I first met my friend Becky in an online art group filled with women from all over the country. It didn't take long to discover we shared the same values, similar strengths, and—perhaps most importantly—the same slightly warped sense of humor. Boy, does she love a good laugh! A few months later we realized we lived only two hours apart on the Carolina coast, which obviously meant we had no choice but to meet halfway for seafood. The friendship we'd built online turned out to be exactly the same in person. Becky was every bit as vivacious, generous, funny, and full of life as I'd imagined.

It was Becky who first suggested the Traveling Art Jacket project after I had shared that I had received the jacket as a mystery gift. Then—about a year later—she lovingly reminded me about it and gently nudged me (ok, she was pretty persistent!) into actually doing it. Without her, it would probably still be sitting in a corner of my studio. She believed in this project before I did. That kind of friend is a gift, and I'm deeply grateful she kept believing until I finally caught up. It only seemed right that Becky would be the first artist to receive the jacket after I completed my portion.

I am so pleased that she has graciously agreed to share her artwork and the story behind it with all of you.

Here is Becky’s story:

I was born in 1950 and grew up in a total man’s world. I found myself needing to support myself and two children in the late 70’s and found a job in the corporate world.

I quickly realized I needed to get to the executive level to make the money I needed to provide the lifestyle I wanted for myself and my sons.

That’s when my “Second Skin” was born.

I’ve always been confident and knew I could carry this off, but after hearing over and over, “let me talk to the man who’s your boss” I thought more about how I presented myself in the business world.

I’ve always loved color, as you all know, and educated myself on the psychology behind different colors. RED has power written all over it! Right!

So that’s what my “ Second Skin” piece is about.

In my work life, I always had a red blazer, a red briefcase and I wore red lip stick and red high heels! The change in how I was perceived by those around me and those I wanted as clients was very apparent, overnight even.

The red clothing and accessories weren’t to help me be more confident, they were to show others I was confident and serious about conducting business. They seemed to immediately expect that I knew what I was doing and knowledgeable. My “Second Skin” helped me be very successful in my career.

I added another face on the top left which is really the true me underneath. The me I am now with no need for a “second skin.”

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Becky’s story resonated deeply with me. I, too, found myself supporting three children and navigating a world where I was often the only woman in the room. Like Becky, I learned to wear a tougher skin—not because it reflected who I was, but because it helped me survive and succeed. These days I no longer need that armor, and I am profoundly grateful for that. (Though, if I’m being completely honest, I still have a soft spot for the high heels. IYKYK)

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Becky’s contribution to this jacket is more than beautiful artwork. It’s a reminder of the invisible armor so many women have worn to build careers, raise families, and create lives on their own terms. I’m grateful she trusted us with both her art and her story—and even more grateful that years ago she decided an online art friend should become a real one.

You can find Becky’s work at https://beckysteeleartist.com/

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Working on my section of the Second Skin, Many Stories Jacket unexpectedly turned into a meditation on identity, transformation, and the strange reality of living long enough to become many different people.

The image I created, Mega-Morph, came from mind-wandering about a time in my twenties and how completely unrecognizable that person feels to me now. Not simply younger. Not just less experienced. Different in a cellular way.

There was 20s me.
30s me.
40s me.
50s me.
And now this version, still emerging.

When I look back, they do not feel like a single continuous self evolving neatly over time. They feel like entirely separate entities that briefly occupied the same physical form. They didn’t even exist in the same body, what with the ravages of time and childbearing and all.

Different nervous systems.
Different physical environments.
Different emotional landscapes.
Different ways of seeing the world.
Different bodies.
Different survival strategies.

Body, mind, spirit all form and re-form.

More than metamorphosis:

Mega-Morph

Each version believed itself to be real, singular, and permanent while it existed. Each one thought she understood who she was, and that SHE was ME. I remember that much. But the “SHE”s were only the parts I already knew, not the ones yet to be revealed.

Life keeps remaking us.

Sometimes deliberately, but sometimes kicking and screaming along the way. Sometimes gradually. Sometimes violently. Sometimes through grief, love, loss, art, aging, motherhood, illness, freedom, exhaustion, reinvention, or simply surviving long enough to outgrow an old identity and shed a skin that no longer fits.

The imagery itself grew out of that idea. The butterfly (cliché, but I went with it) suggests metamorphosis, but it also functions like a mask or a winged second skin partially obscuring the face beneath it. Part woman, winged creature, part moon-phase apparition, the figure exists somewhere between identities, between forms.

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The moon became important too. It references cycles, constant change, and the quiet reality that transformation is rarely a single event, but moves in phases across a lifetime.

I didn’t want the work to become literal autobiography or confession. I wanted it to speak more universally to the experience of metamorphosis — the unsettling and beautiful reality that a human life can contain multiple lifetimes within it.

I think many women understand this intuitively. We are expected to role-shift and shape-shift repeatedly throughout our lives, often without pause to acknowledge what was shed in the process.

The Second Skin Jacket Project feels like the perfect container for that idea: many personal histories layered together into a shared skin. I’m so excited to pass it on to the next artist this week and see where she takes it!

A garment carrying evidence of who we have been, who we survived, and who we continue becoming.

And maybe that’s part of sisterhood too — being witnessed in our becoming.

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There are certain pieces of clothing that become more than clothing.

Over time, they begin to hold traces of us. They become part armor, part witness. We all have that special occasion dress and heels, maybe a twenty year old sweatshirt we borrowed from a boyfriend and never returned, and that grungy pair of jeans we just can’t let go, right? They all have our stories embedded in their fibers.

This project began with a red faux leather motorcycle jacket and conversations among artist friends about identity, storytelling, and the many versions of ourselves we “put on” to move through the world.

First, the jacket’s story:

About a year ago, a package from Amazon appeared on my doorstep. I hadn’t remembered ordering anything. My guy may have accused me of shopping so much that I don’t even remember what I buy. Hmmph. If it hadn’t happened that way before, I would have been incensed, but I digress. Inside the box was a red faux leather motorcycle jacket! Right up my alley in a previous lifestyle. Cool!, I thought, but who had sent it? And it was about two sizes too large, so I couldn’t wear it (dang!). I waited a week, thinking someone would send me a message and ‘fess up, but, nothing. So I put it on and took a photo and made a FB post asking for the donor to reveal themself.

Still, no one admitted to sending it, but there were many comments from people willing to take it off my hands or suggesting likely culprits. My friend Becky S. wrote “Maybe this jacket becomes one of those friends things that keeps getting passed forward! Maybe everyone paints something on it?”. Oh, now we were on to something. Several of my art buddies jumped all over that and from that conversation, after a long incubation period, Second Skin, Many Stories was born.

I got busy with a show I was painting for, tucked the jacket into a closet in my studio and promptly forgot about it.

Many months later, I came across it while looking for something else and thought (without remembering Becky’s comment or the ensuing conversation) that I should give it to someone who could use it. And so I gave it to a deserving cool chica … annnnd promptly forgot that I had done so.

And now the project’s story:

Fast forward to this past April, when I ran into a couple of the artists (thank you Allison and Gwen) who were part of the original conversation and asked what had happened to the idea. I confessed to putting it on the back burner and promised to get things going. And, um, promptly forgot about it.

Then, last week, Becky came across the original FB post and asked what was going on with the jacket. I was like, “Damn, the Universe really wants this thing to happen!” Again, I promised to get moving on it and this time did not forget! I started looking for the jacket. Which I could not find. Because I had given it away! Took me about 30 minutes to remember that (and, honestly, it concerns me a little).

What the hell was I going to do now? I had already lined up a dozen artists* to work on this project and couldn’t very well come back and say, “Sorry, gang, I’m a forgetful dumbass and we can’t do this”. So I ordered a new red faux leather motorcycle jacket, which will arrive tomorrow and upon which I will immediately paint and then deliver to Becky, who will add her own magic, and so on.

The jacket will travel from artist to artist, with each person adding words and/or imagery that reflects an important piece of her personal story. Some images may be bold and immediate. Others may be symbolic, abstract, layered, or quietly hidden within the surface: we have artists who work in several styles from realistic to abstract.

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I’m asking the artists to work with the red of the jacket rather than against it—allowing the garment itself to remain present throughout the transformation. The original jacket matters. Its color, texture, and history will become part of the conversation.

Inside the jacket, each artist will sign her name and leave behind a written reflection tucked into one of the pockets: a few sentences about the imagery she created, what it represents, and what she chose to reveal—or conceal.

As the jacket travels, it will accumulate not only paint, stitching, marks, and symbols, but also stories.

Stories about identity.
About survival.
About protection.
About transformation.
About the personas we wear to feel powerful, accepted, safe, visible, or unseen.

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Clothing functions as costume, shield, declaration, memory, rebellion, or comfort. We all wear different versions of ourselves depending on what is required of us and what the world asks us to carry. Personally, I love this about clothing: every day can be a costume party.

Second Skin, Many Stories asks:
What do we put on to face the world?
What do we carry beneath the surface?
What parts of ourselves become visible only through art?

The finished jacket will become a collaborative artifact—a layered object carrying the marks and voices of many women.

When we are finished, I hope the jacket will be displayed at one or more local galleries (gallery directors, take note!) and then raffled or auctioned off as a one-of-a-kind artwork, with all proceeds benefiting a local organization supporting individuals impacted by domestic violence through advocacy, shelter, and community resources.

In the end, this project is about more than a jacket.

It is about connection.
It is about witness.
It is about leaving something honest behind for another person to carry forward.

One second skin.
Many stories.

*if you are an artist interested in participating, please message me. We have room for a few more!

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After I wrote about the long freeze — that long, beige stretch of nothingness where my creative nervous system basically pulled the fire alarm and evacuated the building — I wasn’t expecting anything magical to happen. I wasn’t planning a comeback tour. I wasn’t even sure I’d feel anything beyond that tiny, cautious loosening I mentioned. Thawing is not glamorous. It’s mostly just… weird and unsettling.

But then something shifted a bit.

Nothing dramatic. No choir of angels. More like the marsh outside my window when the wind changes direction — a little shiver across the surface, the kind you’d miss if you blinked.

That’s what it felt like: just a little ripple.

And that ripple nudged me back to the studio.

Now, before you imagine me striding in with Purpose and Vision, let me stop you. It was more like I sidled up to the brushes and palette and pretended I wasn’t looking at them. No pressure. No expectations. No “this must be meaningful.” I just wanted to play. To see what would happen if I moved some color around and didn’t immediately judge it. I worked in a sketchbook so I didn’t have to admit I was Making A Serious Painting. I played with materials, using charcoal, oil pastels, watercolor, acrylics and drawing oils, and toward the end, I started getting excited about what was coming through.

Honestly, it felt like letting my hands remember something my brain had forgotten.

What came out of that play surprised me some. The paintings aren’t what I have been making for the past few years. They weren’t even figurative! They’re softer, squishier, more abstract, more… marsh‑y. Not the literal marsh — not the “here’s a heron doing a glamour pose” marsh (good grief, I see enough of those paintings living in this coastal town. No disrespect to any of you who do that; it’s just not my jam). They are how I feel the marsh. The way water and land flirt with each other, merge, separate, merge again. The way boundaries get blurry where the colors meld. The way everything is always shifting, even when it looks still.

I’ve been playing with those swirly undulations for months in my mind and bringing them into real life is teaching me things I didn’t know I needed to learn. About how I move — or don’t move— in this life. About how I return. About how creativity doesn’t always come back with a bang; sometimes it tiptoes in wearing socks and giving you the side eye.

And boy, did it feel goooood!

Not “I’m healed!” good. More like a warm, low hum in my third chakra good; some personal power returning. A reminder that making things — even small, strange, marsh‑like things — is its own kind of medicine.

And honestly, in this cultural moment, creating anything soft feels like a tiny act of rebellion. A quiet refusal to let the world harden me into something brittle. A way of saying, Nope. I’m still here. I’m still making. I’m still choosing color over collapse.

I’m not trying to force this into a wave. I’m just following the little ripple that showed up and said, “Hey… want to try something?”

And the marsh outside my studio keeps reminding me that change doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it begins with the faintest motion, the slightest change in temperature as spring approaches, and only later do you realize the whole landscape has shifted and come to life again.

If your own quiet has started to ripple — or if you’re still waiting for it to — I’d genuinely love to hear about it.

What’s moving in you these days?
What tiny acts of play or softness have helped you thaw?
Drop a note in the comments if you feel like it. Your stories make this space feel less like me talking into the void and more like a little creative campfire we’re all sitting around.

And as always, I thank you for walking along this path with me.

I haven’t posted here in almost a year.

This silence wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t because I ran out of things to say (lord knows that’s improbable) , or because this space stopped mattering to me. It happened because my mental and emotional creative systems shut down.

I’ve stayed away from politics in this forum, choosing to focus on art making, my creative processes, and how art integrates with the rest of our lives. A year ago, it felt like ignoring politics was no longer possible, but I didn’t want to contaminate this space with my growing fears about the current political and cultural climates. And so, I stopped.

For me, the horrors of the Trump administration are not just politics I disagree with. It is an ongoing nervous system event. A steady accumulation of cruelty, instability, and sanctioned harm that seeps into my daily existence. The constant shock—what was said, undone, normalized, or threatened next—creates a background level of alarm that never resolves, while somehow also creating a numbness. Even on quiet days, my body knew something was wrong. When anxiety rules, creativity is mighty hard to access.

We often talk about trauma responses as fight or flight, but there is a another response, the one my being chose, freeze.

Freeze is what happens when neither fighting nor fleeing feels possible. If Canada would have taken me, I’d have strongly considered a move. Fighting beyond a few local protests and phone calls to elected officials seemed ineffective and useless.

Freezing immobilizes us. Energy turns inward. Language disappears. Time flattens. From the outside, it can look like nothing is happening. Inside, everything is on hold, in suspended animation. It is panicking while appearing to act normally, having to go about the day to day activities of life while wanting to hide under a blankie.

That is where I was. I couldn’t paint, I couldn’t write, I didn’t want to socialize. The three paintings you see here are the only work I’ve made in all that time. That ain’t me.

Freeze doesn’t feel exactly like panic, though. It feels like blankness, like white noise. It’s like knowing you care deeply, but being unable to touch it, or even express it with words or imagery. It feels like watching your own creativity go dark, not because it’s gone, but because it’s been put into protective custody. I’ve had creative blocks before. I know that, for me, it is a cyclical thing and that the juice will come back when it’s ready. This was not that.

My creativity requires certain conditions to function: a basic sense of safety, room for play, and some trust in the future. A freeze response strips those away. When the world feels hostile and unpredictable, my imagination shuts down. Expression feels risky. It feels like living with a volatile parent or partner and holding your breath while waiting for the next explosion.

So I stopped posting. Not because I chose to disengage, but because my system chose survival.

As an artist and writer, I truly believe that making work is both my calling and my responsibility. When I couldn’t create, I got judgy with myself. I told myself I should be able to “push through,” that others were still producing, that my quiet meant weakness or failure and that I have a voice I should be using to connect with and hopefully help others through this nightmare.

But freeze is not failure. It is not laziness. It is not a lack of commitment or courage. It is a biological response to sustained threat. Sometimes the most functional thing a system can do is slow everything down to a near stop.

I’m feeling a shift recently that is not a resolution, and is not a return to normal. It’s more like a thaw that came on as I realized this current political and cultural situation may continue for a Very. Long. Time. And I cannot continue to live in this suspended animation waiting for it to change. I have a sense that it might be possible to breathe again, to speak again, even if my voice is quieter and slower than before.

I am not triumphantly returning here: I’m cautiously re-emerging.

I’m writing now because staying silent doesn’t feel like protection anymore—it feels like disappearance. And I want to choose presence, even a tiny, tentative one.

I’m not promising consistency. I’m not announcing a schedule. I’m not pretending the conditions that caused the freeze are gone. What I am doing is allowing myself to come back in a way that honors the reality of what my psyche and body have endured. And I plan to do it by writing and sharing about the things that keep me fully alive: painting, other ways I express myself creatively and the way I go about doing those things.

If you’ve been quiet too—creatively, publicly, emotionally—this is your reminder that you are not broken. You have been responding protectively to unbearable circumstances. Silence is a form of self-care. And when speech returns, it can do so on its own timetable.

So, I’m still here and I thank you for being here with me.

Art as Service: Creating with Purpose and Connection

In a world that often views art as a commodity, I’ve struggled to come around to the idea that art can be an act of service. I come from a time, place, and family where being in service to others was important; everyone should be giving of their time, talent, and/or treasure in whatever measure they could in order to be a “good person”. The family I grew up in didn’t have much extra money (there are 7 of us sisters) but we did know how to make music, so being part of the regular music ministry for our local Roman Catholic parish was one of the ways we provided service to others. My mom was a nurse. Clearly, service. I volunteered at my kids’ school. Service. When I was working full time, I gave to the United Way through payroll deduction. Service. But making art, well, making art, I believed, was a selfish act, a luxury and indulgence. The time spent making art served only the artist themself. (Look, I still struggle with that singular/plural pronoun thing, but we are going with it, ok?) But, the reality is that artists create not only to express themselves but to offer something meaningful to others—beauty, reflection, healing, connection, and even social change.

Art as a Gift to the Community

Art has the power to build and strengthen communities. Public murals, community theater, my gosh, even prettying-up utility boxes on street corners can serve as bridges between individuals in a community. When artists engage with their neighbors they offer a service that extends beyond aesthetics, even when they remain anonymous.

Art as Healing

For many of us, creating art is deeply therapeutic. No matter what the discipline, artistic expression allows us to process emotions, reclaim narratives, and heal from trauma. I’m no art therapist, but I know that using creativity as a tool can help people navigate grief, mental illness, and just the day-to-day personal stuff we all struggle with. So, used in this way, art becomes more than self-expression or indulgence; it transforms into a service of healing.

Art as Advocacy

Art has long been a catalyst for social and political change. From protest posters to spoken word performances, artists use their craft to amplify marginalized voices, challenge injustice, and inspire action. A single image, poem, or song can shift perspectives and ignite movements. That’s a public service. Just look to poet Amanda Gorman, who read her poem, “The Hill We Climb” at President Joe Biden’s inauguration or to Kendrick Lamar’s performance at halftime in this year’s Superbowl. Powerful stuff, that.

Art as Teaching and Mentorship

I’ve begun teaching workshops again after several years away. Moving to a new state a few years ago, where I didn’t know a soul, and then having the isolating experience of the Covid years made it tough to find my tribe and get myself in a room with a group of creatives. Now that I have the opportunity again, I’m remembering how, when I share my skills and perspectives through teaching, I extend service beyond my own creative space and practice. Teaching art empowers others to find their own creative voices. Sharing what I do and how I do it, and then seeing and hearing how it changes someone’s creative practice, perspectives on art and creativity, or even their life (!) absolutely Fills. Me. Up!

I can make a positive impact on someone’s life, and if that ain’t service, I don’t know what is.

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Recognizing My Art as Service

For the last five years, I’ve been painting in series. As I look back at my work through a lens of service, I can see that my “Martyrs & Legends” series was service. It served me by helping me work through my feelings about the hypocrisy and patriarchy of the Catholic church, and it served others who were moved by images of their favorites saints or people they love.

My next series, “Loving Kindness”, was a way for me to offer benevolence and love to someone very important to me who is caught up in an existence of addiction and mental illness when there was no other way for me to help her. It helped to heal me and, again, the paintings spoke to others who experienced them and now own them.

The “Whispers of our Mothers” series I am working on now is helping me to share my thoughts and feelings about how the women who raise and shape us disappear once they are gone from this world, where history is written for and about men. That other women are collaborating with me by sharing the stories of their mothers and grandmothers, for me to imagine paintings from, is an honor and rare opportunity.

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Art as Everyday Offering

None of this needs to be done on a grand scale. Sometimes, it’s the small acts of creativity that make a difference. I have a friend who makes handmade cards for every occasion. When I see her return address on an envelope near my birthday, I smile before I even open it. I sent a handmade valentine once to an artist I had only met once in person, because I remembered her husband had recently passed and thought she might be feeling low that day. She has told me that she cherishes that little act of art and kindness. Do you call and sing Happy Birthday to a friend? I have a friend who did that for me once. We laughed through the whole thing, but that was art in action right there, an act of human connection and generosity.

The Call to Create with Purpose

I think we artists have an unique opportunity in our current United States turmoil and trauma—and perhaps a responsibility—to consider how our work serves others. Who will be impacted by the work we create? What emotions will it evoke? What conversations will it spark? Whether our art provides solace, provokes thought, or simply brings joy, it carries the potential to touch lives in ways you may never fully see. How is art acting as service in your life? Leave a comment; let’s talk about it!

In the end, art is not just about what we make, but about how we share it. I’m sorry it took me so long to come around to believing it, but art is a powerful, necessary form of service, and one I can readily engage in.

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Enter collaboration, which just may be my Word of the Year.

Last spring, I had a solo show at ACES Gallery in Wilmington and met some local arty people. One of them, a musician, contacted me a few months later and asked if I would be interested in making the artwork for the upcoming release of a song he composed and would be recording.

Would I Ever!

Since I had a taste of collaborating with a poet during my residency in Orquevaux last winter, I’ve been looking for an opportunity to do more of it. In that case, the writer used my visual work as inspiration. This time, I used the lyric and composition as my inspiration for a painting. I’m not going to give more away until the song is released, but here is the painting that it inspired for me.

I loved the freedom I had to interpret the song and present an image that reflected how the music and lyric made me feel. I’m looking forward to the song’s release next month so I can share it with you all.

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More recently, I wrote about a new project, Whispers of our Mothers, a collection I am creating for a show in 2025. In that post, I put out a call for others interested in the topic to collaborate with me by contributing materials from their own family histories for me to use in my mixed media pieces. I really am overwhelmed by the response and honored to be sharing in the genealogies, stories and photos of some truly remarkable women. Even though I’m creating the finished pieces, having these resources to work with is both inspiring and humbling. I’ve begun work on several pieces, but it’s far too early to share anything other than this peek into my process. Right now it all looks like scribbles and scraps, but it will come together.

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In the past, I’ve not been comfortable collaborating with other visual artists in situations where we both (or all) work on the same piece in the same time and space, but I do find that sharing an idea or vision across disciplines is exciting for me. Musician + writer, poet + painter, musician + dancer, sculptor + writer: so many possibilities!

I have one more upcoming and ongoing venture, scheduled to be released next week. I can’t share more about that yet, except to tell you that I will be collaborating with an author friend of mine to explore the very thing I’ve been talking about here today: interdisciplinary creative processes. I can’t wait for you all to see!

Until then, I hope you are having a great start to 2025 and I thank you for coming along on this creative adventure!

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I love to read fantasy novels; epic stories about made-up worlds, imaginary beings, and magical powers. Currently, I’m reading a fascinating series, The Legends of the First Empire, by one of my favorite authors, Michael J. Sullivan. Yesterday, I came across this sentence in (book 2) “The Age of Swords”: “Magic is is merely a word to say 'I don't understand how you did that.'" I thought about it all afternoon. I wrote it down, so I would remember it and think about it some more, and here I am, the next day, still thinking about it.

Magic

Often, when I come across a piece of art that stops my finger from scrolling or my feet from continuing on my path, the first thing I think is, “How did they do that? It’s like magic!” It’s magical and wonderful partially because I don’t understand how it came into being. To be clear, I’m talking about a mystical kind of magic, not an illusionary trickster kind of magic.

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Art and Magic: Sisters Born of Wonder

Both art and magic are gateways to the unseen. They tap into intuition, emotion, and even ancestral memory, reaching into shadowy realms that lie beyond the ordinary. In these creative and mystical acts, we glimpse worlds that transcend our immediate understanding—worlds that stir our wonder and curiosity. Art and magic are deeply intertwined. They are sisters, born of the same mother: wonder.

The Shared Alchemy of Art and Magic

Art and magic share a transformative power. Magic transforms the mundane into something extraordinary, bending our perception of reality. Similarly, an artist takes raw materials and shapes them into something entirely new, something that didn’t exist before the act of art making. Both feel like alchemy, a process of turning something ordinary into something precious. Sometimes, when I am making art, I touch that magic. I pass through that gateway and lose time as if I stepped into Tir Na nÓg, the faery realm, only to return to this world again to see that I’ve made something I have no recollection of creating. Every time it happens, I don’t know how it did. Magic.

At their core, both art and magic operate on a sense of mystery. They leave us asking: How was this done? How did this come to be? For me, the answer often lies beyond logic or explanation, resting instead in a place where intuition, imagination and intention meet. I talk about this often, this intersection of intuition and intention. I think it might be part of the recipe for magic.

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Bridging the Mundane and the Mystical

What makes both art and magic so captivating is their ability to bridge the gap between the mundane and the mystical. Magic suspends our belief in the ordinary, while art reveals truths that words often cannot express. They give us access to something greater than ourselves, a world of infinite possibility.

This connection to the unseen is where the power lies. In the novels I love, magic might be the hidden energies or forces that we’ll never fully understand. In art, it’s the ineffable quality that makes a piece resonate deeply, eliciting an emotional response in both the artist and the viewer. Art and magic open a portal to understanding our inner worlds and the forces that shape them.

Born of Wonder

Wonder is the birthplace of both art and magic. It’s the feeling we experience as children when we encounter something new and incomprehensible. Wonder doesn’t require us to understand; it invites us to feel, to be present, and to engage with the mysteries of life.

"Every time you call something ‘magic,’ you’re really saying: ‘You’ve captured my imagination.’"
– Anonymous

When we stand in front of a painting that takes our breath away or we encounter an extraordinary moment of synchronicity, we are reminded of the potential of human connection and the richness of the unknown. Art and magic remind us to embrace the unexplainable, to find joy in curiosity, and to believe—if only for a moment—in the impossible.

Closing the Circle

As we move through a world increasingly rooted in logic and reason (and, often lately, insanity), the gifts of art and magic are more vital than ever. They remind us of the power of imagination, the importance of wonder, and the value of exploring what lies beyond the surface. They show us that life’s little miracles are often found in the spaces we cannot fully understand. And in doing so, they remind us that we, too, are capable of magic. As we close out 2024, I look forward to living in that liminal space more fully and exploring the magic in my life.

Happy Winter Holidays to you all! It’s the most magical time of the year!

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Every year, sometime in December, I drag out all of the work I’ve done on paper in the prior 12 months, line up the canvases, and do a little back-patting and culling. First, the pat on the back: It’s easy to lose track of what we accomplish over time. We can “no-big-deal” things when we look at our work - whatever kind of work it may be - individually, but when I look at that pile o’ paintings, well, WOW! I made a lot of work this year! And this doesn’t even show the work that has been sold, or is hanging in a gallery right now. Even just writing that last sentence is an accomplishment for me; it was my dream and goal to be represented by a gallery I am proud to be a part of and I found it in Sunset River Gallery. I’m even teaching a workshop there in January! More to come on that soon. I’m feeling dang proud of myself today.

Next comes the culling. Look, not every day in that studio is a success, but it is generally productive. If I make a piece that’s rubbish, I try to figure out where and why it went south and make a different mistake the next time. What I don’t do is toss those disasters in the trash. First off, materials are expensive, and since I work mainly in acrylics, I can often paint over things and save the paper or canvas. Sometimes, though, they just sit in a pile until the annual review when I have enough distance to laugh and shake my head at the stinkers, decide to rework the mediocre ones, and take some pride in the successes. This one is close to being a stinker, but will get reworked:

I also find pieces I’ve forgotten I painted. Like this one:

She was borne of a dream I had about a very traumatic event long ago in my life. The dream image haunted me for days and I decided I needed to exorcise it by making it tangible. After I did, I put it in a drawer and forgot about it. Demons, Begone! As I look at it now, I don’t see the fear and shame anymore. It feels hopeful to me. Art as therapy, my friend!

Taking the time to review a year’s worth of artwork in one sitting is an invaluable practice for growth and reflection. It shows me a view of my artistic journey, reveals patterns, strengths, and areas for improvement. It helps me identify recurring themes and techniques in my practice, and highlights where I’ve played it safe or struggled. It gives me a deeper understanding of my evolution as an artist and inspires me for whatever comes next. The process helps me make deliberate choices about the direction of my art.

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So, think about doing a post-mortem on your 2024 work. If you don’t have a stack of papers, look back through your photos, your calendar, planner, journal: wherever you’ve documented your days. Do some analysis, maybe some culling, and take some pride, then get ready to move on up!

Thank you for holding my hand on this journey and connecting with me here. You are much appreciated.

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I am deeply concerned about the steep and slippery slide away from full citizenship that women in this country are experiencing and the ways that womens’ voices are being silenced. I know I am not alone. I feel the collective grief and fear emanating from American women. I’m not going to recount it all here: you know what is happening as well as I. What I am going to do is ask for your help in gathering materials to use in my next series of work, which relates directly to this subject.

Over the last several months, I’ve been researching and reviewing my family history, with a particular focus on my matrilineal line. I know names and dates of births, marriages, and deaths. I know facts of immigration and a bit about how they made a living, but apart from the history I have personally experienced, I don’t know much else. I have questions! What stories would they tell about themselves? What stories would their daughters, sisters, and nieces tell about them? I want to know the her-story of my people.

It has come to me that so much of womens lives are simply not recorded, our stories are not told, and we fade from memory, not known even to our daughters or granddaughters, and certainly not our great-granddaughters. Do you know the full names of your grandmothers and great-grandmothers? If you do, you are in the minority: recent studies show that far less than half Americans can name all four of their grandparents, nevermind previous generations.

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I feel some tragedy in this. Were those lives full of purpose or drudgery? Were they rich with family and love, flush with ease or rife with grinding hardship? Did they have jobs? What did they look like? How were they shaped by their world? So many unanswered questions, because we just move on.

I am planning to make a series of images around this idea for a show I have coming up in 2025. At this point, I have concepts of a plan (I know, but I couldn’t help myself). I know it will evolve as I work, but right now I know I will work with shades of white, transparency and translucency, layers of collaged paper and sheer fabrics, charcoal and words.

I don’t want this series to be only about me and my people. I would like it to be bigger, encompassing all our faded and forgotten mothers. I want to honor our ancestors in the way that I contribute and serve best: by manifesting thoughts and emotions in physical form.

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Here’s where you come in:

If this resonates with you, would you consider taking a few moments to send me what you know about your women? Just make a comment here below or send me an email and I will provide you with a link to a secure drive where you can upload what you would like to share. I’m thinking of photos or scans of documents or, in your own hand, write out as much of their names as you know, tell me when they lived, where they lived, how they made a living, and what you may know about their lives. Send me a photograph if you have one. The more stories I can imbue into these pieces, the richer they will become.

Thanks for following along with me on this journey. I appreciate each one of you. and hope you will consider collaborating with me.

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I know this is where I talk exclusively about art, but today I can find no art in my being. I am numb. I have been mentally and emotionally paralyzed for nearly three days. You know that disorienting feeling of how your ears are not quite right after a really loud concert or a blast and you can't connect with the world through your senses in the usual way? That's how I feel. I can't move through the world in my usual way yet.

Tuesday

I was visiting my family, 800 miles away, over the past week. It was my dad’s 87th birthday and I got to spend time with kids, grandkids and sisters.

I had voted early and so was free to be away on election day. I stayed with my son and his partner and we all went to bed early Tuesday night. It was just too much with the watching, the waiting, the anticipating and knowing there would likely not be an answer that night.

Wednesday

I opened my eyes before 6 am, swiped my phone awake, saw one headline, then quickly closed it. I was sick with the same nausea and fear I felt waking up in a New York City hotel room on a Wednesday morning in 2016. Mechanically, I packed my things, wrote a quick note saying goodbye and crept out of the house to get back to my home, my husband; my safe place. I know I shaved about 20 minutes off the usual 12 hour drive.

While I was completely aware and attentive the entire time, I don’t remember much of it. Drive, gas, pee, drive and drive and drive.No radio, no socials, no news. Audio books. Fantasy novels. I tried “If Women Rose Rooted”, but I started to cry at the author’s recounting of the horrors that men have inflicted upon women throughout the ages, and thought of how it is happening again to women all over the world and now, here, in the USA. It was not a good day for that book.

Messages from friends checking-in went unanswered. I had nothing for them and could ask nothing from them. I was reeling and searching for purchase, for the ground under my feet. It wasn’t there.

I arrived home in time to cook dinner, seeking some normalcy and routine, even though I was exhausted. I only made a few small mistakes, but Michael was there as my sous chef, bless him. Over dinner, we talked about nothing. Both of us were still trying to find a way to process what happened and come to terms with it.

Thursday

I woke and went upstairs to my studio (my happy place) hoping to paint my feelings, but I still couldn’t touch them. Still numb, in shock and fear for the future of our country, but mostly, our women.

I decided to tidy up a bit and found an old, stalled, crochet project, tore it apart, then crochected something new and simple for the next 12 hours, practically non-stop. I made dinner; definitely not up to my usual standard, but edible.

During dinner we began to talk around the edges of the situation, but my old and severe stress response manifested and I had to stop before I needed to use an inhaler.

Friday Morning

Still staying away from all outside sources, I know nothing other than that the orange menace won the election. I needed to go to the grocery store, but I live in Trumpistan and I was afraid to see my neighbors in full regalia, or banners festooning homes and businesses.I couldn’t bear to be reminded of what he has promised to do to dismantle this admittedly less than perfect union. How many straight, white, affluent people will be harmed in the next however many years? None, other than his described enemies.

And the women. Dear gods and goddesses! The women!

Friday Afternoon

I took myself to the beach in my ratty and beloved Miata, Scarlet. She’s got some miles on her and is faded and worn, but I love her. I listenred to the wind and the surf, let the sun warm my skin and my heart, and wrote this to share with you.

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Now

If you are feeling - or not feeling - similarly, know that I stand beside you. If you have found a way to move through or around all this, or to manage it in a healthy way, please share it below. I know I need some wisdom and direction. I’m sure I am not alone.

Namaste.

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Can you guess how that went?

And it wasn’t even something entirely new: I was painting!

But…

• I was painting outdoors, which which I rarely do.

• I was painting the landscape (seascape), which most of you know is new for me.

• I was using tools and materials I don’t often use.

• There were unleashed dogs on the beach, which is legal here in the off season, but disturbing when they race up to my chair for whateverthehell dogs want from strange humans. I’m sure their “fur parents” are the same sort who are sure I want to have my fine dining experince enhanced by a screaming toddler. But, I digress.

I have not had a happy weekend, folks!

With the exception of an odd day here and there, I am fairly confident that I can climb upstairs to my studio and create something I like, or at least have some fun messing about. Because I have done it hundreds of times!

New stuff is harrrrd (that’s me whining). Starting from the beginning is harrrd (still pitiful)! Not being successful is frustrating and disappointing. It brings back all the feelings around “I’ll never be good at this, why am I even trying”.

So, here I am at the end of the weekend, processing my feelings while having an adult beverage after trashing all my hard work from the past two days.

I’m also reminding myself that beginner mind is a good thing. Beginner mind is crucial for growth and learning. Beginner mind requires patience and gentleness, and often some deep breathing.

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In the morning, I’ll have at it again. And I’ll treat myself as I would one of my students and remind myself that I must practice and listen and learn before i can expect to be proficient. Basically, give myself a break!

I’ll let you know how it goes.

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In the meantime, here are some photos I took for reference and a couple of my not-so-good sketches for you to enjoy.

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1. Increase Motivation

• Having someone to check in with can motivate you to stay on track: you are more likely to complete tasks when you know someone else is monitoring your progress.I know I am!

2. Improve Goal Setting

• An accountability partner can help you set clearer, more achievable goals by offering feedback and helping you break them into manageable steps.

3. Better Follow-Through

• Regular check-ins with an accountability partner make it harder to procrastinate, as you are responsible not just to yourself but to someone else. This is a big one for me!

4. Objective Perspective

• An accountability partner can offer an outside perspective, providing constructive criticism or helping you see blind spots in your approach.

5. Support During Challenges

• When you face obstacles, having someone to share your challenges with can provide emotional support and help you find solutions more quickly.

6. Increase Self-Discipline

• Knowing you’ll have to report your actions helps reinforce discipline, as you’re less likely to make excuses for skipping tasks or goals. Plus, if you do slack, they are likely to be gentle and make excuses for you: Ginger goes pretty easy on me.

7. Celebrate Success

• An accountability partner celebrates your victories with you, offering encouragement and recognition that reinforces your progress. It’s awfully nice to have someone smile and say “Yay, YOU!”.

8. Mutual Growth

If your accountability partner is also working toward their goals, you both benefit by learning from each other's experiences, setbacks, and successes. Watching someone learn and grow and get better over time is a fabulous thing to be a part of.

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Ginger and I decided that video chats would be the best way for us to get together since she in in Alberta, Canada, and I am in North Carolina, USA. We did our three months per the original commitment, and then decided we enjoyed the process and one another’s company so much that we would just keep going.

That was about two years ago. We have supported, encouraged, and commiserated with each other through art courses, exhibitions, failed paintings and successes. We came to know that we share values and perspectives. We’ve shared our work and our struggles with it, and have built a trust that allows us to be open about how we feel about ourselves around our creative endeavors.

The one thing we had not done in all that time was to paint together! Tough, when you are thousands of miles apart, but technology makes that possible. So we prepared to meet at our usual time, but have some supplies ready to go. Also, though we hadn’t discussed it, we both showed up with a cocktail in hand: kindred spirits, my friend!

And so we painted! For about two hours! Freely and without expectation.

I reworked a couple small canvases that I had made a total mess of months ago and Ginger started on some new expressive work on paper. We had a ball and kept saying, “Why have we not done this before?”

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Here’s how things went from her perspective:

“We’ve met many times online to chat and it felt natural to suggest we paint together. I gessoed a few sheets after first making marks, and got a bit too much in my head with this abstract piece. Once I switched over to a blind contour face, things felt more playful and not overdone. I didn’t want to plan too much on what I would work on but likely next time I will put more thought into it. Overall, I enjoyed our time together. It’s easy to say, I don’t really feel like painting today, but knowing we had a scheduled meet up with no pressure gave me the energy to paint the rest of the day.”

I love where she is going with these. I can definitely feel the easy, playful nature.

You’ve seen these two before, but they are the pieces I reworked during this time. I think I was able to make lemonade from those stinkers because I was chatting and laughing and not trying too hard to make something “good”.

We will for sure do this again.

How about you? What if you found yourself a like-minded partner to help keep you on track and hold you accountable for your commitments to yourself? You’ll probably even make a new friend!

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Summer is over now for most folks, but it’s one of the nicest times of year here in South-East-North Carolina. I’m trying to get out to the beach more often now that everyone else is gone. Have I mentioned how I don’t like people as a whole? I mean, in large numbers. As in summer at the beach. I stay away from it during tourist season.

I did paint some last month, and then brought these tiny new 8x8 collaged and painted babies to Sunset River Gallery, where select paintings of mine are available, along with work by over 100 other fantastic artists of all kinds of styles. It’s a great place to spend an hour or so if you are in the Calabash, NC/Myrtle Beach, SC area.

Also, just this week, I came across a photo of a painting that I allegedly made two years ago. I say allegedly because I have absolutely no recollection of having painted it, nor having seen it lying around the studio because (allegedly) it sold practically before the paint was dry.

I do paint several days a week, and have been doing so for a few years now, and I know I don’t remember every little thing I play around with, but this was a fully formed, finished painting, about 12x30! To be fair, I was in the midst of making a collection of about ten paintings. It might be understandable that having this one pop up in the middle of the process as a stand-alone piece could be forgotten, but still, that’s probably a week’s work of studio time that’s simply gone from my memory banks.

Weird. On the bright side, seeing it was a nice surprise, as I rather like it!

But, weird.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the summer as much as I have, and I hope we all remember it as well!

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If you are not a consumer of Instagram or TikTok, the first paragraph here may not make any sense to you. My husband and proof-reader uses only Reddit and message boards and had no idea what I am talking about here, so if that’s you, just skip right on to “Rant over”.

The recent social media trend of prefacing a caption or post with “POV” irritates the bejeezus out of me. Mostly because people are really dumb about how they use it. No, you don’t need to write a caption that says, “POV, when you feel happy and sad at the same time” and then give me a video clearly showing your tearful, but smiling face. The correct way to use POV would be to show the point of view of the viewer of the picture or video. So, in my example here, the caption should read, “POV, you come upon a person feeling all the feels”. See the difference? Please keep this in mind if you feel compelled to join the POV game. Better yet, just don’t: people will understand without being told.

Rant over.

I do, however, have more thoughts on point of view that have nothing to do with social media.

Yet again, I am going to cite Rick Rubin’s most excellent book, “The Creative Act: A Way Of Being”. That man is the GOAT with a pithy quote. He writes: “A point of view is the perspective — conscious and unconscious — through which the work emerges” He follows that up with, “It’s of no use to know your point of view”.

Wait, what??? This blew my mind some.

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You see, when I first started painting seriously, I worked with a wonderful artist, both in online and in-person workshops. I love her work and her teaching style, and boy, did I learn a lot. One of her core teachings was about, you guessed it, Point Of View. I spent days, weeks, months, trying to define my point of view in words, trying to come up with the what, the how, the why and the way of my art making. I never did feel like I really nailed it. Some part of me has felt like I failed in that and somehow my work suffers for not knowing it. To have Rick Rubin tell me the whole thing is of no use was at first, confusing, and then revelatory.

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Rubin’s explanation is that your point of view “is already there, working in the background…. Efforts to portray point of view on purpose often lead to a false representation.” Of course it is already there! It’s the garam masala spice blend of our experiences, opinions and feelings and outlook on the world, as much us as our DNA. I don’t spend time trying to define my genetic makeup or physical being in some sort of statement for the public, so why try to fabricate one for my point of view?

What part of my point of view am I expressing in the paintings on this page? Frankly, I don’t know and I don’t think it matters that I can tell you in words: the images speak for themselves. They probably tell you something different than they say to me and that’s fine and right! I have no interest in telling you how to think or feel about something I created; that belongs to you.

N.B. Both these paintings are available, just send a message if you are interested!

Thanks for following along. I’m interested to hear your perspective.

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I’ve been having a bit of a pity party lately, but today I pulled myself up by my bootstraps onto a stepladder and painted myself a stern reminder where I can’t help but see it from my painting table.

This was a very brave move since I had an 8oz jar of black latex paint in one hand, a brush in the other and nothing to hang on to. One wrong move and I would have had some ‘splaining to do.

I haven’t felt any creative spark for weeks. Intellectually, I know there are very good reasons for that; I’ve had troublesome family and health issues to put my energy into, but the part of me that expects excellence no matter the circumstance is simply not satisfied with non-performance, dammit!

So, I’ve been languishing and self-flagellating and just rolling around in my misery. “Poor, poor pitiful me! I can’t make art, I’ve lost my mojo, I don’t know if I can ever do this again.”

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Boo-freakin’-hoo.

The one thing I haven’t done is THE WORK. How can I possibly expect to make art if I don’t make art? If I don’t make dinner, we don’t eat. If I don’t water my garden, we don’t get herbs and veggies. If I don’t worry about things beyond my control, the world will fall apart. OK, I don’t really believe that. Sorta.

Was I thinking the art would magically appear, like the shoe repairs in the Elves and the Shoemaker story? I suppose I was.

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I didn’t make serious art today, though I did play a while. I set out a bunch of different tools and mediums, played The Subdudes as loud as I wanted, switched off working with both hands, and had myself a grand time making nothing of consequence. Because at the end of the day, the only thing that matters is that we have some fun along the way.

Baby steps. Tomorrow, I will get up those stairs in the morning, look up at my reminder to myself and then, “pitter-patter, let’s get at ‘er”. Anyone else watch “Letterkenny”? If you don’t, check it out, it’s a hoot.

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I have been ever so fortunate to have my sister Karen to travel from NY to NC to help care for me while I recuperate. Even more fortunately, I am feeling much better than I had expected, which allowed us to have some fun while she was here. She wondered if we might do a little painting, and since I haven’t been in the studio in weeks, I jumped at the chance.

I thought a low pressure way to work collaboratively and intuitively would be interesting, with no thought given to outcomes; just to enjoy the process. I did work in a couple twists along the way that I surprised her with, but she rose to each occasion with enthusiasm and a wide open mind. Growth mindset, y’all. Never stop trying new things.

It was a terrific pressure-free adventure for me too: I so often paint for a purpose that this was a welcome change.

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We ended up having a great time painting and having pithy and hilarious conversations while we did, ultimately painting for about 12 hours over the course of 4 days. Here are the finished paintings:

You can watch a time laspe of it here:

And listen to a short talk we had when we were finished about how we (mostly she) felt about the process, the experience, and the end result. If you have trouble differentiating our voices, well, sorry: we not only look a lot alike, but sound quite similar as well. Just remember I’m the one asking the questions 😉

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Things have been quiet on the art front here recently. For the past several weeks I have been busy taking care of long overdue chores like staining/water sealing all the outdoor furniture. The sun and salt air take a toll on the wood and I’ve neglected maintenance for a couple summers now. I was under the gun to get things done because I had to have some surgery last week and will be taking things easy for another six weeks or so. I’ve had to put a solo show on the back burner and limit some other art activity. Mandatory down time. I chafe at it.

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I’m relegated, for a little while, to working in sketchbooks, sitting in the sunshine and directing others to fetch and carry for me. Not a bad life for a short time, but everywhere I look I see something I want to do and cannot.

I’m so very fortunate to have a fantastic support team of my husband and my daughter and sister, who have separately traveled hundreds of miles and tag-teamed in to help care for me. I’ll make sure they sneak in a little beach time too. Bless them and friends who have checked in and sent me healing wishes. I feel deeply grateful and loved.

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I hadn’t had time to get my garden in, so my hard-working kid played in the dirt, shopped and then planted so I will have fresh herbs and veggies all summer long. I just sat around and told her what to do. I highly recommend that kind of gardening. Doesn’t it look great?

My sister and I are hoping to spend some time together in the studio over the next week. She can do the bending and stretching and I can wave a paintbrush around. We’re thinking of a collaborative project, words and images, maybe a call and response sort of thing, both working on the same finished product. We will let it evolve as it will and maybe record our thoughts and banter as we go. We think we are clever and amusing; maybe you will too. I hope I can show you the results of that next weekend.

Today, I’ll be exercising patience (not my strong suit) rather than my creative muscle and enjoying being waited upon as best I can.

Thanks again for hanging out with me here, I greatly appreciate you.

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I’ve always had some ambivalence about keeping a record of my life. I love the idea of having a stack of completed notebooks full of words about thoughts, feelings, and memories. I also hate the idea of dying without having burned them, and having my family page through them. I don’t want them to read about the day I was so angry with them that I called them bad names. Or see what a whiny complainer I am. Or read about things I may have done that I might not be proud of. You know, the deepest, darkest things.

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I was scared away from keeping a diary when I was eight or nine. I had received a book much like the one below for my birthday and began writing all my precious thoughts daily. I may have kept it under my pillow or tucked in a drawer underneath socks and underwear. It didn’t matter: there was no place safe. I shared a bedroom with my next-younger sister. You know what happened next. She mercilessly shared the name of the third grade boy I had a crush on with our others sisters, neighbors and classmates. She was that sister. And I stopped keeping a diary. I’m still bitter.

I do like the idea of an art journal. Fewer (or no) words and mostly images, like a daily sketchbook , but centered around feelings and maybe events. I know many artists who do practice this way religiously, but I just don’t get it. Most times I tried, I would get in front of the blank page and say to myself, “now what?” until I gave up and put the book away. As much as I am a visual person, I also love words, so any record keeping I choose to do must include words.

I tried to move on to a daily sketchbook routine, more like a workbook of mark making than a “journal”, knowing that practice would improve my drawing skills and experimentation could lead to new ideas. Again, I found myself uninspired, not knowing what to draw or how to proceed. Also, I lack discipline.

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Then last week, I watched a series of videos compiled by Louise Fletcher, an artist I admire and have learned a lot from, about creating an illustrated journal. One was an interview she did with Danny Gregory, whom you may know from his many books about drawing in the ordinary course of life and creativity. They inspired me to try again, in a little bit of a different way, to document my daily life.

“Illustrated Journal” doesn’t sound intimidating to me. I see it going like this: s I’m going through the course of my day, during one of those periods of waiting for something, like a friend to show up for a beer, or the tea to brew, or the server to bring my sandwich, I can fill the time by drawing whatever is in front of me and perhaps later, coming back in with color and a few sentences or bullet points about the day. And no deep, dark secrets. That’s not hard, right?

I’m only a few days in, but I’m having fun. My only trouble so far is to remember that it doesn’t have to be perfect. Wonky perspectives and misshapen objects are going to happen, but it’s ok: this is just for me. Let’s see how long I can keep it up!

Hey, thanks for hanging out with me here. I appreciate y’all. Also, a reminder that you can find me on Instagram here.

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I’ve never been an “animal” person. I had no personal pet as a child; we just had a series of badly behaved dogs that my father would bring home under the cover of implausible stories about caring for the animal while a work colleague was on vacation or something of the sort. I vaguely remember a couple of yappy beagles that were somehow going to become hunting dogs, but only ended up in the backyard annoying our neighbors and my long suffering mother who was already trying to manage four kids under ten.

I don’t know that I have a Spirit Animal. If I do, I imagine it would be a dire wolf, like the Stark children had in Game of Thrones. Yeah, fierce and loyal. That would work for me.

I’ve never been attracted to any animals, but I have recently had a couple episodes where one has been attracted to me. And by attracted, I mean relentlessly pursuing. As I write this, at 6:30 am, the most recent has just appeared on my deck for the fifth straight day, right on cue. A red winged blackbird. Banging on my window. And, no, it’s not his reflection he’s after; I’ve closed the blinds and even hung paper on the window to keep him from killing himself.

But let me back up a bit. Two years ago, almost to the day, I woke to the sound of hammering that seemed to be coming from my third floor studio. Curious, as one would be, I climbed the stairs and saw a cowbird on the deck pecking at the sliding glass window. I told him it was too early for that kind of noise, shooed him away and went back downstairs to bed. And then he started on the glass door on that floor.

That cowbird pecked on my glass doors and windows for ten days. He knew when I was upstairs and when I was downstairs. I shooed him, I hollered at him, I bargained and pleaded with him to go away, or at least be quiet, but he was relentless. It was hard to believe he had any beak left after so many days of it.

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Then I did what any normal person would do and consulted my best woo-woo friend, writer, teacher and psychic Deb Bowen, whose newsletter is published here on Substack, to get her take on all this. As I suspected she would, Deb suggested that I accept the damn thing into my life, tell it that I was ready to listen, and await the message. Can you feel my eye-roll here? But, I had run out of strategies, so, ok, I did it and I’ll be damned if she wasn’t right.

I did it the way I do best and started to paint the bird to better understand it and my animosity toward it. After another couple days, it became clear to me what all the “pecking at me” was about, or, rather who it was about and what I needed to do about it. And then the cowbird flew off, never to be seen again.

This past week, this guy appeared.

He perched on one of the outdoor dining chairs I just refinished and proceeded to poop all over it. Which ticked me off. I shooed him away. He came back. He has been battering the window, actually hanging on the screen (!) and, yes, following me upstairs and down for five. long. days. He greets me in the morning, watches me in the studio and while I prepare dinner. Seriously, I’m not making this stuff up. My husband (definitely not a woo-woo guy) will attest to it. The bird is absolutely following me around. Having learned my lesson once before, I’ve already accepted his presence and am open to whatever message he is bringing, but so far, it’s crickets.

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Today, I’ll start painting him to see if that might open up a channel. I’m keeping my mind open, practicing patience and hoping a heavy rain will take care of all the bird poop.