Considering my age, I am doing well physically. Of course, the inevitable wear and tear of this body requires more time and attention than it once did. Caring for it has become a part of my daily life.

Each morning begins with a cup of coffee mixed with mushroom extract immune powder while I study Yogananda’s spiritual lessons. That quiet, unhurried time is one of life’s sweetest gifts. Only recently have I truly appreciated it. For most of my adult life, every hour seemed to belong to a schedule—everything I had to do, or thought I had to do.

It has taken me months to convince myself that reading a book in the afternoon is not wasting valuable time.

Thanks to my meditation practice, I am able to maintain a calm state of mind that seems increasingly difficult for many people. The catastrophes hammering our planet have left countless sensitive souls overwhelmed by anxiety and hopelessness.

Yet I believe we are living through a profound transformation unlike anything humanity has experienced before. Birth itself is painful and messy, but it brings new life. I believe this period of turmoil has the potential to transform our earthly experience into one of greater unity, beauty, and peace.

I undoubedly will not live to see our planet fully embrace cooperation and peace among all living creatures, but in my heart I believe my new great-granddaughter will inherit a different world. Some respected astrologers have predicted that around 2032 humanity will experience a significant readjustment toward greater harmony and progress. I choose to hold hope.

New souls are joining this earthly adventure.

There has always been chaos on Earth. Today we are simply more aware of it because the internet brings the world’s tragedies instantly into our homes. In spite of the horror, shock, disappointment, and fear that surround us, I strongly believe we are participating in an earthly realignment that will eventually bring positive changes in government, our relationship with nature, and our collective consciousness.

This transformation will not happen overnight. It will require humanity to embrace self-government, self-determination, freedom, independence—and above all, love.

Take a moment to remember the deepest love you have ever experienced. Recall how it felt. Let that feeling expand in your heart until it naturally overflows to others. Love grows by being shared.

My purpose now is simple: to feel and share love, light, and peace. My meditation practice and attunement to the Unmanifested Absolute support that purpose. In those quiet moments I experience a deepening peace and an expanding joy.

Growth comes from living through setbacks, challenges, and the unexpected blows that life delivers. We all experience both suffering and joy in this great school of life.

Lately, after meditation, I have found myself reviewing my entire life. It reminds me of the life review that many people describe after near-death experiences.

A rare photo of me at about 3 months.

I remember brief scenes from infancy—standing frustrated in my crib or being pushed in my buggy. Only fragments remain, but they are enough. Then come memories of a carefree childhood.

After breakfast, I would leave home alone or with a few neighborhood friends and spend hours exploring the ravines that I imagined began in my own backyard. Eventually they led to Lake Michigan. I was fascinated by the clay along their banks, digging it up and creating fragile sculptures that would soon return to the earth. There were no watches, no schedules, no social media—only imagination, discovery, and play.

Standing in my mother’s rock garden, just above the ravine that I loved to explore.

My parents were immigrants from Hungary, and I was constantly reminded how fortunate we were to live in America. I grew up with responsibilities—not overwhelming ones, but enough to teach me that rewards come through work.

My mother often said, “You have to prove that you are worthy of being a Kraus.”

Kraus was my maiden name. I remember sincerely asking, “What’s a Kraus?” I genuinely wanted to know why she thought our family was so special. My question left my mother speechless and more than a little annoyed.

She had other sayings that followed me through my early years: “I pity the man who gets you,” and “No decent man will want you if you’re not a virgin.” Whenever I hurt myself, she would say, “Don’t cry. You’ll forget all about it when you’re married.”

My future seemed already written. I was expected to become a dutiful wife to some unknown man.

How the world has changed.

Looking back now, I realize how brilliant my mother was in business. She managed all of our family’s investments and helped transform my father’s business into a remarkable financial success, yet she always gave him the credit.

My father once told me, “I know only one thing, but I know it better than anyone else.” He was a master sheet-metal artisan, trained in Europe that grew into a factory with many employees. He also told me, “You can do anything if you want it badly enough.”

Life unfolded much as expected for a young woman growing up in the 1950s. I married young and had my first daughter at twenty-two. After seven years, I left that marriage, realizing only one of us had truly been committed. It was a heartbreaking but deeply educational chapter of my life, and by then I had two daughters.

Two more marriages followed, but only my late husband, the musician Kai Winding, truly honored the vows we made to one another.

Chuck Mangione’s tribute to Kai at the memorial

A painting I made as a tribute to my late husband after his death, when I left 8 years in Spain and moved back to the U.S

Here I am with my always present sketchbook backstage at the Nice France jazz festival.

About fourteen years ago, after moving to Mexico in 2004, I spent several years writing my memoir. It was published on Kindle. In those pages I poured out my heartbreak, betrayals, and emotional pain.

After a year or two, I removed it.

With time, meditation, and introspection, I came to understand that those who hurt me were not the authors of my unhappiness. They were participants in my karma and, in ways I could not see at the time, teachers. That was then. This is now. And someday is now.

No one else can create my happiness, nor can anyone destroy my inner joy.

Whenever life threatened to overwhelm me, help eventually appeared. Sometimes it arrived through friends, sometimes through strangers, and sometimes through circumstances that seemed almost miraculous. I have come to think of these moments as the work of my personal angels. I believe we all have such helpers, though we often forget to ask for their guidance.

Perhaps some people would call me unrealistic. But I am an artist. Being an artist often feels like stepping off a cliff without a parachute, trusting that somehow you will learn to fly before you reach the ground.

It has been a long life—one that has given me far more gifts than sorrows. What remains in the time ahead is still unknown, but I greet it with curiosity, gratitude, and peace.

Finally, thank you to all my subscribers, especially those who support my work financially. I am not writing for payment, but I deeply appreciate your generosity. Sometimes I wonder why people care about my opinions, my observations, or my life stories. Whatever the reason, I am grateful.

Bless you all

P.S. I haven’t discovered how to made the images smaller on my new computer.

Although I am practicing tryin to live in the present - watching each unique breath, each step is a new one that will never happen again…, my thoughts are going back to the day 43 years ago that my husban, Kai Winding transitioned.

Today is the anniversary of that momentious change in my life. May 6, 1983.

The following is from my memoir that I wrote years ago and later removed it from Kindle….Memories of another life.

A sketch I made of Kai in an Italian jazz club.

The last time I saw Kai perform was in Japan. I had no way of guessing that this was the beginning of the end of our adventurous life together. It took the Japanese to negotiate the reunion of Kai and J.J. Johnson. These two brilliant trombonists had been the most recorded jazz duo in the 1950s In Japan, years later, they appeared together again to enormous audiences of adoring fans.

I took this photo sitting on the steps of the stage whe Kai turned and looked at me. There couldn’t have been a better farewell for Kai.

Happy times at the jazz festival in Japan. J.J, Kai and wives.

Our marriage had many challenges. At one time, I had been ready to leave Kai. His terrible temper was a destructive force in our family, but it was a challenge and a blessing that I was not able to get out of Spain and away from Kai before we did our work together. It was in Spain we accomplished the healing of our marriage and built a balanced, loving partnership. We taught each other different ways of dealing with life. He eventually asked me to be his guru, but of course, I could only be an example of love, loyalty and hope, not a guru.

Those years of effort left me with an understanding of how much hard work it can be to have a healthy marriage. I am grateful that we finally smoothed out the differences and built a loving partnership before he died. We had grand times and many magnificent adventures.

A happy morning in Mijas spain

Whenever I didn’t travel with Kai, he would send me silly cards and tender love letters. After a few years of this, he said, “Why don’t you ever write to me?”
Abashed, I mumbled, “Oh, Honey, you move around so much when you are appearing in the various venues, my letters might not reach you.”

When he was in London on what turned out to be his last recording jig, I poured out my heart and love in a letter that was on his desk on his return. I am thankful that Kai read this declaration of love before it was too late.

We had moved to the south of Spain in 1977 to escape the show biz artificiality and spend quality time together. Both of us creating, Kai his music, writing and arranging his own music and I spent more time in the studio, painting mostly jazz musicians.

In early December of 1982, Kai was hit with a sudden splitting headache that nothing could ease. The pain began to interfere with his movements and thinking. Three different doctors gave us three different diagnoses. The closest I got to what was ultimately the truth was from two spiritual healers who came to our home and said they felt there was something like a sausage growing in his head.

It all happened so fast. I watched myself move through the days as if I were watching someone else. The movement of my feet, taking one step after the other became a hypnotic experience. It was curious to me that I was still going through the motions of the day, all the while sensing that my personal world was crumbling. How could my mind function when I felt my body was an empty shell?

Just a week after the first head pain manifested, Kai was not able to think clearly and I made the decision to get him to the States for medical help, even though we only had medical coverage in Spain. I felt uncomfortable with the three medical diagnoses that were given us. there. One Doctor told me not to worry. It was just a liver infection. Another said it was spinal meningitis and Kai should have a spinal tap immediately. The third doctor didn’t know what was wrong.

The next plane out of the Malaga airport was Sunday morning. This was Saturday. I needed to find a caretaker for our villa and the dogs. My daughters were now grown and living elsewhere. I raced to our bank and withdrew all our funds, explaining to Manolo, our banker and friend, what was happening.

Somehow I managed to book a flight, arrange for a neighbor to drive us to the airport the next morning, and hire people that I didn’t know to housesit. All the while I felt that I was playing a part in a play that couldn’t be real. I called a family friend in New York who was a doctor on the staff of a hospital in Yonkers. I asked him to meet us at the airport the next day. Then I began to pack our things, taking little, thinking that we would be back in a few weeks, when Kai was well.

The morning after our arrival in New York, Kai was diagnosed as having brain cancer. If he had the spinal tap in Spain, his brain would have collapsed causing instant death.

Even though it was the most difficult and sorrowful time of my life, there were moments of brilliant light and loving support. Because we had no medical insurance in the States, there was no way we could personally pay for the necessary treatments and operations. Right after the first brain operation, our savings were gone.

I called in another doctor who had a high position on the staff of this hospital. He advocated alternative treatments, including visualization. He told us, “We doctors do not know how healing happens. It is our job to be open to all possibilities and learn from them all.” This kind of support from a medical doctor was a rarity back in the early eighties. Even in the midst of tragedy, the love and kindness from others gave us strength and faith.

This doctor became an encouraging emotional support to us after the first brain operation. One morning he stopped in the hospital room for a visit. “I told a wealthy woman about your situation. She wants to help you.” I was amazed! I felt embraced by miracles. Without ever meeting Kai or me, this dear woman financed our trip to the Bahamas, where there had been some successful alternative cancer treatments resulting in disease reversals. We arrived in Newport shortly after Kai was released from the hospital and she sponsored us for six weeks at the outpatient clinic.

I learned a great deal about human nature during the time we spent at the cancer clinic. All the patients there had been diagnosed with incurable cancer. They had to have someone with them, a mate, or family member, who would be responsible for them 24 hours a day. The patient’s blood was used to create the serum that was supposed to stop the cancer. We caregivers gave all the carefully timed injections. A few of the patients’ companions couldn’t take the pressure of the responsibity and constant reminder of terminal illness and death, and left Freeport.

Every morning, I arose at 4:30 to meditate and do my yoga. By 6:30 I had to get Kai up and get him to the clinic for the blood draw. He soon became too weak to get out of bed, and a nurse came to our apartment. Every night, while listening to Kai moaning in pain, I cried myself to sleep, only to get up to start over again the next morning.

I did witness encouraging success stories. A baby had been born with bone cancer. After his birth doctors suggested amputating his arms and legs. His parents refused and chose the alternative treatment. Now this same little one was going home cancer free. His last day there, he walked around the waiting room of the clinic, using both of his little hands to pass out pieces of his birthday cake.

The treatment didn’t work for Kai, and we returned to New York for Kai’s second operation. At this time, I was given no hope for his recovery.

The life and death decisions I had to make weighed heavily on me. Kai was no longer capable of making informed decisions. Gone was the strong, brilliant, creative man I had known. Now it was up to me to agree or disagree to the drastic medical treatments he had to face. Before his illness we decided that we wanted only alternative medical treatment in case of serious sickness. I agonized alone about the choices of treatments that were opposed to our previous agreement.

As my husband slipped farther and farther away from me, I put up my emotional walls. I hardly ever admitted my fear and pain to myself, let alone others. I shut down my feelings as much as possible.

After six weeks in Freeport for the alternative treatment we had to leave suddenly when the doctor admitted that Kai’s condition was worsening. I ran to the travel agency through the broken glass that littered the streets in our non-tourist neighborhood. I ran faster and faster so we would be able to get a plane reservation back to New York that day. Tripping, I fell and cut my knee causing some lounging locals to burst into laughter. One of them admonished me. “What’s the hurry? Why ya running?”

When we got back in New York, Kai was checked back into the hospital for the second brain operation and more weeks of hospitalization followed. This operation would leave part of his skull open to take the pressure of the growing tumor off his brain and give him some relief from the pain. After the operation, Kai suffered less pain, but he no longer could walk.
Kai asked me, “Will we ever know why this happened?”
I could only answer, “We’re too close to it all right now. Maybe some day it will be made clear.”
To that he brightened and said, “I was probably a Viking in another lifetime and cut off the tops of enemies heads and drank wine from them. That’s why we Danes still say
Skol.”

Kai’s hospital room was filled with cards and notes from friends and fans. People who heard about our mounting medical bills sent us money or checks. Someone wrote that Kai’s music had brought him much pleasure, and he included a check for five dollars. Another unknown fan said he proposed to his wife while listening to Kai Winding’s music. On and on it went. I strung the cards around the room. A day did not go by without calls from musician friends from all over the world, encouraging Kai and me.

Our dear friends Chuck Mangione and Clark Terry visited the hospital often, talking music and musicians. Chuck brought Kai’s mouthpiece to the hospital, pretending that Kai would recover. Kai, deeply touched, asked me what he had done to receive such blessings.

Kai’s entire attitude had changed during his illness and he made detailed plans of how we would live after he left the hospital. I convinced myself that he would get well. Then I had to let go of my need to be in control. I prayed with a monk from Self Realization Fellowship. He helped me to surrender my passion to keep Kai alive. I gave the decision to God. A day later the neurosurgeon told me, “Kai’s heart is strong. He may live another few months. Why don’t you go back to Spain to take care of your affairs there?”

Leave Kai? Of course I wasn’t going to do that. Three days later, my husband died after five months of pain, two brain operations, and six weeks of alternative treatment in the Bahamas. I seldom left his side. That day he died, I had just fed him the lunch that I brought to the hospital, when a bood clot reached his heart and his passing was swift. His penultimate words to me were, “It’s another great adventure – and it’s only the beginning.” These were the same words he would say me when I was thrilled about whatever new and wonderful experience we were having. With his final breath, he said, “Where’s the music?” I played one of Kai’s favorite tunes, Miles Davis’ Sketches of Spain.
I told him that I loved him and said goodbye.


My heart was filled with gratitude for all the things that many musicians did for both of us. Clark Terry promoted a benefit in Hollywood. Both he and Chuck Mangione played at Kai’s memorial service. in a local church. Clark played “Lady H.” for the last time, the last tune that Kai wrote as tribute to me.

I knew Kai would want a party to send him off on his last grand adventure, so I bought champagne and food and invited his friends and family to a party held in Kai’s sister’s home.

Chuck came up to me at the party and asked me to ask Clark if they could jam together. I did, and afterwards, Chuck said, “It was like playing with God. “
I felt that Kai was close and enjoying himself.

Even though the surgeon received his payment from Medicaid, there were still staggering bills to be paid.

A couple of months later, the first day of the Newport Jazz Festival was dedicated to Kai; “ The Jazz World Honors a Great Musician.” The biggest jazz stars filled the two stages of the Village Vanguard that first night of the festival. All of them gave their time and talents to honor Kai. People were lined up around the block waiting to enter the club. It was rare to see all those big names in one place. Half of the proceeds were given to me to put toward the medical bills
Once again, I was blessed with love and support.

I appreciate the gift of knowing that Kai spent the last five and a half years of his life in Spain doing everything he wanted to do. He wrote his own music and arranged and played his original compositions in Europe and the States. He had claimed and celebrated his total artistic freedom.

Kai had used illness to develop a closer relationship with God. He released his considerable anger and much of his old agressive personality and became a kinder, more loving person. He left me a lasting example of conscious dying by accepting death as a door to continued growth.

I can still hear Kai saying, “It’s only the beginning,” even when his soul was leaving his body. His spirit reminds me to remain open to life, surrendering to joy and even death.

A male friend said, “Kai must have really loved you to marry you with three children.” I paused briefly and answered, “Yes. I was loved by a very special man.”

Learn something new everyday was one of my mother’s mantras as I was growing up. I took that seriously. Now there is the opportunity to learn dozens of new things every day thanks to the internet and living in Mexico.

I have been interested in the rich, ancient history of Mexico since high school in Lake Forest, IL.One of my favorite classes was Latin American history. As I remember, that class seemed to focus mostly on Mexico

Carved encaustic symbols

When I arrived in San Miguel de Allende in 2004 one of the first things I did was to investigate the countless books in the big, beautiful library. I dived deep into the history and culture. My art was focused on the indigenous symbols, color and and traditions. I excitedly embraced the many vivid parades of indigenous dancers whose pounding beats echoed in my heart.

I worked my way through the 800 pages of Mexico: Biography of Power, by Enrique Krauze. I learned a lot, but still had more to experience.

I visited the local pyramid just outside of San Miguel, that was under construction at the time, and met the local anthropologist. She visited one of my art exhibitions where my focus was on the symbols of the earliest Mexicans. She asked me to exhibit at the little museum on the grounds of the pyramid when it opened. I said, “but I am not a Mexican”. She said, “Yes you are.”

I wish my language skills would reflect that. Before Covid I attended a weekly, private Spanish conversation class and began to think I could speak Spanish. Unfortunately, even though the gardener says I can speak Spanish, it still is very basic, since I have been focusing on my art and teaching and not keeping up with my studies.

Recently I joined an excursion to an Otomî community. The Otomi are indigenous people of the Americas who inhabit a discontinuous territory in Centro Mexico, whose ancestors have occupied the Trans-Mexican Volcanic belt of several thousand years. Currently, the Otomi inhabit a fragmented territory ranging from northern Guanajuato, to eastern Michoacan and southeastern Tlaxcala.

I had heard about their communities, but never had seen them until that fascinating day.

First stop, we visited a plain, simple chapel that was built in 1815 and was maintained by one of the women in this location. Of course we heard about how the Catholic religion was introduced and enforced by the invading Spaniards and still lives strongly in the lives of Mexicans; however much like the religious parades, the traditional practices and traditions are still a part of the customs and celebrations

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Surrounding the chapel and in other areas are Calvarios, that are reminders of the suffering of Jesus, but are used, as I understand it, as a location where to contact ancestors.

After the chapel visit we walked a trail that once was a train track along side of an area of dried up earth and plants that at one time was a flowing river with a sandy beach. Anamaria, our link to the history of the area, explained that when she was a little child they happily swam and played in the clear, clean drinkable waters. Then outsiders took all the rocks and sand from the bottom of the river bed for building outside of the community and the water dried up because it no longer was contained by the rocky base

Anamaria

Anamaria told us how she and her mother would go into the mountains to gather herbs and flowers to sell in the city. She said at that time, when there were no stores and no phones, they all lived completely on what grew round them. The berries, cactus, mesquite pods and more. This life was natural and healthy. Anamarie explained that always before collecting herbs and food, permission was asked from the earth along with gratitude.

My son-in-law, Dr. Maka’ala Yates is Hawaiian and in his latest book, “Three Women Masters of Old Hawaii “(available on Amazon) he details how his culture, and training always respected mother earth, worked with her and asked permission before collecting healing herbs. Trained in Hawaiian healing since age six, he spent 45 years practicing and teaching worldwide. With a BS in Human Biology and a Chiropractic doctorate, He now travels the globe sharing Hawaiian wisdom to help people restore balance

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I believe all indigenous cultures used the same reverence for the natural abundance that used to be prevalent. It is time to re-discover how to live in harmony with the earth.

After our group exploration of the 2 Otomi communities, we were served a delicious lunch. I thought it might be beans and rice for me, I am a vegetarian, but I had a heaping plate of food -all vegetarian and unforgettably delectable

hand made tortillas with a special stamp on each one.

Then came the shopping. Salud Indigena: our hosts, are a cooperative microenterprise dedicated to the rescue of traditional plant wisdom. I normally avoid mole because most of them are too spicy for me, but Anamaria’s was like none I have experienced and not demasiado picante

Some of my purhases, herbal soap, a couple of ​embroidery samples and MOLE

Her recipe came from her great grandmother to her grandmother to her mother, then to Anamaria and now her daughter knows how to create it. When asked if she would share how to make it in a cooking class, she said “no”

I felt enriched and somewhat envious of the ability to be able to live close to the earth. It is something I always wanted to do. In Spain we had a large garden where I could choose our meals and in one of my apartments here I had a raised vegetable garden on the roof that produced enough produce to be able to give some away while enjoying a daily meal of freshly picked vegetables

The begining of my raised vegetable roof garden - a long time ago.

There is always something new to learn, even if it comes from centuries ago.

I am eager to learn new art techniques, try new paints and experiences. In this time of worldly chaos, create, investigate other cultures, take time to touch on your own inner peace and breathe. And learn something new everyday.

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Now

Then

As I recognize and accept that my body has aged and will never have the vitality, stamina and appearance that I used to take for granted, I have had to some rethinking about my life and purpose. Am I just taking up space if I can’t keep working, moving and socializing that I once did?

Well, I don’t want to socialize much. I love staying home enjoying my privacy, quiet hours of spiritual study and mediation, and not planning many activities for my days. The not having to make my lists of what I was going to do every morning is a habit that I find hard to break.

Until the recent troubling world events, my life seemed delightfully active. My calendar had just enough encaustic workshops to add excitement and a lot of planning so I could ignore what my body was experiencing.

Workshops have been canceled. At this point no studio visits are scheduled and I have no travel plans. Instead of bemoaning this fate I am slowly spending hours attempting to live in the moment and see the blessings and contentment that this brings. Too often my mind goes back to the past. It has been a long and full life. I have survived the betrayals, the pain, the joys, the love and the hate that are part of this planet’s schooling and now I am trying to spend more time in gratitude.

One of my many blessings is that I live in Mexico where I can afford the rent and other expenses that contribute to my well being. Here old age is respected, (usually) and honored.

So, now I am actually feeing this time of change as a gift.

A couple of days ago I had a chance to experience how blessed I am. I had planned to return a faulty gravity water filter to a shipping company. I had ordered it from Temu and after struggling to assemble it, I found it leaked badly and couldn’t be used. I packed it up and drove to the office of the shipping company in an inconvenient area. I parked my car in front of an old, active Mexican restaurant, took the package out of the car, locked the car door, put the key in my purse and carried the heavy package up the bumpy road andto find that the place was closed. I had been there before with returns and their website said they were open. So,I went back to the car only to find that the keys had disappeared! I looked under the car, emptied my purse, and walked the short distance back. No keys. The women from the restaurant came out and proceed to help me look for the keys. No success.

I had a spare key in my casita. I tried to book an Uber. The app did not work. I called a cab company that was unfamiliar to me and tired to give them the pick up information, but there was no marked address. A kind man who was working on a car next to the restaurant gave them the address. Then I stood by the highway waiting for my ride. Within about 10 minutes a taxi pulled up and I got in. With my less than perfect Spanish I explained that I did not have an address of my home either and gave him directions to my country cottage and that I had to get my extra car key. I asked him to wait and take me back to the restaurant where my car was parked. Since taxis here do not have meters the charge could be almost anything.

By this time I got a call that the driver I had preiously called had come but I had already left in the cab. I am not sure where this taxi had come from.

When we got to my home I had to shout to the handy man to let me in the gate. He didn’t appear. The owner of the property finally heard me and thought I had had an accident…

I got my extra key.

When we got back to the car. I asked what the fare was and it was a fraction of what I expected! I blessed this anger driver and gave him a good tip.

Now I had the car key. I was already making plans for the rest of my day. This spare key did not have the alarm shut off button and when I inserted it the screeching alarm startled everyone by the restaurant.

I closed the door and decided the ladies in the restaurant had already done so much for me I should at least have lunch there.

After lunch I went back to the car and drove the car with the ear blasting alarm going off to my mechanic’s workshop that was just a short drive away. A worker there was able to shut off the noise, but not the flashing lights… just then, Victor the owner walked in. I have known Victor for many years. He said I would have to have a new, expensive key made because the flashing light would drain the battery and he would drive me to a place that didn’t charge too much.

We drove through back streets and when we arrived at the shopt Victor explained what I needed. The young person there didn’t have the right equipment, but the owner was called and he appeared in a few minutes.

With my heart filled with gratitude for Victor’s appearance and help, after a few hours I had the new gadget that works the alarm.

Exhausted, I got home and counted all the blessings of that day.

No one can tell me my angels weren’t helping.

Everything that seemed to be our countable, worldly structure is disappearing and crumbling. I woke up happy this morning. “How can you be happy when this malignancy is growing worse everyday?”

Jump for Joy#2, 32” x 40”

Knowing that I can not really make big world changes, I must change me - my thinking, my actions, my participation in my community and beyond. I am grateful that now I have more free time for spiritual study, meditation and making art while expecting major changes

December and January blessed me with several encaustic workshops to conduct. Once again I met people in these classes, that I would never have met otherwise. I embraced the fact that I could encourage the participants to expand their emotional structure and feel what they were creating. Each person made something personal and unique. Make beauty! Create something singular! Bring in the Light! Share it publicly!

After the workshops finished in January, I finally went back in the studio to make my own art. it was as if my heart opened up and the joy poured into the painting.

Our Story, 40” x 64”

Time for Beauty, encaustic enhanced Giclee print

I no longer read the sordid details of the heartbreaking daily news. I do check the headlines and am not blind to what is happening on our planet. The news directs my prayers for healing and embracing the Light. Events are moving very quickly now. It can be over whelming if we connect emotionally with every horrible announcement. We often feel overwhelmed, stretched thin, or quietly asking “What can I do that truly matters right now, without collapsing mentally, emotional or spiritually?

There is so much beauty in this world; so many beautiful, kind, intelligent people that carry and express Light and goodness. I understand that all this confusion, fear and ugliness will pass and we can add our hope, kindness and yes, even joy to the collective’s love and peace. I continue to follow the Buddhist monks’ walk for peace on YouTube. They are a beautiful example of the longing for peace that most of the thousand of followers want. Still, there are angry people who do not understand that Buddhism is not a religion, it is a path and the monks are not trying to change anyone’s religion. The protesters are convinced that their religion is the only one and anyone who disagrees is “going to hell” There is more than one absolute way. It doesn’t matter if we follow a religious or a spiritual path. Every human being carries the spark of cosmic ​consciousness.

“Without the dark we could not see the contrast of the Light” I do not remember who said this, but I see the image and the polarities. My mental picture of our beautiful planet is a rebirth of new green shoots pushing through the ashes of the crumbling earth, just like what happens when there has been a fire that has destroyed everything in its path and mother nature’s response is sending new growth

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I believe all of this ungodly evil will surface after being hidden for who can count how many years? And then we will start the rebuilding of the new world. Our lives and hearts will seek balance and equality. I may not be here to see it, but it will happen.

Thoughts are things.

This was proven to me long ago when I was in a class to teach us that all of us are psychic. I refused to believe that at the start of the continuing program, and planned to get my money back, but one of the things we experienced was photographing out thoughts. We concentrated our private thoughts on a piece of photographic paper in a dimly lit room and then developed it in the photographic solution, I was shocked to see the fuzzy image of the person I was thinking about. I went home thinking that I had better be careful of my thoughts especially about our troublesome dog.

Do what brings you joy. Watch your breathing and your thoughts. Live each moment completely. Someday is now.

You can follow this beautiful walk on YouTube.

wasingtin D.

It has been a fulfilling few weeks for me, as I recently conducted three encaustic workshops in the span of just three weeks. As always, it was an enlightening experience to meet individuals I might not have encountered otherwise and to stretch my abilities in creating custom classes.

Last week, a family of three from Colorado participated in a five-day workshop, where we explored a multitude of creative possibilities with painting using fire.

This week has been a time for me to catch up. I’ve had the opportunity for longer meditations and to focus on living in the moment. One of my favorite mantras from my guru, Paramahansa Yogananda, resonates deeply with me: “Live each present moment completely, and the future will take care of itself. Enjoy the wonder and beauty of each instant and practice the presence of peace. The more you practice this presence, the more power you will have in your life.”

Adding to the significance of this mantra is the monks’ walk for peace. I have been following their journey on YouTube. They began in Texas and are walking to Washington, D.C.

The monks’ journey commenced on October 26, 2025, at a Vietnamese Buddhist temple in Texas, and is scheduled to conclude in mid-February in Washington, D.C., where they will petition Congress to recognize Buddha’s day of birth and enlightenment as a federal holiday. Along the way, they are sharing messages of hope and peace, reminding us to “Watch the breath and be in the present,” and to practice loving kindness without multitasking!

It is beautiful to witness the thousands of people coming to see the monks and hear their message as they pass through various towns. Their messages stand in stark contrast to the threats and darkness surrounding the United States government—a true juxtaposition of Light and Darkness. I believe that the Light is stronger and will ultimately prevail. Americans do not desire war.

While I realize there is little I can do to change the evil and greed that seem to dominate the world right now, I can maintain my personal peace and joy—staying informed without allowing myself to be swept into negativity. We can choose our thoughts, and I am choosing to be hopeful.

To further cultivate this sense of positivity, I am reading Jane Goodall’s latest book, “The Book of Hope: A Survival Guide for Trying Times.” Jane Goodall is one of my heroes, and I included her portrait in my series, “Women Who Changed the World.” After her passing last October, her latest broadcasts can be found online

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Here is an excerpt from the book: “…over the couple of million years that we have been humans, I do think we have increasingly become more caring and compassionate. Although there is much cruelty and injustice everywhere, there is general agreement that these behaviors are wrong. More people understand what is going on thanks to the media. When all is said and done, I honestly believe that a far greater percentage of people are basically decent and kind… Just as we are capable of true evil, I think we are also capable of true altruism.”

Once again, I am grateful for my life in Mexico. I was speaking with my oldest daughter about my lovely day. I had a treatment from my dear acupuncturist, and afterwards, I visited friends who treated me to a late breakfast of fabulous French toast. The highlight was our deep spiritual conversation that lasted for another hour. I feel blessed to have such wonderful companions on my path. Although I live alone, I never feel lonely.

My daughter remarked, “Mom, you have a perfect life.” I agreed. It took many years and some important life decisions, but here I am at the end of the trail, living a peaceful life and eager to return to the studio to create light-filled, joyful art.

“Live each present moment completely, and the future will take care of itself. Enjoy the wonder and beauty of each instant and practice the presence of peace…”

I am now a great grandmother. In this picture I am cuddling the new baby girl while enjoying the embrace of my grand son.

Under my high school yearbook picture, an unknown editor wrote, “Artists are always young.” At that time, I couldn’t imagine being old or even consider myself an artist. In my last post, I shared how long it took me to claim to the world—and to myself—that I was worthy of being labeled an artist.

In recent years, I’ve begun to see some truth in that saying. As working artists, we are never finished; there are always the next painting to create, more techniques to explore, and so much more to experience in the realm of art.

As the years of my life accumulate, I often hear, “You are an inspiration.” This always makes me pause and reflect, “Why?” I used to feel a twinge of resentment, thinking, “Why? Just because of my age? Just because I get out of bed every morning and have been for many years? Are you surprised that I can still function, take care of myself, drive, create, teach, and embrace life with joy?”

Lately, I’ve come to understand that I am being perceived as an old woman. Could it be because I am? Are we so programmed to believe that someone over 70 is only capable of taking up space? I am here to prove that, whether an artist or not, living a long, full life is a gift filled with wonderful and heartbreaking experiences, joy and pain, light and dark. Aging has given me the opportunity to realize that all we have is this day, this moment to live and see each occurrence in life as a chapter in my earthly story. The lifetime of memories are just that, memories. More and more, I ask myself, “What did I learn from each experience?” I am playing my part in this play and may I play it well, lovingly, kindly and always learning.

My mother often said, “Learn something new every day.” In this fast-paced world, the longer I live, the more I learn—much more than just one thing each day. I manage all my social media, my blog, website, Facebook postings, online galleries, as well as posting my meanderings on Substack. I take time everyday to find peace and joy in my meditations and prayer.

And gratitude! Living in Mexico allows me to afford healthcare, which is crucial as I finally recognize and accept the cellular decay my body is experiencing. Fresh fruit and vegetables are plentiful. I have been a vegetarian for almost 50 years and the only drawback I experience is that I have to shop more often.

Just this morning, as I drove back from my monthly acupuncture appointment, I felt happy and blessed to have a wonderful doctor who knows me and takes the time for deep conversations. We talked about color healing, Qi gong and the details about opening all the channels in the body that can be blocked…And I can afford the charge. When I choose to see ​allopathic doctors, I am impressed with the treatment and care.

Through offering my encaustic workshops, I meet the most wonderful people who choose to experience encaustic painting under my guidance. I am invigorated by sharing all that I know about painting with fire and hot wax. Each person brings their own questions and energy. In the most resent private class the participant admitted that she had challenges with color, so I could focus on expanding her adventure with color balance and composition.

This not only enriches my life but also contributes to my income, allowing me to live comfortably in my little flower-covered casita with a separate studio. 2 1/2 years ago I moved from a large home that I shared with another artist. It had 2 studios, my viewing room, big kitchen - lots of inside space and grounds to a perfect small sunny cottage. Living alone, my time is my own. I eat dinner at 4:30 most days, have hours of quiet and the studio is just a few steps from my front door.

This post does not include a portion of my memoir about my big move to Mexico 21 years ago. This is about my life here now. I am grateful for this opportunity to grow in understanding of life in a different culture and of myself as an artist and and peaceful, happy woman.

What is an artist’s lifespan in actual years on earth? There is no expiration date on creativity unless we decide to stop creating. I know more about my artistic progression, style, and voice than ever before. Looking back on more than 65 years of work, I find it interesting and sometimes surprising. The different styles, techniques, stories - I always have a story for each painting, I realize that a whole lifetime may not be enough to explore everything I want to discover.

Ultimately, the quality of an artist’s work depends on dedication, openness to fresh ideas, and being true to our personal expression—not our age. Sometimes, it takes a lifetime. Another reminder: Someday is now.

Picasso said, “every child is born an artist” meaning children are naturally creative, uninhibited, and expressive. The second part of the quote; “The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up,” suggests that judgment and thoughtless criticism can stifle this innate creativity and block us the rest of our lives. Were you told to “stay within the lines and focus on more practical aspects of life?” I was! My father said, “What good is art? You can’t eat it or wear it.”

However, finally I have accepted the fact that I am an artist. It was was a childhood dream and ambition of my life time to say, “I am an artist.” Apparently​ I believed it was a far off aspiration that I had to earn. One just couldn’t say “I am an artist” without creating brilliant, perfect works of art and being accepted in important art communities. Making lots of money selling my art would certainly prove that I deserved this magical title. When I lived in the States, when i said I was an artist, I was frequently asked if I were a successful art….meaning did I make a lot of money, or “An artist! No. What do you really do?”

When I was just a child, I remember going into an art supply store and asking for “lamp black watercolor for transparent washes” I probably didn’t know anything about transparent washes, but I loved acting as if I did.

I drew and drew, especially people. In a earlier post I shared that I almost didn’t make it into 6th grade because of ignoring the arithmetic assignments, I spent my days drawing my classmates. ( I am so old that math was called arithmetic)

After years of attending art schools, getting my FAA degree, countless gallery shows, teaching hundreds of creative students both privately an in a university, I still didn’t feel that I was a legitimate artist. Thinking in terms of author Malcolm Gladwell’s proverbial 10,000 hours, which suggests that one achieves a certain degree of excellence only after so many hours and years of practice in a discipline, (I know that I have put in more than 10,000 hours.) This requires a person to hone their talents to such a degree that the necessary motor skills become instinctual, ​relying more one’s own intuitive powers. This is what I share in my workshops. I want to encourage the participants to “feel” the creative process rather than intellectualize it.

Finally, I recognized that I have always been an artist in this life and have been developing my creative and mental qualities over time, constantly wanting to reach new artistic heights, share with others, both students and collectors.

I have been teaching the encaustic technique here for 20 years

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I’ve come to know that we who are involved in the arts for any period of time can experienced moments of inspiration. At this point, it can feel as though something has been handed to you. I have had students, both young and mature, be completely surprised by the outcome. That is such a a rewarding experience! I love sharing all that I know.

Last week I was blessed by a delightful workshop participant who booked a one day private class. She said, “I am not an artist” I was motivated to prove to her that she just needed to trust her instincts and feel what she was doing instead of using her intellect. This is what she created that day

.For those of my subscribers who are interested in my first experiences when I moved to San Miguel 21 years ago here is another except from my memoir, Fireworks at Dawn

• Once a week vendors set up a temporary market on my street . They seem to magically materialize to stack tables high with fresh produce, underwear, sacks of grain, beans, pasta, clay pots and cups, batteries, rather rusty tools, and used extension cords. There are always herbs and geraniums planted in cans priced at a few pesos.

• This feeling that floods my being right now is utter contentment. After two years of living on Privada de Guidiana, I still marvel at the beauty of the faces of the old Mexican women, wrapped in their rebosos.

  

  

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  Where there are Mexicans there is food. It doesn’t seem to matter what time of day it is. The stools in front of the make–shift kitchen this Monday are filled with hungry customers. 5 pigs’ heads would soon be cooked and the meat added to the tortillas along with beans, napolitos, (cooked chopped cactus), guacamole, and fiery hot salsa. I am not tempted to taste the food, having just had my melon smoothie and a fresh carrot and raisin muffin. Pig’s head bake has never been high on my list of favorite foods
  

• At the end of the short line of tables, I see that my regular produce woman already has customers standing in line to have their bulging bags of fruit and vegetables weighed.
  There are no other gringas shopping at this market. This pleases me. I smile at the beautiful children, excuse myself as I reach between two women at the vegetable table who are engaged in a lively conversation, and tear plastic bags off the roll. The overhead blue plastic tarp is hanging low. I have to duck my head to reach the tunas (prickly pears). The papayas are oversize. I decide on a pineapple and a few mangos instead. Even though I don’t have to carry my purchases far, I know that my reward for shopping at the same stand every week will be about 5 pounds of free bananas with a bunch of cilantro thrown in for good measure.
  Arms straining, with two bulky shopping bags I walk along my street and nod and smile at Rosa, my favorite neighbor who is just setting up a table in front of her door. She is beautiful. Her smile changes her wrinkled face into pure radiance, as she advises me that the barbequed elote (corn) will be ready shortly. This is a favorite snack that is served with a generous helping of chili powder and lime juice. This unusual recipe is a mouthwatering and tear producing discovery for me. The second time I bought the elote, I asked Rosa to go light on the chili pepper. Now she always picks out the tenderest cob for me, adds extra lime juice and just a gringa sized sprinkling of chili.

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  This is a portrait of Rosa. When she posed for me I asked her not to smile. That was impossible for her
  
  

Lately, I’ve had to do some soul-searching. Why am I still making art when the world seems to be drowning in conflict, pain, wars, division, and chaos?

And perhaps more personally, I am nearing the end of my part in this play of human life. Almost every day, I look around for more tangible things to donate or throw away so that my family won’t be burdened with my “stuff.” I already have many paintings piled up.

Then it came to me: making art is what I do — it’s who I am. It’s far too late to find another direction. Perhaps I’ll simply make smaller paintings; they’ll be easier to store or sell.

When I insisted on going to art school after high school — very much against my parents’ plans for me — my father said, “What good is art? You can’t eat it or wear it.”

This a painting that I made many years ago. In it we see my immigrant parents proudly standing in front of the first Kraus Sheet Metal Works. My mother, the power behind the success of the business, stands in back, close to the display of Chamber Stoves she sold.

His words didn’t make much of an impact at the time. My dreams and direction were clear: I was going to be an artist. Even as a small child, I loved to draw, especially portraits. In fifth grade, instead of doing my math, I drew pictures of my classmates. Then came the startling command from my usually supportive teacher: I wouldn’t pass into sixth grade unless I completed my math workbook. My father worked with me many evenings so I could finish it.

Now, years later, I find myself pondering again: Is making art important now, or is it an indulgence? Should I be doing something more productive? And what would that even be, at my age?

But here’s what I’ve come to believe: without art, there is no civilization. And by “art,” I mean all forms of creative expression — painting, drawing, music, singing, writing poetry, dancing, gardening, even inventive cooking. Creativity is an intention to connect with joy, beauty, amusement, and wonder — whether we share it with others or not. We all need to be creative.

I’m not paying as much attention to the news these days. Instead, I spend more time in spiritual study and meditation, which bring me a quiet, untouchable joy.

We can’t control the world, but we can work to control our thoughts — and yes, that takes effort.

Making art isn’t self-indulgent; it’s an essential, radical act of creation. Take time for your own creative practice. Move past self-doubt and start expressing yourself. If you’ve ever felt that your creativity doesn’t matter in a world full of problems, remember: leaving a spark of your own light behind is something profoundly beautiful.

One of my happiest moments is when I’m teaching and I see that light appear in someone’s eyes — that instant when they recognize their own creativity.

So, to answer my own questioning: I will continue to make as much beauty as I can through my art, for as long as I am here — until it’s time to go home.

For years, golden hoop earrings were my favorites.Here is a photo of me on my 91st birthday with golden earrings.

When I was a young girl, about the age of the above photo of me standing in my mother’s rock garden, I saw the movie Golden Earrings that was released in 1947.

I was enchanted by this romantic, fantasy story and decided that I wanted to be a gypsy. My mother allowed me to purchase the sheet music, Golden Earrings, to play on the piano. I was never a good musician, but I played this tune over and over and became more besotted with the idea of the golden earrings.

This figment of my imagination remained of my impression of gypsies until we moved to Spain in 1977. Genuine gypsies lived not far from us on our summit.

My Friend Maria: A Window into Romani Life in Spain

My first encounter with Maria, a Romani woman, was when she knocked on our door one afternoon asking to use our phone. At the time, we were one of the few homes on that hillside, La Loma, with a landline. When we bought the house, we hadn’t realized how difficult—and expensive—it was to get a phone installed in Spain. Of course, cell phones weren’t even in our imaginations yet.

The phone line came with the house, thank goodness—my husband needed it to run his music business.

Maria explained she needed to call her lawyer to help get her husband, Jose, out of jail. He’d been arrested on drug charges. I said yes, and that brief moment at the doorway turned into something much more enduring.

Maria worked at night telling fortunes up and down the Costa del Sol, mostly in Fuengirola, to earn the money for her husband’s legal defense. After many months—and many more phone calls—Jose was released.

During that time, over cups of tea and long conversations, I began to learn about the real life of the Romani people. Maria became my friend. But in truth, I don’t think any non-Gypsy is ever considered a close friend by the Romani. Outsiders are viewed as a kind of pollutant to their tightly guarded culture.

Their world operated under its own rules—regarding life, education, marriage. In Spain, the government sometimes granted them small plots of land where they set up temporary housing. In our town, the “Gypsy King” could often be seen sitting in the gardens, dressed in a sharp suit, a gold-tipped cane in hand.

The men rarely worked—unless one considers theft an occupation.

Maria, on the other hand, was impressive: she spoke several languages and told vivid stories of her people’s travels across Europe. She spoke fondly of sleeping under the stars, saying she felt the breath of Mother Earth when lying on the ground.

She explained the Romani origins, tracing their migration from northern India and recounting centuries of persecution.

“Historians estimate that up to 500,000 Roma were murdered by the Nazis and their collaborators,” she told me. “Many more were imprisoned, forced into labor, sterilized, or used for medical experiments.”

As we spent more time together, Maria read my cards and eventually invited me to their home for tea. Few local Romani had houses, so I was curious. She lived there with her two daughters—and a goat or two. The corners of the sofa were nibbled, a silent testament to their unusual housemates.

She invited me to photograph her daughters for portraits. As I waited for them to get ready, they broke into spontaneous flamenco. Their energy transformed the room—their movements fierce, passionate, raw.

After experiencing a true gypsy flamenco, I was spoiled. In my opinion, no non-Romani could ever embody that same blend of pride, pain, and ancestral memory.

One summer, we closed the house for our annual trip to Nice, France, to attend the jazz festival. We asked our closest neighbors to keep an eye on things. When we returned, we discovered we’d been robbed.

It seemed whoever broke in had stayed a while—my second-best china was gone, along with clothes, small appliances, and even old makeup. Our bright, colorful bedspread was missing. Strangely, none of the silver was touched. I felt sure it was the local gypsies, though I believed Maria had somehow softened the blow.

When we reported the theft to the police, the officer shrugged. “If you didn’t have those things, they couldn’t have stolen them.” True, but not exactly comforting.

Later, I asked Maria, “Why do gypsies steal?”

She answered simply, “We only take what you don’t need.”

“Yes,” I replied, “but you decide what we don’t need—not us.”

We were robbed five more times over the years. The last two incidents were not the gypsies—it was the drug addict next door.

Still, Maria and I continued to visit until we eventually left Spain eight years later. In many ways, she was my teacher—about culture, resilience, and the complexities of a world I might never have known otherwise.

The above painting, “My God Has Been Too Small”, was made at least 30 years ago from my series, “Her Journey” about everywoman’s journey to be self realized. It seems to echo how some of us feel about what is happening now. It is our personal chose how to exit our emotional cages.

Color has always held deep significance for me. Having studied its effect on the emotions and the body for many years, I was surprised when Sherwin-Williams announced Khaki as the color of the year.

It’s not a color I would ever choose instinctively — so I turned to AI to understand its symbolic meaning:

“The word ‘khaki’ comes from a Persian word for ‘dust’ or ‘soil.’ It refers to an earthy, neutral, muted shade — typically yellowish-brown or brownish-green. Khaki is associated with nature, practicality, reliability, and military origins. It symbolizes a connection to the earth, functionality, and understated strength, while also conveying calmness and grounding qualities.”

I understand the collective need for calm and centeredness — especially as we witness the ever-growing chaos in the world. It’s difficult not to feel fear, anger, or frustration, particularly if you’re constantly exposed to the news.

But... khaki?

Last week, I became acutely aware of my aging. Sometimes, even now, I’m startled by how old I am. The changes in my body are undeniable. A question lingered in my mind: Am I just taking up space on this earth?

Still, I packed a large suitcase full of encaustic paints, tools, and supplies to lead a program at the Exploring & Manifesting the Creative Self retreat. I printed out Qigong materials and brought my Sacred Women Tarot cards for the “Intuition” sessions I was scheduled to lead.

I was nudged out of my comfortable stay-at-home routine, joining a group of 13 women. We stayed at the same hotel, shared beautiful meals, and slowly opened up to one another. My heart expanded with each conversation.

On the first day, I introduced myself, shared what I’d be teaching — and mentioned my age. That certainly got their attention. People are often surprised I’m still walking around, let alone teaching hot wax painting!

It was a joy to lead the first early morning Qigong practice, offer tarot card readings after lunch, and introduce the group to the magic of painting with fire in the afternoons.

The next morning, we began with Yogananda’s energizing exercises, followed by a color meditation, and more hands-on encaustic work. The hot wax painting was a hit.

Seems as if I still have something to share.

One woman told me it was her favorite part of the entire retreat.

She said, “Ezshwan, you have to come back next year.”

I replied, “If I’m still here…”

She frowned. “Don’t say that.”

But she doesn’t yet realize — what peace and love are waiting for us on the other side.

Here is another excerpt from my 20 year old memoir about my early experience when moving to San Miguel de Allende

One Sunday, after a late lunch, I went up to the terrace to bask in the sun, embracing the fragrance and sparkle of spring in San Miguel. Those seven or so weeks of winter were enough. Now, I can be rid of the wooly socks and bulky sweaters. Stretched out on a lounge, I sipped my Sunday margarita and scanned my Spanish verb conjugation lesson. A neighbor was washing his car with the stereo blaring the song,“Estoy Contento”, “I am Content”. What perfect lyrics for this moment. I love my new life and who I have become. If were just visiting, I wouldn’t want to leave. Thank goodness I am home.

I have a feeling of anticipation every morning. The sensuality of the light, history, textures, smells and sounds seep into my consciousness. Layers of peeling paint on old walls and the symphony of colors are a reminder of other times and other stories. This is the right atmosphere for my spirit to soar and my heart and imagination to expand and explore. Mexico is saturated with passion. For me, life without passion is like working with only beige paint on my palette.


Last evening, upon returning from a trip to a Queretaro, I breathed a sigh of relief to be home. I recognized it has happened. I am settled and comfortable in my new surroundings. The downstairs is lovely with the plants and fresh flowers. The unpainted tables and desk that I got in Michoacán are now enhanced with rich, sparkling colors, paintings are in place; I have a refrigerator full of organic vegetables and fresh yogurt, my stacks of CDs give me hours of beautiful music. Tract lights illuminate the art; I have a supply of bottled water on each floor; my meditation spot and altar is set up with candles and incense; the studio is the best I have ever had. A hand woven bedspread now graces my bed. Hand painted dishes have replaced the ones that Cony left for me. My fountain works. I can bring my laptop computer to the terrace and write while I enjoy the fresh air and the view. I look up from my table and I feel my heart expand with wonder that I actually live here.

Before the transformation in my house, I would leave as early as possible to explore and discover the city, but now I’ve spent weeks of time painting almost anything that would hold still, making the place a colorful surprise as soon as the front door is opened. A recent visitor exclaimed, “Everywhere I look in your house, I see something beautiful or interesting.” What a grand compliment. Now it takes a lot more effort to leave my attractive nest.

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Living in peace and contentment, I am holding a space of peace that can spread and grow to all around me. I am gently freeing myself from the old conditioning of what is expected of a 70 something woman. This is the happiest time of my life. Sure I still have emotional bumps in the road, but I remember Yogananda words, “A saint is a sinner who never gave up.”
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I am sometimes asked if I am lonely living alone way out in the country? The answer is no. In fact I look forward to the days that I do not have to leave home. When I do leave, I have to drive over the cobble stone (really river rock roads) The biggest super markets are about a 15 minute drive, as well as the same time to get to centro. I avoid “downtown” as much as possible. Parking is difficult and it is crowded. San Miguel de Allende is a tourist town now and the weekends are especially mobbed.

I haven’t been lonely in a long time. I love the quiet and peace of my country cottage. Early mornings I sit with my cup of coffee studying my spiritual lessons, introspecting and watching the sun rise. It is one of my favorite daily experiences. I repeat this before bed - not the sun rise of course.

After the body is taken care of I dress, exercise and meditate for about an hour. This precious experience grants me peace and joy. I am a Kriya yogi ( Kriya Yoga is an ancient meditation technique of energy and breath control, or pranayama. ) I am dedicated to the teaching of Paramahansa Yogananda and have been on this path for 50 years. I do not wish to pontificate. Everyone much choose their own way of self realization, peace and joy.

More and more I sense the gradual changes in my consciousness to calm detachment; perceiving the “real” world as a movie where I am playing my part in its drama.

I am fully aware of the chaos of the world right now; and the news seems to get worse everyday. I feel empathy for all the persecuted souls, my heart hurts. I work to stay in my peace and send vibrations of love to all who are being killed and terrorized.

The yogic tradition suggests that the last years, months, weeks of a persons life should be spent in solitude and contemplation. That is what I am experiencing.

However, I am still excited about my new series, Sweet Dreams and want to spend as much time as possible in the studio. I am now working on 2 more which makes 14 paintings in the series. Here is the image of the finished painting that I shared in the last post

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A new painting has just been commissioned that someone found on FaceBook.That painting is sold but I will make one close, to it. Next week I will be part of a retreat; Exploring & Manifesting the Creative Self. Presented by Robin Frelier whom I met last year when she attended a cold wax workshop in my studio. My part in the retreat will be focused on intuition. I will be sharing an introduction to Qi Gong, my color meditation, brief tarot readings from my Sacred Women tarot deck, later followed by an encaustic demonstration. So you see even though I chose as much solitude as possible, I am happy to share whatever I have created and experienced.

Back to an excerpt from my memoir that was written about 20 years ago

“Life is short, but it is wide,” is a Mexican saying. The days do seem to be flying by, but they are filled with a wealth of new experiences and new friends.

My first trip to Mexico City was fifty-five years ago. What I remember of that is just a gossamer image of romance and history. My naïveté, budding womanhood and the mistaken belief that the Mariachis under my hotel window at night were serenading me colored the quixotic aura.

My parents and I drove to Texas from our home in Lake Bluff, Illinois then flew to Mexico City. My father let me help with the driving, even though I had just received my driver’s license. Surprised by my parents’ trust in me I nervously slipped behind the wheel. By the grace of God and the fact that there were not as many cars on the road then as now, we arrived at our destination safety.

I loved my high school Latin American history class, and I eagerly looked forward to the actual contact with the ancient culture and the pyramids of Mexico. My teacher allowed me to skip my final exam so we could leave on the appointed date. I had gotten all A’s in the course and my school did allow consistent honor roll students to miss one final a semester.

My memories of the adventure include the shopping trip to Taxco. Dad being in the sheet metal business, turned his nose up at crystal, but he appreciated silver and encouraged mother to buy it.

Of course we had to see the pyramids outside of Mexico City. I climbed the hundreds of steps to the top of the Pyramid of the Sun alone. On my decent I explained the history of the pyramids to my parents. My sophomoric knowledge impressed only me.


Mexico City has changed as much as I.
A new friend, Jan, whom I met when she took my first encaustic workshop, loves Mexico City and a Mexican man. I told Jan that I wanted to visit this immense, historical city, but I had trepidations about making the trip alone. She invited me to accompany her and Guillermo on one of their many visits there. I was delighted and surprised that a woman I scarcely knew could be so accommodating. She sent me an e-mail list of what she thought would be interesting to me in the five days we would be there.

We decided to take the 7 a.m. bus that would get us there before lunch. A taxi would pick us up at 6:30. I packed a small case, but my excitement kept me awake most of the night. In my insomniac state, I picked up a guidebook in the middle of the night and read all the warnings about the hazards of Mexico City – the pollution, the high prices, the kidnapping and robbery of innocent tourists by taxi drivers and other dire warnings. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I got up and took my credit card and debit card out of my wallet and found a money belt to be worn inside my clothes. Dozing just a bit, dreaming of possible violent endings on my anticipated trip, I awoke before the alarm. I reassured myself I would be safe traveling with people who knew and loved this largest of all cities.

The first-class bus trip proved to be comfortable and on time. This bus also provided earphones, so we could control the usual deafening noise of the violent bus movies. I’ll take first class Mexican buses over air travel anytime.

In the taxi from the bus station, in Mexico City, Jan told me what she had planned for our first day and enthusiastically pointed out the displays of graffiti that cover long walls leading to the center of the city. The graffiti filled walls are beautiful works of art
Our hotel in the Centro Histórico had a view of the main cathedral. We were tired, but eager to explore the most important public buildings and see as much art as possible.

In 2003, the city got a facelift, including the restoration and conversion of many eighteen and nineteen century buildings. Grassy knolls and public art grace the boulevards.

Starting at the House of Tiles, Jan and I ate lunch, surrounded by the precious colonial treasures and murals. From there we went to the National Museum, the art exhibition at the main branch of Banamex and lastly Bellas Artes.

Jan shared her excitement and admiration for the artist Jorge Gonález Camaraena, someone new to me. His powerful mural in Bellas Artes mesmerized me. Craning my neck to study the compelling mural, I sat on a bench next to Jan absorbing the vibrant colors and dramatic composition. The entire second floor of Bellas Artes houses murals created by famous Mexican artists I’ve made murals and I appreciate the skill necessary to work that large.

With the little energy we had left, we searched through used bookstores, carrying away heavy bags of art and Mexican history books. In Mexico City, stores and shops of like kind are all grouped together, so even though it had started to rain, we easily slipped out of one doorway and into the next, continuing our book shopping without getting soaked.

The first day left us weary but happy. We went to bed early anticipating more adventures. The next day, Guillermo joined us and took over the tour plans. I followed like a happy puppy. He hailed cabs, got us on the right buses and subways and introduced me to his Mexico City. By now, I felt comfortable and eager for each new experience.

We went to art stores and stocked up with materials that aren’t available in San Miguel. Both Jan and I were as excited as children on Christmas as we shopped, explored the choices of colored pigments, brushes, tools and varnishes. Art supplies stores are thrilling for artists. All the possibilities of using different materials stretch our creative imaginations.

Over the next four days, I experienced new foods, new sights, more Mexican history and philosophy, including the Spanish Cultural Center. The cutting edge modern art impressed me. I hadn’t known what to except from this ancient city and I was wide–eyed with wonder.

The San Angel district holds an art exhibit every Saturday. Hundreds of artists set up in the park, and work of every kind and quality is displayed at affordable prices. The surrounding neighborhood has cobblestone streets and colonial-era homes, restaurants, and museums. I had the feeling that I could have been in an upscale northern California town, except for the color, noise, and a full orchestra serenading the people strolling in the park.

After a subway ride across town for two pesos – less than twenty cents - we arrived at a fancy shopping center, the Plaza Loreto. I wasn’t asking questions about where we were going. I made the assumption that we would be having lunch there – my growling stomach asked to be fed. Instead, we lined up to enter Museo Sanmayo.
We took turns standing in this long line, so I could explore the beautiful shops and get a cappuccino. Many young people were standing in the drizzle on this Saturday afternoon waiting for the museum experience. I said to Jan,” I wonder if kids from the States would be patient enough to wait in the rain just to see art?”

After the simplicity of the entrance, the grandeur of the museum and masterpieces that were exhibited on the impressive silk brocade walls surprised me. Six centuries of art, including one hundred great masters made up the exhibition. The viewers were studying each painting and many were making notes. Jan, Guillermo and I each went our separate ways. Hours later I rejoined my companions outside, I had forgotten about my hunger. It had been replaced with an even greater appreciation of Mexico’s love of art.

On our last day in Mexico City we indulged ourselves with a breakfast of creamed peppers wrapped in an omelet. There is a famous bakery close to the hotel and we loaded paper bags with cream-filled chocolate cupcakes for the bus ride home. Totally satiated, we decided our last adventure of this trip would be the Anthropological Museum. I had seen pictures of it and read books about the collections, but I wasn’t prepared for the size of the museum - 44,000 square feet of beauty, and priceless ancient objects.

The first room I entered was dedicated to pre–Columbian women and rituals. I paused in front of a ceramic figurative sculpture. I felt a pulsing sensation in my forehead. “That’s bizarre’, I thought as I walked away from the exhibition case to see if it continued. This strange sensation stopped. I spun around and returned to the glass case. Once again the gentle vibration began. The image, a primitive representation of a female figure from ancient Peru had been used in some kind of religious ceremony. I don’t know what the connection was between the carving and me, but the phenomenon got my attention. I wonder about it still.

A couple of days earlier I had gone off on my own to explore. Jan was nursing a painful back and she needed to rest. I didn’t want to miss anything and set of for the remains of the pyramids of the Templo Mayor, (Great Temple) of the Aztecs. As I walked through the open ruins on the way to the museum, my head started to spin. Extreme dizziness over took me. I found some steps, sat down with my head between my knees to keep from fainting. “Wow! What’s going on?” I’d only fainted once in my life. I was 14 years old when I ran a wood–carving tool into my hand. The sight of all that blood knocked me flat. But why now? Was I experiencing the continuing power of this ancient site? Had I been here in a previous life? I felt it was possible.
I sensed the lingering energy of death and war is still hangs in the atmosphere. At the time of the Spanish conquest in 1521, this site was the center of religious life for the city of 300,000 people. The ruins and the connecting museum were just a couple of blocks from our hotel. The hotel, like most of the surrounding buildings, had been built over these sacred grounds. After slaughtering hundreds of thousand of Indians, Cortez finally captured the city and destroyed most of it. When I regained my equilibrium I entered the museum.

All of the over 6,000 pieces displayed in this museum were found in the excavations from the ruins just in front of the building. I became absorbed in the hashed presence of this powerful history.

Later the same day, I returned to the plaza, the Zocolo that fronts the main cathedral. This church was built over the primary pyramid using stones from the pyramids' construction. The plaza’s almost electrical surge affected my balance once again. It wasn’t unpleasant, just strange. Maybe on some level of consciousness, I was again experiencing a connection with ancient roots.

In the Zocolo the sound of music and indigenous dancers pulled me into the crowd. I saw Tarot readers, and healers who were offering herbal and magical remedies and smudging clients with sage sticks. The noise and smells of all the people and activity reminded me of the kinetic power of the grand plaza in Marrakech, Morocco. But, nothing is really like Mexico City.

We just got a small taste of all there is to see and do on this trip. I am already thinking about my next visit. Now I have no fear of kidnapers or other problems and I will bring my credit card.

In my last post I mentioned that I was planning a new series of food still lifes. This new series is called, “Sweet Dreams” I love desserts, but am disciplined about eating very little sugar; however studying the details of the photos that only challenges my creativity.

At this point I have made 8 paintings and have another one almost finished and a few more canvases prepared.

The first one took me over a week to complete. I was struggling with the technique. It is done just with regular encaustic (hot bees wax and resin). It was a real struggle. I learned a lot from making it - mostly I had to find a better way to conquer the new technique.

I then used encaustic and Ceracolors on the next one. Still too many hours, but learning more about the process. This little triple chocolate cake was the one I bought for myself for my birthday

I had to discover a less labor intensive technique.

Then I read on a Facebook encaustic group posting about starting the painting with watercolor. Why not? It worked. I found my way for the future paintings.

I start with sizing the substrate with Chalk paint followed by a watercolor underpainting. I didn’t realize how easy that was. Then comes the encaustic layers, with detail done in ceracolors. After the water based ceracolors dry, I heat the painting with a heat gun to adhere ceracolors to the underneath layers of pure encaustic. When cooled over night, I can polish the painting to a lovely warm glow.

I have been hurrying into the studio everymorning because I am excited about what I can accomplish with my new process.

Here is a short video of the finished paintings.

This one is almost finished. The bottom half needs more work. Hopefully one more day and it will be done

And this is the first quick watercolor sketch for the next one

I am not including anything from my memoir today, because I am too involved with the joy of inspiration and the new technique and want to spend more time in the studio.

It is wonderful to be excited about creating again.

Last week I quietly celebrated another birthday—and the 21st anniversary of my move to San Miguel de Allende. When I speak my age out loud it sounds impossibly old, yet I feel nothing but gratitude for a life shaped by creativity and spiritual lessons.

The day was simple and heartwarming. My morning meditation set a peaceful tone. Later, my daughter, an astrologer with a profound understanding of planetary movements, gave me a Zoom reading of my progressed chart. Her insights were encouraging—especially if I’m fortunate enough to live another twelve months.

That evening I connected with family in the States on a group call. It was pure delight, especially when I received new photos and videos of my premature great-granddaughter, now thriving in the neonatal unit of an Austin hospital. To celebrate, I treated myself to a small, decadent triple-chocolate cake and a split of champagne, toasting with my family across the miles. I’ve been savoring a little piece of that cake each day, even as it grows a bit dry.

In my high school yearbook, some mysterious editor placed the words beneath my photo: “Artists are always young.” At 17, the phrase meant nothing—I couldn’t imagine growing old. Now, it rings true. A creative spirit is never finished; there’s always something new to discover, to make, to share.

And yet, for several months I felt creatively empty. I wondered if I was finished as an artist, just taking up space. This wasn’t unfamiliar—I’ve often felt a void between series, when inspiration lagged. But this time was different: I had no workshops planned, no projects calling to me.

I tried something new—Ceracolors, a water-soluble encaustic paint. I painted four portraits, but they felt lifeless. I’ve painted faces since childhood, created my “50 Faces” series, and taught portraiture for years. Suddenly, the work seemed flat, uninspired. I even shared parts of the process on YouTube, though I’m tempted to take them down.

Then, the day after my birthday, I taught a one-day encaustic workshop. Everything shifted. The joy of sharing this luminous medium reignited my passion. By the end of the day, I was buzzing with energy and satisfaction.

Now, a new series is forming—small still lifes of food, mostly desserts, painted in encaustic and Ceracolors. I’ve already prepared the boards, eager to begin.

Through my life I’ve survived loss, bankruptcy, emotional abuse, divorce, rejection, and the challenges of raising my daughters on my own. Each time I’ve relied on Spirit, resilience—moving, introspecting, changing, rebuilding. Many others have endured far more, but what I know is this: action and creativity keep me positive and enthusiastic.

Aging has nothing to do with the number of years. Joyful, creative aging means looking forward instead of back, embracing what is still possible. I face the months ahead with anticipation. There is still joy to be experienced, love to be shared, and work to be made.

Creativity doesn’t retire—it just waits for the next spark.

Someday is now !

Here is a memory from many years ago;

Becoming a Crone

It wasn’t always a joy ride to watch myself age. It took time and the example of other balanced, wise and contented older women to introduce me to the beauty of aging with passion.
On my sixty-fifth birthday, I claimed my right to be a Crone. I worked on the plans for the ceremony for many weeks. Family and friends gathered in Ashland OR. My spiritually conscious friends still thought of the Crone archetype as an ugly witch-like creature, with a humped back and warts on her nose. It was my opportunity to set the record straight.

I picked a beautiful spot in Lithia Park for the commemoration. The tall trees circled and shaded the altar set up on a colorful silk scarf. We sat on the lush, manicured grass. The intense green of the majestic Oregon trees embraced us.

My Hawaiian son in law, who couldn’t attend, prerecorded some beautiful Hawaiian chants that were broadcast through the park speakers. A musician helped with the songs and rituals. We sat in a circle on the ground, passed the talking stick, and shared heart-felt sentiments, including poetry, original cards made by my artist friends, and love. A ceremonial blessing was preformed for all that were gathered on that special day.

I believe that before we are born, we decide what we need to learn in this lifetime and make an agreement with our higher selves to attract the necessary lessons for spiritual growth. This includes all the conflict, tests and restrictions as well as a reconnection with soul mates and deserved blessings.

I had had enough of my old contract. Knowing that there was no one else to blame for thwarting my ease and grace, I chose to begin a new cycle. The ceremony gave me the opportunity to write and claim a new life contract. Days were spent writing and re-writing my new pact with Spirit. I wanted change, but I needed to be completely specific about releasing the old and opening to receive the good. When the agreement was completed and printed out, I read it aloud at my Croning ceremony. My guests lined up to witnesses and sign this renewed affirmation of life.

The most touching ritual of the ceremony, was the closing, when guests formed two lines with arms upraised, creating an arch for me to walk through. On the end closest to me, stood my young grandsons, and at the other end, the oldest of my friends – all women, welcoming me into the new chapter of life. This act symbolized a reliving of my entire life, from childhood to the crowning stage of the feminine cycle. It is at this time & of postmenopausal zest, when the monthly blood no longer leaves the body, but is held inside, sending energy to the brain, creating wisdom. The formal Croning rite ended with food, birthday cake, lemonade and champagne toasts.

Many Croning ceremonies only include women, but since each Crone decides for herself when she is ready to embrace this time, and then fashions her own observance, I included men and boys in mine. I am hoping that my grandsons will remember and that other men will understand the beauty of women’s aging.

Since moving to Mexico, I have met other crones – women who embrace this powerful, healing, profound time in their lives. It is our time to be authentic and creative, and full of enthusiasm to live passionately. Many others have done what I did; rid themselves of obsolete stuff, simplified their lives and because of their searching spirits, moved into this most wonderfully outrageous time of life.

Even during my fifties, I really didn’t think about getting old. Maybe I thought it wouldn’t happen to me if I ignored it. The commercial bombardment of ads telling us to hate the wrinkles, the sags, bags and graying hair finally caught up with me and I began to fear aging. The advertisements were filled with anti-aging everything, as if aging could be stopped. I worked to look younger, praying that I wouldn’t become invisible to men. It took time and study and joining a Crone’s circle to awaken me to the beauty, power and dignity of being a Grand Mother

The perspective of aging in Mexico is the opposite of that in the United States. Senior citizens in the U.S. are often separated from the younger working householders. When I lived there, I felt the general attitude in the U.S. was that older people should be tucked away and quietly wait to die, certainly not taking up space in the work force.

In Mexico elders are respected. I no longer feel invisible. In Spanish, the word for retired is jubilación. Jubilation has a happy ring to it and that is what I am experiencing and seeing in my friends who keep creating and dreaming of new inspirations.

As my 91st birthday approaches, I find myself reflecting on the inevitable signs of aging. The physical changes are somewhat surprising, considering I’ve been blessed with a mostly healthy and strong body, abundant enthusiasm, and a mindset that I could achieve almost anything I set my mind to. I never truly imagined how my advanced years would transform me.

Accepting that I no longer possess the muscle strength and stamina I had just a few years ago has been a challenge. This has led me to contemplate what it means to have a successful old age.

What is success? Is it measured by wealth, a large home and studio, attending social events and art openings, and the continued sales of my paintings? Until recently, my workshop calendar was filled, and teaching the encaustic technique was an integral part of my identity. Now, with only one class scheduled, I find myself wondering how my feet and legs will manage that six hours of standing in the studio.

I harbor no envy for those who possess materially more than I do. I am grateful that my daughters will have less burden when it comes to managing my possessions after I leave this world.

As a single mother of three daughters, my greatest desire was to support my children. I’m not quite sure how I managed it, but I did. It never crossed my mind that I couldn’t. There were no relatives or ex-husbands to provide financial or emotional support. Perhaps it was my karma that we always had what we needed and more. That was success!

After losing all my savings, facing the challenge of unsold paintings, and taking in roommates to afford my rent in Ashland, Oregon, I made the decision to move to Mexico just days after my 70th birthday. That was a blessed move 21 years ago.

I dove headfirst into the art scene here, tirelessly promoting my work to galleries, forming wonderful friendships with fellow artists, and teaching encaustic workshops. This was another stroke of luck, allowing me to share my experiences with hot wax and resin while forging new connections. Success!

I have received many awards, but now, success means having the time to deepen my spiritual life, meditate longer, and embrace joy. I spend most of my time alone, relishing the tranquility of my little home and its surroundings. I’ve been exploring a new medium—Ceracolors, a water-based encaustic—and I’m excited to experiment until I feel successful with it.

During my morning walks in the campo surrounding my cottage, I can take all the time I want to stop and study the incredible natural beauty after all the rains we have been having of late. The thousands of tiny wild flowers that are exploding through the high, green grasses, almost in competition with each other. Each little one is like looking into the face of the creator.

I believe success is living a fulfilled life and having the time to keeping learning and sharing. Contemplating my life now, I feel joyful, content and successful.

Here is an excerpt from my memoir written of my first experiences in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico (Things have not changed that much, except my body)

It is a wonderful stretch for me to try and fit into a different culture and different mentalities. I don’t expect things to be done the way they were in the States. Sometimes it is a tad frustrating and at other times it is enlightening.

Loneliness is now a rare visitor. I enjoy my time alone. I can be self–indulgent or work eight hours in the studio – using my time as I choose. I can eat dinner at 5 p.m. instead of 8. The temptations of fascinating programs, art receptions, lectures and writers’ groups, offer me brilliant social times. Still many hours are spent in delicious solitude. “Be still and know God” – and receive divine creative inspirations.

Happiness is like a hologram. Once I set my joy in motion, it affected my whole family and the probably the world around me. My daughters have noticed changes in their lives as I rid myself of the old programming. Valarie said that our DNA connection carries the energies of important emotional and intellectual changes. I want to be a living example of joy to my family. With power of choice in every moment, I can go through my days in genuine gratitude for every blessing large or small, or still get caught up with my challenges and fears.

Living in peace and contentment, I am holding a space of peace that can spread and grow to all around me. I am gently freeing myself from the old conditioning of what is expected of a 70 something woman. This is the happiest time of my life. Sure I still have emotional bumps in the road, but I remember Yogananda words, “A saint is a sinner who never gave up.”

My exciting glamorous adventures as well as the heartbreaking tests, trials and tragedies are a part of a long life. Writing this book brings up almost forgotten memories and painful events. They remind me that there may be some psychological scars that can now be reviewed and healed. All my past experiences accompany me and affect the way I look at and react to situations.

Life is intended to offer the opportunity for growth and soul development and no one can escape without tests, challenges or problems. My heart break, as stepping stones was part of my greatest lessons they gave me my soul’s building blocks. Just solving or living through my trials gave me strength and some wisdom. It seemed that in order for the Universe to get my attention, I had to crash into brick walls before experiencing advancement to the next phase of my life. Difficulties were my teachers not my persecutors they got my attention and offered me a change to shrink or grow.


My exciting glamorous adventures as well as the heartbreaking tests, trials and tragedies are a part of a long life. Writing this book brings up almost forgotten memories and painful events. They remind me that there may be some psychological scars that can now be reviewed and healed. All my past experiences accompany me and affect the way I look at and react to situations.

Life is intended to offer the opportunity for growth and soul development and no one can escape without tests, challenges or problems. My stepping-stones, my greatest lessons that gave me my soul’s building blocks came from the ordeals. Just solving or living through my trials gave me strength and some wisdom. It seemed that in order for the Universe to get my attention, I previously had to crash into brick walls before experiencing advancement to the next phase of my life. Difficulties were my teachers not my persecutors they got my attention and offered me a change to shrink or grow.

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My name was Eleanor, before I changed it to Ezshwan about 40 years ago. Chuck called me “Lady Eleanor”

I first met Check Mangione in the early 70’s when Kai Winding (later my husband) and I were dating. It was a long distance relationship with us traveling between Phoenix AZ and Beverly Hills CA. as often as work schedules allowed.

It was on one of these short visits that Kai suggested that we go to s jazz club (I don’t remember which one it was) to see a young musician friend of his, Chuck Mangione.

After enjoying the performance, where I never saw the musician’s face because he seemed to be hiding behind his horn, we went back stage to chat with Chuck. Kai had been one of the established jazz musicians, along with Dizzy Gillespie, that encouraged Chuck in his career. Kai had given Chuck one of his first gigs.

At that time Chuck had not developed his personal, easy going connections with his audience. And he was hiding behind his horn.

The close relationship between Kai and Chuck continued for years and soon began to include me. As Chuck’s visits to our home in Sherman Oaks increased, he confided that he hadn’t felt comfortable in his public appearances, but he loved being with us, as he felt at home.

Chuck was very close to his Italian family in Rochester New York and I believe at heart, no matter how famous he became, his ​preferred place was close to Mama and Papa Mangione and brother Gap and Rochester. He also had two young daughters there.

Kai became his contractor and advisor. He hired all the musicians that worked with Chuck on the recording of the soundtrack of the movie Children of Sanchez. The movie was never released in the United States, but Chuck’s recording of the sound tract was.

Chuck rented a recording studio 24/7 in Los Angles and worked around the clock. He and an anther musician, (sorry, I do not remember his name) composed and wrote the music almost non-stop.

Kai was at the recording sessions every night. I was the only one allowed to be in the studio, sitting on the floor, alone with Chuck ,sketching him as he recorded. I was there when he ​collapsed from exhaustion. It was then I took it upon myself to watch out for his health and diet.

I made many live sketches that I wish I could find. I searched for them today, but they were not to be found. I only came up with the etching below.

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During this intense time of recording, Papa Mangione was grilling sausages out in the parking lot every evening and Mama Mangione had sent pasta sauce so we could eat proper Italian food.

This is after another recording session that included Kai’s family.

This intense adventure concluded with all the musicians, and Kai and I going to the movie producers home for dinner and a party. The producer had believed in this story so much that he had mortgaged his home to invest in Children Of Sanchez.

More years past. We had moved to the south of Spain. Sometimes Chuck would call Kai for advice.

Then Kai was struck with a brain tumor and I took him to New York for treatment. Chuck came to the hospital as often as possible. He brought Kai’s trombone to his room, “because a musician has to have his ax”. Once he started to play Feels So Good in the hall, but was quickly quieted by the nurses. But he did play it at Kai’s memorial.

After Kai’s passing, Chuck was instrumental working with George Wein to dedicate the first day of the New Port Jazz Festival to Kai, ( The Jazz World Honors A Great Musician) with half of the proceeds going toward Kai’s medical bills. The bills were staggering since we no longer had health insurance in the States. That night is another amazing story.

Chuck invited my daughters and I to visit him in Rochester. This was after he had come to Spain to stay with us, slow down and detox. He was so excited about how well and happy he was that he did not want to me to sell the house and instead open my doors to other musicians. I refused. I didn’t want to start “Mama Winding’s Wind Down for Wayward Musicians”.

During our time in Rochester, Chuck and his band were going on a local tour and invited us to join them. I thought it would be quite a surprising experience for my girls to understand how grueling and unromantic touring can be.

During that visit, I had the opportunity to cook dinner for Mama and Papa Mangione. One of the things I made was baked garlic. Mama M. was not happy about that. We should have stuck with her pasta sauce.

Many years ago, I took a class offered by the Chicago Psychic Center that advertised:
“Money-back guarantee: You Too Are Psychic.”
At the time, I believed nothing existed outside of the physical, material world. I thought, “I’ll take this ridiculous class, disprove their claim, and get my money back.”
I didn’t get my money back.

One segment of the class involved photographing our thoughts to demonstrate that thoughts are indeed powerful, tangible forces. It was life-changing. (I wrote about this undeniable experience in a previous Substack post, along with the many other things we learned.)…

For almost four weeks now, I’ve been caught up in trying to get my website back online. I won’t dive into the daily frustration of dealing with online support. I hired a recommended tech who visited twice, then tried working from home—still, no success. But today, I believe I finally reached someone truly knowledgeable. They claimed my site will be up and running again soon. If that happens in the next day or two, I’ll be thrilled to return to more creative endeavors.

Without a functioning website, potential students and clients couldn’t reach me. But in that unexpected quiet, I found time for long walks, spiritual study, and deep reflection.

I’ve been thinking about my transition from this life—not with fear or sadness, but with clarity. I know the other side of the veil is beautiful. Now it is important for me to ensure I don’t leave unnecessary stuff that would be burdens for my daughters.

Still, I began to wonder if my time as a working artist and teacher had come to a natural close. Not with regret—but with the question: What is my purpose now? Am I just taking up space?

Then I read a heartfelt review from a recent participant in one of my private encaustic workshops. Her words moved me deeply:

“Spending time in Ezshwan’s encaustic workshop was nothing short of magical.
Ezshwan is not only an incredibly knowledgeable teacher, but also a deeply compassionate, resilient, and soulful woman. Her love for art, spirituality, and people is present in her every gesture and every brushstroke she shares.

Whether you’re a complete beginner or someone with some experience in encaustic, Ezshwan meets you where you are. She generously offers a wealth of information and technique while always encouraging freedom, expression, and play.

What makes her workshop truly special, though, is who she is: a sweet, grounded, inspiring person with a fascinating life story and a calming, creative presence.

Her studio is beautiful—intimate, warm, and filled with character, making you feel welcome and at peace the moment you step inside. Every detail, from the materials she provides to the flow of the session, feels intentional and full of care.

This experience was more than a class—it was nourishment for the soul. I left feeling inspired, centered, and grateful. I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone looking to explore encaustic painting in a space that honors both creativity and humanity.”

Her words brought tears to my eyes and reminded me: I still have something valuable to offer.

Today, I rejoice that my mind is clear and that I continue to greet each day with excitement—even if I no longer make long-term plans.

Someday is now.
There is no time to waste.

One of my favorite figurative painting was influenced by one of my first friends in San Miguel. Maria ​Teresa, a Mexican who spent many years in the U.S. as an army nurse. She is deeply knowledgeable about Mexican history and customs and I was privileged to have her as a friend and consultant. She was the one who explained to me that Mexicans wear and emotional mask…

Maria Teresa and carved encaustic masks

A mask is a disguise.

Mexicans love to wear masks, to dance and make music in a blazing display of fireworks, and feasting, but the true Mexican soul identity is often hidden to strangers behind an invisible mask of ​pretense. The Mexican is forced by a history of conquest and subjugation to relinquish his role in creating a sense of reality and forming his present and conceals his solitude behind a facade of protection.

“… But the solitude of the Mexican, under the great stone night of the high plateau that is still inhabited by insatiable gods. Is very different from that of the North American, who wanders In an abstract world of machines, fellow citizens and moral precepts. In the Valley of Mexico man feels himself suspended between heaven and earth, and he oscillates between contrary powers and forces, and petrified eye and devouring mouths “

Octavio

Counting My Blessings

The memoir, Fireworks at Dawn, that I've been sharing, was penned years ago when I moved to San Miguel de Allende in 2004. Initially published as a Kindle book, I eventually chose to remove it after a year. I felt that some of the experiences and thoughts didn’t align with my current life and the emotional and spiritual insights I now cherish. However, revisiting and editing it has rekindled my excitement for those early adventures.

Today’s Reflections

I'm acutely aware of the crises and devastation occurring worldwide. My heart aches for those whose lives are torn apart. Acknowledging the evil present, I strive to maintain love and peace within myself, offering prayers for world peace and sending love to everyone I encounter, both in person and online.

In my life, I am deeply grateful. My eldest daughter calls my recent life, her perfect one. I’m residing in my sixth home since arriving over two decades ago—a charming, flower-covered country cottage, peacefully distant from the town's noise and bustle, with a separate small art studio

Living alone, I find joy in meditation, creating art, and engaging with fascinating individuals who attend the encaustic workshops I’ve taught for 20 years. August marks another birthday and my 21st year in San Miguel de Allende.

Embracing life in Mexico, I appreciate the culture and community.

Recent Challenges and Joys

Recently, I’ve dealt with some leg issues, especially after a fall that resulted in an infected wound. It was entirely my fault; instead of using a sturdy step stool, I chose a lightweight plastic one to get up on the bathroom counter to fix a ceiling crack, leading to a bloody mishap. Thankfully, the doctor prescribed affordable antibiotics, and a vascular surgeon assured me that a blood clot that appeared in ultra sound image wasn't connected to a primary vein, advising me to walk more, wear compression stockings, and elevate my legs while at the computer.

After a monthly acupuncture session with my trusted doctor of Chinese medicine, I reflected on my blessings. As I left his office, a newly opened coffee shop caught my attention.

Upon entering, I was warmly greeted by the owner, who thoughtfully offered a lower chair. I ordered a black coffee to savor its pure taste. The coffee was robust and delicious, and the owner enthusiastically shared why his Oaxacan coffee was unparalleled. He even gave me samples of Oaxacan chocolate and honey, evoking memories of my visits to Oaxaca, where the air is filled with the delightful scents of chocolate and coffee.

The owner highlighted his Mayan symbol paintings, explaining the 13 steps to heaven depicted in them. Our entire conversation flowed in Spanish.

Before leaving, I purchased a pound of coffee beans—my most expensive purchase yet. The owner gifted me an extra coffee to go, accompanied by a warm hug. It was a costly yet charming and educational encounter. I left with just enough money to settle my parking fee.

Here is an excerpt from Fireworks at Dawn. Written almost 20 years ago.

Where is home? I have been asked this question many times lately. I usually stumble over the answer. The response is expected to be some place in the U.S. Many places have been home for a while – some longer than others, but for the time being, my heart tells me when I am home, and now it is Mexico.

One Sunday, after a late lunch, I went up to the terrace to bask in the sun, embracing the fragrance and sparkle of spring in San Miguel. Those seven or so weeks of winter were enough. Now, I can be rid of the wooly socks and bulky sweaters. Stretched out on a lounge, I sipped my Sunday margarita and scanned my Spanish verb conjugation lesson. A neighbor was washing his car with the stereo blaring the song,“Estoy Contento”, “I am Content”. What perfect lyrics for this moment. I love my new life and who I have become. If were just visiting, I wouldn’t want to leave. Thank goodness I am home.

I have a feeling of anticipation every morning. The sensuality of the light, history, textures, smells and sounds seep into my consciousness. Layers of peeling paint on old walls and the symphony of colors are a reminder of other times and other stories. This is the right atmosphere for my spirit to soar and my heart and imagination to expand and explore. Mexico is saturated with passion. For me, life without passion is like working with only beige paint on my palette.


Last evening, upon returning from a trip to a Queretaro, I breathed a sigh of relief to be home. I recognized it has happened. I am settled and comfortable in my new surroundings. The downstairs is lovely with the plants and fresh flowers. The unpainted tables and desk that I got in Michoacán are now enhanced with rich, sparkling colors, paintings are in place; I have a refrigerator full of organic vegetables and fresh yogurt, my stacks of CDs give me hours of beautiful music. Tract lights illuminate the art; I have a supply of bottled water on each floor; my meditation spot and altar is set up with candles and incense; the studio is the best I have ever had. A hand woven bedspread now graces my bed. Hand painted dishes have replaced the ones that Cony, my landlady, left for me. My fountain works. I can bring my laptop computer to the terrace and write while I enjoy the fresh air and the view. I look up from my table and I feel my heart expand with wonder that I actually live here.

Before the transformation in my house, I would leave as early as possible to explore and discover the city, but now I’ve spent weeks of time painting almost anything that would hold still, making the place a colorful surprise as soon as the front door is opened. A recent visitor exclaimed, “Everywhere I look in your house, I see something beautiful or interesting.” What a grand compliment. Now it takes a lot more effort to leave my attractive nest.

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Loneliness is now a rare visitor. I enjoy my time alone. I can be self–indulgent or work eight hours in the studio – using my time as I choose. I can eat dinner at 5 p.m. instead of 8. The temptations of fascinating programs, art receptions, lectures and writers’ groups, offer me brilliant social times. Still many hours are spent in delicious solitude. “Be still and know God” – and receive divine creative inspirations.

Happiness is like a hologram. Once I set my joy in motion, it affected my whole family and the probably the world around me. My daughters have noticed changes in their lives as I rid myself of the old programming. Valarie said that our DNA connection carries the energies of important emotional and intellectual changes. I want to be a living example of joy to my family. With power of choice in every moment, I can go through my days in genuine gratitude for every blessing large or small, or still get caught up with my challenges and fears.

Living in peace and contentment, I am holding a space of peace that can spread and grow to all around me. I am gently freeing myself from the old conditioning of what is expected of a 70 something woman. This is the happiest time of my life. Sure I still have emotional bumps in the road, but I remember Yogananda words, “A saint is a sinner who never gave up.”

After finishing school, my mother, Hermina, went to live with her father, who had recently remarried. She didn’t get along with his new wife, so she found a job as a seamstress. I don’t know where or how she learned the trade, but she was exceptionally gifted. For most of her life, she created beautiful clothes. She had the remarkable ability to see a dress in a shop window, make a quick sketch, and then go home and sew a near-perfect replica.

Still a teenager, Hermina lived in a tense household and worked hard. She gave her entire salary to her father, who gave her just five cents in return. On Sundays, she had a choice: buy an ice cream cone or go to the movies. She often chose the movies—they allowed her to escape into the world of silent film, watching the same story again and again, and staying away from her uncomfortable home life.

Her wardrobe was minimal. She owned just two blouses, washing and ironing one each night so she could wear a clean one to work the next day.

Not long after, she met Joe Kraus at an ethnic picnic. She was 17; he was 23. He was immediately taken with this voluptuous young woman and asked her on a date. Hermina agreed—but told him one of her brothers had to accompany them. Joe wanted to see her alone and, after a few chaperoned dates, asked her to marry him.

“You’ll have to ask my father,” she said, “but even if he says no, I’ll marry you anyway.”

Joe was charming and ambitious. Hermina’s father, Jacob, gave his blessing. When her girlfriend asked what she saw in “red-faced Joe” (he was a redhead with freckles), Hermina simply said, “I see his potential. He’s a sheet metal artisan.” Three months after their first date, they were married.

There was no big wedding—just a civil ceremony. Their honeymoon consisted of going back to their new apartment and opening a single gift from her brother: a set of pots and pans.

My father had always dreamed of a house full of children. My mother, I think, didn’t share that dream. She was a brilliant businesswoman—practical, sharp, and a perfect partner in building the business Dad had started. She managed all things financial: the bookkeeping, the investments, and the broader business strategy. Dad often said, “I know only one thing, but I know it better than anyone else.”

Still, he longed for children. After seven years of marriage, Hermina became pregnant. Around that time, tragedy struck. Dad was welding inside a metal tank that had previously held hazardous material. It exploded.

While in the hospital, he lost one of his eyes due to the severity of the injuries. During a visit, he reached out, stroked my mother’s pregnant belly, and said, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were twins?”

Mom thought, “This man must be delusional. He might not even survive to meet this baby.”

But he did. Ten years later, I was born. My mother, surprised by the pregnancy after such a long gap, reportedly thought I might be a tumor.

Back to my memoir “Fireworks at Dawn”

It wasn’t a joy ride to watch myself age. It took time and the example of other balanced, wise and contented older women to introduce me to the beauty of aging with passion.
On my sixty-fifth birthday, I claimed my right to be a Crone. I worked on the plans for the ceremony for many weeks. Family and friends gathered in Ashland. some of my spiritually conscious friends still thought of the Crone archetype as an ugly witch-like creature, with a humped back and warts on her nose. It was my opportunity to set the record straight.

I picked a beautiful spot in Lithia Park in Ashland Oregon for the commemoration. The tall trees circled and shaded the altar set up on a colorful silk scarf. We sat on the lush, manicured grass. The intense green of the majestic Oregon trees embraced us.

My Hawaiian son in law, who couldn’t attend, prerecorded some beautiful Hawaiian chants that were broadcast through the park speakers. A musician helped with the songs and rituals. We sat in a circle on the ground, passed the talking stick, and shared heart-felt sentiments, love, poetry, original cards made by my artist friends. A ceremonial blessing was preformed for all that were gathered on that special day.

I believe that before we are born, we decide what we need to learn in this lifetime and make an agreement with our higher selves to attract the necessary lessons for spiritual growth. This includes all the conflict, tests and restrictions as well as a reconnection with soul mates and deserved blessings.

I had had enough of my old contract. Knowing that there was no one else to blame for thwarting my ease and grace, I chose to begin a new cycle. The ceremony gave me the opportunity to write and claim a new life contract. Days were spent writing and re-writing my new pact with Spirit. I wanted change, but I needed to be completely specific about releasing the old and opening to receive the good. When the agreement was completed and printed out, I read it aloud at my Croning ceremony. My guests lined up to witnesses and sign this renewed affirmation of life.

The most touching ritual of the ceremony, was the closing, when guests formed two lines with arms upraised, creating an arch for me to walk through. On the end closest to me, stood my young grandsons, and at the other end, the oldest of my friends – all women, welcoming me into the new chapter of life. This act symbolized a reliving of my entire life, from childhood to the crowning stage of the feminine cycle. It is at this time & of postmenopausal zest, when the monthly blood no longer leaves the body, but is held inside, sending energy to the brain, creating wisdom. The formal Croning rite ended with food, birthday cake, lemonade and champagne toasts.

Many Croning ceremonies only include women, but since each Crone decides for herself when she is ready to embrace this time, and then fashions her own observance, I included men and boys in mine. I am hoping that my grandsons will remember and that other men will understand the beauty of women’s aging.

Since moving to Mexico, five years later, I met other crones – women who embrace this powerful, healing, profound time in their lives. It is our time to be authentic and creative, and full of enthusiasm to live passionately. Many others have done what I did; rid themselves of obsolete stuff, simplified their lives and because of their searching spirits, moved into this most wonderfully outrageous time of life.

Even during my fifties, I really didn’t think about getting old. Maybe I thought it wouldn’t happen to me if I ignored it. The commercial bombardment of ads telling us to hate the wrinkles, the sags, bags and graying hair finally caught up with me and I began to fear aging. The advertisements were filled with anti-aging everything, as if aging could be stopped. I worked to look younger, hoping that I wouldn’t become invisible to men. It took time and study and joining a Crone’s circle to awaken me to the beauty, power and dignity of being a Grand Mother

The perspective of aging in Mexico is the opposite of that in the United States. Senior citizens in the U.S. are often separated from the younger working householders. When I lived there, I felt the general attitude in the U.S. was that older people should be tucked away and quietly wait to die, certainly not taking up space in the work force. In Mexico elders are respected. I no longer feel invisible. In Spanish, the word for retired is jubilación. Jubilation has a happy ring to it and that is what I am experiencing and seeing in my friends who keep creating and dreaming of new inspirations.

Now that I am really old, I appreciate everyday, the quiet alone time and my joy filled life.