more than I can say and I’ve cried a lot this week. There is so much I could say. About our life together, about the things we did and shared, about our struggles, about how our story as a couple ended, and how we remained friends and stayed in contact right until the end. Douglas being Douglas, and this being a kind of tribute to him but also my sharing about the Douglas I knew, I will first state facts. Douglas liked facts.

Here are a few facts about Douglas (in no particular order). Douglas’s favorite color was red. Douglas loved cats (and all animals) with all his heart. He understood binary code and taught me how to read it. Douglas was a gifted musician and mainly a drummer. He had a beautiful voice and played many instruments, although he only played one show with all his original songs that he never had a chance to record. Douglas taught himself how to do circular breathing so that he could play the didgeridoo that I gave him one Christmas. Douglas wrote beautiful poetry and his favorite poet was Sylvia Plath. His favorite musician was Suzanne Vega. His favorite food was pasta and “dogs” as he called them (hot dogs) and often while out doing errands, he would eat in the car while I drove. Douglas loved art and even did several paintings, and made cards with different shades of colors on them with the exact amount of paint written next to the painted part, like a recipe, so he could mix that same color again. Douglas loved sci-fi movies, X-Files, and Star Trek, which we watched often, together. Douglas was Mr. Safety (some of us used to affectionately call him) because he was always super-prepared for almost anything. Douglas called me at the start of the pandemic to tell me he thought it could last a year or more and suggested that I stock up on food and other necessities (he was right). Douglas built computers. Douglas once served on jury duty and everyone liked him so much, he was chosen to be the foreperson. Douglas could identify rocks and gems and studied at the GIA. He also designed jewelry which is what he entered college studying at RISD. Douglas was so brilliant in so many ways. Douglas was beautiful (he would vehemently disagree with this fact).

What else can I say, other than this… stating some facts about the Douglas I knew helped calm my mind a bit as I write this, grieving. It helps me to remember him. Douglas was a scientific ‘have-to-see-it-to-believe-it” person, while I have always been more spiritual. He gave me a dream catcher the last time I saw him. Douglas and I had a relationship that was fraught with challenges that were mostly beyond our control, and yet there were so many fun and wonderful times and isn’t that life? The good and the not-so-good all wrapped up in one, to be faced together as partners. I never gave up on us and when it seemed we were drifting, my thought was to work things out by getting help for us. His answer was to find someone else. And so we parted, but not for good. As I wrote, although it took a while to get over the hurt of how it ended, we remained… friends, for lack of a better word. Soul mates sounds too corny. But we had something very special.

I met Douglas in 1990 when I moved back to Long Island from Jersey City where I lived for a few years. I wanted to meet other artists so I posted a flyer (old school) in local stores. He answered it by calling me one day. We talked for a while and he asked if I had any art exhibitions coming up and I did! I said yes, at the Locust Valley Library and the Opening is in a few days. He said that was great because he didn’t drive but he lived right near there and would come to the Opening. There were many people at the Opening who I didn’t know, so I didn’t know which one was Douglas. I figured he would approach me, knowing which one the artist was. He didn’t. We talked on the phone afterward and I described a young man at my reception and asked if that was him. Yes, he replied. When I asked him why he didn’t introduce himself, I don’t remember anymore what he said, but he had a reason. I think he was nervous. As I got to know him, I liked him. We got to know each other better when the artist group had meetings and we continued talking to each other on our own. I think I fell for him when he read me one of his poems. Rare and sensitive soul.

I remember so many things. I remember going to the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade with Douglas and we both dressed up and walked in the parade, then went to see two friends who were doing an art performance in a nightclub downtown.

I remember in one place we lived, Douglas walking in to tell me as I worked at the computer, that there was a baby bird in the driveway that had fallen from its nest. He knew I’d jump up, which I did, and we went to it. It was a baby Robin that I raised for three weeks with the guidance of a bird rehabilitator over the phone to make sure I knew what to do so it could eat on its own, fly on its own as its tail feathers grew in, and eventually be released. The sweet fledgling was released, with Douglas standing by with camera in hand to capture the moment, just a few days before 9-11. On another occasion, Douglas walked into our apartment with a tiny screech owl in a box that he saved from the side of a busy road. We promptly called a local animal sanctuary to take care of him and help the sweet owl get back to nature.

So many stories from our life together… music jams, fireplace drawing nights, cats, riding bicycles, seeing bands, seeing art shows, creating the art magazine, expeditions through the city, the Scottish Games, watching the night sky, making music, running from exploding manhole covers, Ray Johnson, rescuing Nairobi, winged chairs, road trips to Virginia and Massachusetts, going to the IMF at NYU, Mount Joobie, the Watercolor tapes, Pottery Barn, Einstein, Emily Dickinson, accidentally scaring the pizza man on Halloween, Pooka-bear, recording mockingbirds, and so much more.

After my strokes last year, he called me to ask how I was doing, and asked me all the medical questions one would ask if they are familiar with strokes. He was. He knew a lot about a lot of things.

I have so many photos of him and yet this is the one that felt right to include with this post… Douglas walking off, doing his own thing. I remember that day like it was yesterday. Douglas wanted to walk down to the water on one of his last trips to Long Island. It was a cold day for me, but he wanted to go see the water so I waited in the car and took this photo of him in his bright red jacket. I like to think of him like that now, that somehow on that day last year in August, he simply walked off and is somewhere doing his own thing… hopefully feeling a lot more at peace than he did in life, and hopefully knowing how loved he is. I will certainly never, ever forget him.

The Camera Has Saved Me

Throughout my life the camera has been an incredibly important tool for me in so many ways. My first camera when I was a teenager was used to take photos of my art so that I could build a portfolio. I began using the camera to tell stories too. One of these times was in highschool when a friend and I took a photography class at a local community center and we created narrative settings… lipstick on a mirror saying goodbye as a gloved hand left the room, doll furniture placed carefully within the hollow of a tree, and other magical scenarios.

Come to think of it, that may have been the beginning of my art modeling or expression in front of the camera, as my friend asked me to pose for a set of images at a location that I called the stone temple on the water. At the time, I didn’t wear makeup and my clothing consisted of ripped jeans (actually ripped from having been worn so much, unlike the fake ripped jeans people spend hundreds on today), and peasant blouses or t-shirts. All of my clothing was painted, embroidered, dyed, or altered in some way to express my creative side. But for this photo shoot by my friend, she asked me to wear makeup, a tight shirt and skirt, and high shoes. My long hair was tousled and swept over the side of my face as I posed next to empty beer cans and held a cigarette in my hand (I don’t drink and have never smoked, so this was very out of character for me). I remember feeling very self-conscious, but there was also a freedom in becoming someone else in order to tell a story. When kids at school saw the photos, they liked them but also couldn’t believe it was me. Those photos my friend and I created were so much fun and an entry into a world of creating images in a new way that was so different from painting.

The camera also helped me when I was a nearly housebound agoraphobic for several years. My partner Douglas at the time had a Minolta Dimage, one of the first digital cameras that came out in the 90’s and he let me use it. From inside our home, I took the camera and went to each window and took photos of the outside world through the glass. That enticed me to go outside with the camera and then go driving with it to get myself used to going out. The camera was a distraction from the fear, as each thing I saw on the side of the road that caught my eye made me pull over, get out of the car, walk further from the car, and take photos. The camera helped me get out and then drive farther too. My creative side and my sense of wonder and curiosity about the world was satiated by looking at the world through a lens and capturing images of intriguing things in the natural world and also of architecture. The camera helped me heal.

Around that time, the camera also helped me get a job as a photojournalist for local newspapers. Although I was still recovering from agoraphobia, I took the job, as it got me out and with the camera in hand to help as a buffer between myself and the world around me, my “safe zone” grew wider and wider. The Editor of one newspaper who I worked with for a couple of years loved my photos and even though I had no training in photography, he hired me saying that as an artist I would naturally have an eye for composition, etc. After going on my very first assignment, and showing him my photos, he laughed with glee at a photo of a little girl looking right at the camera while sitting with her Easter basket and her cheeks stuffed with chocolate. He put that on the cover.

Life went on and a couple of moves later, photographer/author Corinne Botz contacted me and said she was doing a project about agoraphobics and their spaces and asked if she could photograph me. We met a couple of times. Her photographs of me were interesting and I think she got something different than she was expecting, as I wasn’t so tied to my surroundings as I might have been, or perhaps as other agoraphobics she met had been. Her photos of me were included in an exhibition in Manhattan.

The camera also became extremely important to me as a way to cope with my difficult situation with health issues, agoraphobia, loss, abandonment, and isolation. In January 2007, I began a series of snapshots for a photo-a-day project I did for a year. I started it after an excruciating breakup and after learning that my father was ill with cancer. He passed a couple of months after I began and I knew my life would change forever. I did that project for over a year.

Then I moved into more creative self-portraits, many which are included in the video above. I also did many portraits of friends. The titles of the self-portraits were really important but when I did the video I didn’t include them for some reason, so hopefully they speak for themselves. Not long after that, I moved to an area where I still live that at the time was out of my comfort zone. Quickly I recovered from the agoraphobia, as I had to adapt to my new life in a location that had previously been inaccessible to me.

Although these days my camera is my phone, I still take photos every single day. They are a document of my life, a visual diary. When I forget all I’ve done and experienced, I can look back on the photos I’ve taken and remember not only what I’ve seen and done, but how I felt. And now as I heal from the strokes and other losses in recent years, it is so incredibly helpful to be able to see my life in images.

The Art of Music

On Friday, June 2nd, I attended the Opening Reception for The Art of Music, an exhibition where five of my paintings are on display at Westbury Arts in Westbury, NY through June 30th. I am really happy to be part of this show.

The theme of the show is to have art that was created by people who also make music. I’m one of six people in the show and the only woman. I’m pretty sure the other artists primarily identify as musicians whereas it’s the other way around for me. Actually, I don’t even consider myself a musician, though some kind friends insist that I am simply because I create music. I think of myself as an artist who uses music as another medium to express myself, but the term ‘musician’ feels beyond my experience. I almost didn’t enter this show for this reason, but after asking a few friends what they thought, I went ahead and went for it. So glad I did. The others in the show have separate time slots on different days when they’re performing with their bands on the stage at Westbury Arts. That option was offered to me, but between my low energy level these days as I continue to recover from the strokes and the fact that I don’t play with others (I wish I did!), instead, at the Opening, I played an improvised melody on my Native American flute. It was a joy to play and a video of my presentation is on my YouTube channel, as well as on the Westbury Arts Facebook page.

Music has always been a huge part of my life. As a kid, I wanted to be a musician before I ever picked up a paintbrush, but in our small house it was easier to do art. My art has saved me throughout my life, being a solo pursuit and one practiced in quiet for the most part. As an adult I need music to create my art. Every painting is done to a certain type of music or to a particular song that is played repeatedly until the work of art is finished.

One memory from when I was very young is the small child’s organ we had that I enjoyed playing. I really wanted a drum set but in our small house there just was no way it would work. When I was about 8 or 9, I took piano lessons and my parents got a piano from one of their friends which they situated in our dining room - the most vulnerable place for me to practice, so I didn’t. Instead, I’d stay up in my room and color in the pictures in my piano lesson book. When my piano teacher saw it, she chuckled and told me I was going to be an artist, not a musician. She was right.

Over the years I had wooden flutes - a bamboo flute I bought as a teenager at a craft fair, and then a Renaissance-style recorder. As the years went by, new musical instruments made their way into my life, including hand drums, percussion, tambourines, bass guitar, acoustic guitar, asalato/kas-kas, tanpura, and other wonderful music items.

I can’t mention making music without mentioning Douglas. I am still grieving deeply and continue to discover things that were part of our life together. One postcard announcement of our Watercolor Tape recently emerged from an old folder. The Watercolor Tape was a cassette tape with music that Douglas and I created together. I hand painted the labels with watercolor paints. He had a recording studio and knew how to play so many things. He also had a beautiful voice which I and only a roomful of people ever heard in his only performance at Dr. Stella Russell’s Salon in 1994. Douglas had terrible stagefright but was so incredibly gifted in so many ways. When we were together all those years, we had many jam parties and attended the IMF at NYU a few years in a row. I really enjoyed making music with him and at the time, I didn’t think I could sing so I mostly did a spoken word type of thing. I have a compilation CD from the IMF one year where Douglas put a song on it for me, one that I “sang” to called Wicked Rain. The lyrics are really sad (probably due to the sadness of losing my mother and other members of my family at the time), but I remember creating the sound samples with my voice and Douglas putting each sample on a different key of the keyboard so I could play them as he played the background part. Pretty cool.

These days I enjoy playing my flutes, djembe, box drum, a small dingy drum I call it (small steel drum), learning acoustic guitar, and singing. I recently discovered a Music Circle that meets regularly and it’s perfect for me in so many ways. I’ve really, really missed playing with others and still at my age dream of being part of some kind of musical group one day, perhaps with ethnic instruments or voices or something else entirely that will come together organically when I meet the right people. I also do recordings on my own with different instruments and post them on my SoundCloud page, or make videos for my YouTube channel of me singing in my own language which feels easier since having mild aphasia from the strokes. Music is a healer, as is Art. If I had to choose one, I don’t think I could.

Comfort in the Dark

This is a painting I don’t think has ever been included in my exhibitions. It is titled “Hold Me”. One collector assumed this painting had to do with a stance on abortion, which it does not. It is not political. It is deeply, deeply personal. I painted this in April of 1992, just a few months before my mother passed away. She was in the hospital at the time and stayed for five months, before returning home in August. She returned home for only a couple of days before heading back to the hospital where she passed the following day.

There are many things I could say about this painting and I’m not sure any of them would be right, as art has a way of bringing out such deep things that we have no words for. The thing I remember feeling mostly was fear and sadness and a strong need to curl up someplace warm and safe where I’d have a cushion between me and the hard parts of life. So many wrenchingly painful things were going on in my life at the time, aside from my mother’s imminent passing. I think this painting was my way of creating a safe haven for myself. It is a self-portrait. I wanted to feel safe.

Nothing about this painting was planned. I just started painting and before I knew it, all the colors, blending, forms, shading, and imagery were there before me. Often I feel myself gasp after it has emerged, as if it is a complete surprise to me what I’ve done, or what has come out of me without my seeing it beforehand.

I am not a mother and always knew since I was a little girl that I never would be. Not sure how. It wasn’t as much a decision as a knowing. As I grew older, it became a knowing that my art came first and with my health as it was and other issues with resources, I just simply wasn’t in a position to be a mother. Though I love children and always hoped to be in a position to adopt if I had ever found the right partner, which I did not. So I was never a mother.

That saying, “It’s never too late,” really does not always apply, as sometimes it IS too late. Time passes and there are certain things that simply are no longer possible and there is an acceptance that is necessary as we get older. There simply are doors that are closed to us that were once open, and old dreams we had that we now have to give up because they can never be. If we’re lucky, new dreams take their place which are more aligned with our older selves, things that are more doable for who we have become as we’ve aged and experienced so much of life. I’m in this place right now of having to watch the old dreams crumble while I wait for new dreams to come.

Not really sure why I wanted to include this in my blog. I did want to show it, as not many have seen it and I feel it is among my most important works. Perhaps I need to look at it to give myself that feeling now, in this most scary time in my life where I am recovering from strokes, have little support, am struggling in many ways to keep going, feeling the sting of grief, and when I’m reaching out for joy and lightness wherever possible because it really is so very important to come up for air and give oneself a breather during dark times. I’ve been doing bibliomancy and pick up random books for tidbits of wisdom and insight and comfort. I certainly don’t shy away from the tough stuff, rather I face it head on. But it’s good to take breaks and find the soft spots to curl up in. Maybe that is what this is about. I need to do that, right now.

Magical Moments

I’ve always looked for the magic in life, even during the darkest most troubling times. They are always, always there, though fleeting. As if entering another realm for just a while when time seems to stop and life and joy and the wonder of a child lift our hearts and laughter resounds like bubbles in the air. And it’s real. These moments are real. I’ve always reached for them and now, as I move through this time of recovery from last year’s events and health crises including a lot of anxiety and some depression, I’ve been reaching for them even more. And they are there. Opportunities to experience so many new and different and wonderous things are always available to us. Sometimes we have to ask for help to get there, or make extra accommodations for ourselves in order to make the experience physically possible, and sometimes we simply want friends along for the journey to go seek the joy with us.

This photo was taken on one of those days recently when I went with friends to a Fairy Festival. There were bubbles, castles, music, fairy houses, flowers, magical forest paths, and even a Fairy Queen. As is the case with many things I do these days, it took so much for me to get there and by the end of the day my energy was beyond depleted, which is how my days go. I only have a small window of activity before I need to rest, so I choose my activities wisely and carefully. I almost didn’t make it this day and even the day before tried to give the ticket away to someone who I knew wanted to go. Thankfully she had other plans at that point, so I mustered everything I had and my friends made it easy, as they are aware of my limitations. I am blessed to have people like this in my life.

The bubbles were fun. We posed in front of the bubble machine and I held the camera on top of it so it wouldn’t get soapy and took many photos, hoping at least one or two would capture our joy as we laughed while bubbles floated around us and even hit us on our cheeks or noses. It was wonderful!

Despite how I felt physically that day, I can look back at this photo and remember the joy and the magic. I remember feeling much more before the strokes… and yet as blank as I might feel a lot of the time, I know when I enjoy something. I see it in pictures. Like this one.

Hooping is Healing

I am so grateful to know some extremely talented people in the arts and the healing arts. One of them is my friend and mentor Emily Eisen who visited me recently. Thanks to Emily for her encouragement and support to do something I love which also helps me to recover physical abilities. With the physical issues I deal with day to day, it can be a struggle to get motivated. But the hoop helps me and I enjoy it so much.

Here's what Emily posted on my social media page with the videos she took of us hooping. She had never seen an LED hoop before so it was a blast showing her and having fun with the hoops. Emily wrote: "My soul sister Robyn turned me on to led hoop flow dancing! Soooooo much fun. Robyn is so graceful and beautiful and knows wonderful movements to create these light designs. She originally learned it as part of her movement rehabilitation after 3 strokes! This is a woman who has a passionate zest for life and finds her way to meet her challenges. These strokes were close calls and dramatically changed her life as she knew it….she continues to inspire me…..still dealing with the effects of her strokes on so many levels….she carries on with grace and commitment." 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻👍🥰

That made me cry, in a good way. Bless her heart! Thanks to Emily also for the photos and video. She's an amazing person in so many ways (including a gifted artist) and teaches and empowers many through her work BrainWorksPlus. Please look her up - she will inspire you! Emily's website: https://brainworksplus.com/home

The Exhibitioner Art Magazine

Happy 30th birthday to The Exhibitioner Art Magazine, born into being in May, 1993. It was a labor of love with my partner at the time, Douglas Craig. The beautiful artwork of my dear friend Renata Zednicek is on the cover. I did the layout, editorial, and Douglas and I both handled the selection of artists, printed pages, folded covers, and delivered them in person to galleries from Manhattan to the Hamptons. We met so many wonderful people during this time and we also curated shows for our artists at a local gallery in Sea Cliff, NY. Three prestigious libraries had standing order subscriptions for every issue - MoMA (NYC), Rhode Island School of Design, and C. W. Post/LIU Library. We thought that was really cool.

Since last year’s strokes and other losses, I am doing a lot of review of my life and sorting through milk crates of things I haven’t seen in years. Among them I found this proof copy of the very first issue, along with a photo that I had considered using on the editor's page. What a trip it was to look back in time and find this. Someplace there are copies of every issue but for now just seeing this one is making me feel nostalgic in a big way, especially since Douglas is gone and yet I am finding so many pieces of physical proof of our life together and of our many creative collaborations. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of him and feel the grief hit me hard.

Aside from bringing back those memories, seeing this copy of the magazine reminds me of one of the things I did in my life that I consider to be a big achievement. For the years we published the magazine, I was an editor, publisher, and curator. There were so many talented artists I met through the magazine and some became friends I still know to this day. This post ties into my previous post about making your own parade. This magazine was created along those lines… although not so much to do my own thing, but to try to find a way to keep myself going after I had to stop working because of health issues. That vibrant young woman sitting on the trunk of that amazingly reliable ‘71 Chevy Nova had just received an unnecessary pacemaker by an incompetent doctor, dealt with ongoing heart arrhythmias, asthma attacks, and hospital visits. The magazine was a bright light. It reminded me of what was important to me and that there were certain things I did have control over, including how to spend my time whenever I felt well enough to dive into something. That magazine was something, and even though “zines” were big in the 90s, we didn’t think of this as a zine. It was an art magazine.

Here's to the 30th birthday of The Exhibitioner! May it have created some positive, funky, joyful ripples in the world.

Collage and Pieces of Me

Our local library started a Creative Group and in our first session we were introduced to collage. Although I’ve been doing art most of my life, collage is something I’ve had great curiosity about but never quite delved into. This was fun and this one which I’ve titled “Swimmers” is a bit of a conundrum for me, as I don’t really understand it. Then again, that’s true for a lot of my art. Sometimes I know instantly as they emerge on the canvas what they mean to me, and other times it takes years before the meaning is clear.

The title “Swimmers” felt right because of the fish, but also because I was listening to a song titled “Swimmers” by Zero 7 over and over as I created this work. Music has a huge impact on my art and I usually can’t create without it. It’s common practice for me to hear a song that deeply speaks to the way I feel, even if I don’t know how to describe the way I feel in words, and then I play the song on repeat as I paint or create a work of art in another medium. This is something I’ve been doing all my adult life.

The first part of this collage that came together is the body with the white dress, the orange flower, and the face which sits above the neck so there’s a space between the head and neck. This kind of makes sense to me with how I’ve felt since the strokes. My head isn’t the same. I added the white circle above which is a drawing by Galileo of the solar system. Made sense to me again, as I often feel very spacey and a bit disconnected.

I’ll continue working with collage as I think they’re powerful, as powerful as any other creative medium in showing me something that needed to be expressed but that I wasn’t sure was there.

Sea, Sand, and Wind Carrying me Forward

Yesterday I walked almost to the end of the beach where the sand is covered with water when the tide is high. And I walked without the cane… slowly and with arms out for balance. It was wonderful! The air felt so glorious and being out there on what felt like my own little island was so peaceful and exhilarating at the same time.

Sand is easier for me than floor or pavement when I walk. Despite some intense arthritis pain that has developed over the winter (perhaps post-covid which I had last September), I get up and do the best I can to continue recovering from the strokes. It is a long recovery, but I see glimmers of progress as I move along through my days.

I always want to live near the sea, always. It is so healing for me... the feel and fragrance of the salty air, the sound of the waves, the colors of sea and sand, and the sight and sounds of the gulls as they soar, dive, and dance in the air around me. It’s a different world at the beach. Yesterday was mild and even warm, hitting the mid-70’s and yet the wind is so much stronger at the beach that I had to wear my coat. But the air was comfortable without a chill.

This is my favorite beach. It is a harbor that leads out to Long Island Sound which leads to the Atlantic Ocean and I like it because when I swim there in the summer, the waves are gentler than they are at ocean beaches. And I don’t need to have smooth white sand like the beaches on the south shore, as soft as it may be. The rocky north coast beaches are fine with me and allow me to build little stone circles and moats when I spend time there in warmer months. I like stones.

And the sea is truly healing. The salty water. Swimming here in summer is a joy and if I am having any kind of stress or physical pain, the cool salt water takes it all away. This is the topic of one of the entries in my book “Memoirs of a Little Ghost”. One summer years ago when I was recovering from physical pain (it may have been when I was first diagnosed with arthritis or after I had been bitten by numerous deer ticks and became extremely ill), I remember going to the beach as often as possible to find relief. It worked every single time and then a gorgeous sunset would be a perfect ending to the day. I always want to live near the sea.

As I walked yesterday, I thought of the water and its power, which I greatly respect. I thought of my ancestors who came here on ships from different European countries and thanked the water for holding them up on their long voyages, for keeping them safe. These are just some of my thoughts as I walked along almost to the end, which I never walked to before.

Thank you to my dear friend for taking this photo and sending it to me afterward. Seeing this photo helps me to remember. This is why I love photos, especially taking them. Photographs are like a visual diary. This one in particular is a reminder to me of so much - it is a reminder of my love of life, of my strength of spirit, of my healing process, and of my perseverance.

Make Your Own Parade

With the arrival of Spring, naturally my spirits are a bit lifted and heart is lightened. This is a big thing, considering all that last year brought and the remnants that are still present to be moved through as they come. I am remembering many things, particularly moments and experiences over the course of the last twelve years or so when my creativity was given an opportunity to shine and when I was able to rise to an occasion to present my most bright and colorful self to the world. A secondary but equal benefit was the hope that whatever it is I did or was involved in would somehow make a positive impact on the world around me. Would touch people’s hearts.

I didn’t organize the parade I led the day this photo was taken. My dear friend Ginger Balizer-Hendler wrote a book titled “The Adventures of Gingerella” that became a musical theatrical work, and also an installation in Riverhead, NY. Ginger’s book is absolutely heartwarming. With a hint of “The Little Prince”, she wrote characters in the form of animals, except for the main character Gingerella. The story is about Peace. When she asked me if I would like to contribute to her installation in Riverhead, I didn’t hesitate to say yes! I created a few floating beings which were incorporated into her installation (one image can be seen here on my website on my Mixed Media page) and Ginger also asked if I would lead a parade from the gallery to the local organic community garden, leaving the costume and presentation up to me. It was such a joy to be there and when I saw this photo that my dear friend Renata took, and saw that people had been following me… yes, indeed I was leading a parade!… it warmed my heart so much!

When I look at my home movies, I’m a ham, I ran around in circles, danced and pranced and posed for the camera, and had so much energy! It was always in me. In my dysfunctional family, I wasn’t seen so eventually I became invisible, or so I thought. That was then. How I made it from there to here is, really, a miracle!

When I was a child, I wanted to sing and thought I could but it was made clear that it was better and safer to stay quiet. I loved dancing but clearly that was out too. So I turned to visual art. It was quiet and I could do it any time, even in the comfort of my own room without anyone knowing. Same with writing. But art saved me, really saved me through so much of my life. It still is and ART will always be my first love. But honestly, I go in many directions, creatively-speaking.

In 2012, I learned I could sing when I joined a choir and have been singing on my own and even writing songs ever since. When I was drawn to butoh dance in 2010 and then began busking up in town, people’s reactions told me I could, and that I was making a difference. I had to reach out to discover myself. I had to put myself in new situations to see what would happen. I had to “make my own parade”. Then people saw me! I was invited to dance at events and was even paid for some. I was invited to do photo shoots, like the creative shoots I did with the talented Alex M. Wolff. Those were fun and really helped me embrace my love of costume and drama and the end result were photos I can look back on that tell stories. I had to put the ball in motion by putting myself out there and there was a chance I would be laughed at, or worse… not seen at all. But I was seen, and acknowledged, and invited to continue. So I did, whenever I could.

When I was in my 20’s a family member knew the well-known Civil War artist from my home town, Mort Kunstler and introduced me to him. Mr. Kunstler invited me to his beautiful home and he and his wife were so gracious and down to earth. He gave me advice as a young artist. He told me to show my art wherever and whenever I could because we never know who will notice us and what it will lead to. I remember that day vividly and have taken that advice as one of my life’s mottos.

And here I am… still dealing with chronic illness (walked with a cane in 2009, symptoms eased then cane again in 2012, symptoms eased, then cane again now) and the strokes of last year and still I am painting! I put myself out there in the ways that I can. And truthfully I go much slower than I’d like and need to rest much more often than I would choose to, but it is necessary. This is not just age. This is not age. This is chronic illness and as I write, I am acknowledging to the depths of my heart my immense bravery, fortitude, and strength of spirit. As I look over the photos of the performances I have done, often I did not know if I could get there until I was there. Occasionally I did not make it and had to let someone down, but it was met with compassion and I was much harder on myself than anyone else could have been because I really, really want to do so much. Life is absolutely beautiful. It can be ugly but we choose what to focus on. Good to stay aware and balanced and not all “head in the clouds” but it is so necessary to know when to turn it all off and go shine someplace.

Dance and movement are something I am working my way back to, and ART is ever-present and holds me up every day. The smell of a room that is used for oil painting is home for me. I am doing all that I can and still, if I had perfect health and lived a hundred years, there still wouldn’t be time enough to do all the wonderful things my heart pulls me toward. I try to stay in touch with it all because as I recover from the strokes and the depression and anxiety that have followed, it’s so important for me to remember the things I CAN do, to remember the things I have done, the things that light me up from the inside, the things that make me forget about the concept of time, and the things that make me feel more than okay. And… at any time, on any day, knowing that I have the power to reach for one of these things and make my own parade.