Marblehead

I live on the North Shore of Boston not far from the picturesque coastal New England town of Marblehead, Massachusetts.

A regional expression we use as a way to acknowledge the sudden realization of something obvious:

Dawn breaks over Marblehead!

I pause this morning to evaluate the day-after-day frustration of trying to get decent photos of book pages I've painted, pages that I leave bound in the book, pages that curl up, won't lie flat, have shadows near the binding, and so forth.

Dawn breaks over my hard stony head: I can step back and let go of perfect!

To Wake When All Is Possible
Before the Agitations of the Day Grip You
7 x 9"; acrylic and hand-painted collage
abstract
2020

Unseen Forces

So many forces at work that we are not able to see with the naked eye.

Harnessing My Belief That Something Wonderful Is About to Happen
7 x 9"; acrylic, pencil, oil pastel, and collage on a book page
abstract
2020

Elemental Wonder

I have early childhood memories of being at the seashore, of taking evening walks with Grandpa Chase beside a sea wall along Long Island Sound in Connecticut, hearing the splash and whisper of waves, breathing in smells of tidal gurry, noticing shingled cottages with reflecting balls in their flower gardens across the street from the water, feeling rough stone against the backs of my legs while sitting on the sea wall savoring the sweet conversational attention of my grandpa.

The mystery and elemental wonder of the sea found its way into my heart back then when I was still losing baby teeth. And there it has stayed.

I have made my home just minutes from the Atlantic coast for decades now.

For the past two months, however, I've lived in Shenandoah Valley surrounded by vast stretches of open land bordered in every direction by mountains.

And yet, it is the saltwater of my soul that has been speaking through my hand and brushes in recent days as I've painted.

 A Poem Come from Silence
7 x 9"; acrylic, latex, collage, color sticks, and oil pastel on a book page
abstract seascape
2020

Baby Steps, Baby Steps

I think my perception in college was that the kids taking art classes were already artists, the ones taking poetry classes were already poets. How was it that I didn't really get that students take classes to study? That they choose to reach into new and unknown places to learn new things? That anyone can take an art class?

I could feel regret now, looking back.

But, no worries! If I don't learn something one way I usually learn it another way. And mostly not in classes designed to instruct me in something I specifically set out to learn. Rather, if I stay open-hearted and curious, learning is there for the learning just about anywhere and anytime.

Actually, when it comes down to it, open-hearted and curious are not even prerequisites.

Lessons have a way of finding me.

A recent 'art lesson' appeared embedded in the neural retraining seminar in which the concept of incremental training was addressed. While extreme avoidance may decrease symptoms in the short term, in the long run, it may actually be reinforcing the fear association to the stimulus. Incremental training can be broken down into very simple terms: determine the ways you currently feel limited; then be creative in the ways you work with that challenge.

So, yeah, art class. Anywhere, anytime.

an increment; work in progress

another increment; work in progress

another increment; work in progress

Watch Your Language, Young Lady!

I have a vivid memory from childhood: my friend Betty sasses her mother who says Watch your language, young lady! and washes Betty's mouth out with soap; Betty exits the bathroom blowing bubbles.

I'm thinking today about the power of language.

On the Optimal Health Highway, there aren't any speed limits. Whatever speed you travel is the speed you travel.

But there are language limits. No talk about symptoms, no talk of illness. Instead: challenges, opportunities.

OK. We're game—we commit to playing by the rules, we watch our language.

Skies immediately brighten. It is indeed very different to hear Meg say, with a bit of lightness in her voice, Wow, lots of opportunities today! instead of … oops, I'm not going to articulate the instead-of, am I?! The brightness, the lightness—they're contagious and they effect a favorable difference in how I feel, too, and in how I participate in interactions.

It takes two days for me to recognize and integrate the deeper force at work. A wave of limbic dysregulation really is an opportunity—not just euphemistically, but literally. Each flare provides an opportunity to practice the training steps, and the practice will be more effective if Meg consciously interrupts the limbic system when it's in the process of an overactive misfire.

Each flare is an opportunity to redirect and build new neural pathways in the brain.

Bring it on!

So it is with painting, too.

Think back to Jacqui Beck's modus operandi:
I painted so much black over this.
Yes. Yes, I did.
What next?

An opportunity! Multiple opportunities! Opportunities everywhere!

work in progress; opportunities everywhere!

Change of Address

Road trip! Road trip!

Closing ceremonies have been held at Lyme Camp, and now we're cruisin' the Optimal Health Highway!

At Takodah, everyone receives a white candle on a small round of birch at a candlelight service the last night of camp. The following morning everyone leaves for home with candles, memories, and dreams of returning the following year.

Lyme Camp's a little different. We're not leaving a physical place; we're leaving a mindset. We leave with protocol medications and supplements still firmly in hand (new ones still to come), many memories, gratitude beyond measure for all that we've learned and all the ways we've grown, and no plans to return.

We've pointed ourselves with commitment and laser focus towards the home base of wellness, navigating the Optimal Health Highway with neural retraining as our GPS. We're actually building the highway ourselves as we go!

Very good.

Very good.

Yay!

work in progress

Unexpected

Yesterday's churning seas tossed up unexpected bounty.

I set out to layer, layer, layer.

Got the beginnings of one layer in place, stepped back.

Spied a lobster.

Wasn't expecting that.

Let some rapid-fire short-lived intuitive oil pastel-play express itself.

Stopped.

No Carry-on Luggage Allowed
7x9"; acrylic, pencil, and oil pastel on a book page
abstract
2020

Going Your Way

It Is Going Your Way: Towards Darkness, Towards Light
7 x 4.5"; acrylic, latex, oil pastel, color sticks, and collage
on a book page
abstract seascape
2020

If Something Is In Your Way, It Is Going Your Way
7 x 4.5"; acrylic, latex, oil pastel, color sticks, and collage
on a book page
abstract seascape
2020

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diptych

  

  

What Next?

I left off painting and musing yesterday with a whole bunch of white and the question, What next?

what came next, WIP

"Curiouser and Curiouser!"

Lyme Camp now includes intensive education about neural retraining exercises that calm an overactive limbic system stuck in the on position. A component of the program includes becoming the Curious Observer of what is. 

To notice without being reactive.

To notice without buying into all the false messages the limbic loop presents as truth and repeats at full volume ad nauseam.

To stay curious, open.

I am no stranger to being a curious observer but my engagement with neural retraining here is a gift that increases my mindfulness and moves me to become a more steadfast and curious observer than I might otherwise be.

Seattle artist Jacqui Beck has a video that delights me every time I watch it, addressing as it does the curious observer attitude she brings to her work. 

Oh man, this thing, 

     Jacqui says, observing with curiosity and playfulness as she paints. 

This black,

I painted so much black over this.

Yes. Yes, I did.

Now what?

---

Oh man, this thing,

     I say as curious observer today while I paint.

This white,

I painted so much white over this.

Yes. Yes, I did.

Now what?

another layer; WIP

Complaint Department

Complaining comes naturally to me.

Totally second nature.

A ready default response to all manner of circumstances, no circumstance too small.

Hold that thought, and picture me waiting in the checkout line at Stop & Shop overhearing the following conversation between Louise the checker and the customer ahead of me.

Louise: Hi, how are you? 

Customer: Nothing to complain about.

Graphic-novel-style thought bubble above my head:

SERIOUSLY???

NOTHING???

I CAN HELP YOU!!!

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Gratitude/simple pleasures:
• the quiet sifting-down-from-the-sky of just-barely-accumulating snow;
• the reflection on windows above the kitchen sink of metallic decorations from Emmy's 10th birthday party, creating the illusion of flickering colored lights on the leafless pear tree in the back yard; and
• remembering from Camp Takodah days this breakfast-time 200-voice-strong chant—
     ToDAY I'm going to be happy,  
     ToDAY I'm going to be glad,
     ToDAY is the day that's GOing to be,
     The BEST day I ever had!

yet another layer of pasta-pot steam on the window; WIP

Camp Program

When I attended Camp Takodah as a camper, and later as a cabin leader, the programing structure was tight, the rules strict. Infractions tended to be slight, in amusingly inverse proportion to the severity of feared punishment. Sneaking a box of Dunkin Donuts onto camp property after a leaders' night off, for example, was high crime, and we went to great lengths not to get caught.

Lyme Camp is characterized by neither tight structure nor strict rules. And yet I find myself doing some 'sneaking' even here, keeping an eye trained—in this active, busy, be-ready-at-all-times-to-respond-in-the-moment kind of operation that calls for significant presence of mind and availability—for little snippets of time in which I can pick up my paints and a brush without getting 'caught.'

another layer of pasta-pot steam on the window; WIP

What's Cookin'?

You know how pasta boiling on your stovetop expresses itself in steam on your kitchen windows? Its energy and story make themselves known graphically, without words, without sound. And then evaporate, giving a fresh view out the windows.

That's what painting here at Lyme Camp often reminds me of. In about the same amount of time it takes to bring dry orecchiette or linguine to a lovely al dente, my internal energy and story express themselves in paint, without words, without sounds. And then, a day later, or three, dissipate, giving a fresh view as—in this case—a new layer covers a prior one.

today's pasta steam on the window; WIP

The Glorious Impossible

Handpainted paper, scissors, mod podge, and a new day.

Exquisite tension.

The glorious impossible.

The Glorious Impossible
playing with handpainted collage paper on a book page
abstract
2020

Collage Paper?

I like engaging in what I think of as the 'exquisite tension' of working a crossword puzzle or writing a haiku, accepting and embracing the limits and working within them assiduously to bring into bloom what the constraints call for—a six-letter word for prehistoric monument, fourth letter m, for example, or using five + seven + five syllables to express a thought or feeling with tight precision.

Here at Lyme Camp:
• limits—plentiful
• assiduous effort—plentiful
• tension—plentiful
• exquisite—less plentiful, since exquisite is in direct one-to-one correspondence with my acceptance (or lack thereof) of limits!

Two days ago, I worked within the begrudgingly-tolerated limits—cursing them more than once—of a few minutes, a few tubes of paint, an old book, and my finger as a paintbrush.

Collage paper?

---
Gratitude/simple pleasures:
• shoveling snow—purposeful, productive, practical exercise! fresh air! beauty every which way!;
• two surprise packages for me in the mail; and
• the grace of Meg's and my laughing in surrender last evening at the day's messy mix of foibles and accomplishments and rough edges and tendernesses and wooziness and failed efforts and vats of soup and indecision and tears and hugs.

Inexquisite Tension
playing with acrylic on a book page
abstract
2020

Keep Me Ready

At Camp Takodah, campers offer up a prayer at breakfast every morning, each one opening his or her heart to keep me ready to help others at some cost to myself and send me chances to do a little good each day.

I wake at Lyme Camp with that prayer in my heart, not knowing how I will be of service but trusting that I will, living in mystery rather than mastery. I set practical intentions to have at the ready should the clouds of overarching unpredictability part to let space open up for them, and then I surrender to the moment-to-moment flow, wholeheartedly doing what life asks of me. 

Gratitude/simple pleasures:

• deep blue fathomless skies, bright sunshine, and just barely enough warmth for just barely enough time in just barely a big enough patch of light to meditate in the shelter offered by the back deck this afternoon;

• readiness to grab the chance to put paint and pencil on paper again today; and

• Meg's eyes, clear and luminous as she sat in a patch of early morning indoor sunshine chatting with me.

Send Me Chances
playing with acrylic and pencils on a book page
abstract
2020

Lyme Camp

You might remember that I went to Takodah Family Camp in August 2015, 2016, and 2017 with my daughter Meg and her family. Now, unexpectedly I have taken up residence with them again, this time at their home in Virginia, for what we are calling Lyme Camp in recognition of Meg's recent diagnosis.

Takodah Family Camp runs for a week. My participation at Lyme Camp began mid-December and doesn't have a set end date. I didn't think Lyme Camp was going to have any kind of arts program but it must have had one in the past because, in poking around, I discovered some basic supplies and materials. I also found an ember of creative energy eager to be fanned.

Gratitude/simple pleasures:

• an unexpected few moments in which to move paint onto a book page with my fingers, in which to grab a cray-pas and a charcoal pencil and a marker to make a few scribbles;

• cubing beef; chopping onions, celery, and carrots; and gathering garlic, thyme, and parsley for an instant-pot stew; and

• a prolonged all-family belly laugh as we lingered at the dinner table last evening.

Whether I Can Unlock the Door Remains to Be Seen
playing with acrylic, marker, charcoal pencil, and cray-pas on a book page
abstract
2020

Here and Now 1 January 2020

Here and now.

Michelle Gives Me a Starting Place
playing with acrylic and pastel on a book page
abstract
2020