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...and the other on the train. (thanks, Little Feat)  At least that's how I feel right now, having cut down my work hours to 3 days a week, giving me two week days to concentrate on my art business. And as long as the train is chugging along at a slow speed, I can live with that!

I've been thinking about going full time with my art for a long time.  But the timing was never "right." As I look back and wonder, "why now" I can see that I wasn't ready 5 years ago or even 5 months ago. And maybe I'm still not ready, hence the slow dipping of toes into the unknown waters.  But circumstances conspired to make me realize that NOW is the time to at least start.  As Lao-Tzu said so eloquently, "the journey of 10,000 miles starts with a single step." Movement toward a goal, no matter how small or slow, is still movement.  And the day I was paying attention in 7th grade science class I learned that energy begets energy. 

I'm settling down into a rhythm now, trying to keep myself on track in my home studio.  Painting and writing, not laundry and vacuuming, is my priority.  I even came up with a schedule for myself, which helps keep me focused - even though I rarely follow the schedule as written.  It's mainly a guideline to help keep me from getting distracted from my work.

It has become apparent to me that after years of working a 40 hour work week and painting at night, I had reached a plateau in my art.  My desire to grow, to dig deeper into my understanding of the work, to bring forth the thoughts, visions, emotions, dreams that bubble below the surface far outpaced my physical ability to do so.  I was trying to cram my job, my family, my home, my animals,  my social life (what little there was!), my need for sleep, my yoga practice, and my art business into a 24 hour day. Needless to say, I couldn't give anything my full attention.  I was frustrated, tired and unhappy. And lots of things fell through the cracks.

One of the first things I've noticed since having these two days is that my paintings are evolving along with my approach to painting.  When I felt rushed, I rushed the painting process.  I would continue to paint even when I became aware of becoming frustrated.  I painted at night under artificial light, and would be dismayed that my paintings all seemed too dark in daylight. Now, on my painting days, I can paint in natural light, step back and do something else when I start to feel lost, come back to a painting with fresh eyes...

As my mind relaxes, my paintings are becoming both more complex and more simple, an interesting paradox.  I'm learning to let go of what isn't working toward the whole in a painting instead of keeping a "favorite" part at the expense of the rest of the work. I can't tell you how many paintings I've ruined by hanging on to a precious part, trying to make that work, and ruining everything else that was working in the process. I'm working on refining my "voice" - of understanding what my work is about, and developing a consistent visual language to communicate and resonate with those who view my work. And I'm learning to trust my intuition, learning that what I am painting has merit and value, learning to not compare myself to anyone else.

The Universe has been kind to me in these last couple of months.  I've been blessed with two commissions for paintings - and in both cases the people commissioning the work have given me lots of space to be creative in my approach to the pieces.  I am blessed with a loving and supportive family, as well as supportive co-workers and employers at my job at Fine Print Imaging. I am blessed to be in two wonderful galleries - one in Fort Collins and one in Red Hook, New York.  And I am so thankful for all the people in my life who encourage me and remind me of all the good in world.

Namaste.

One of the first pieces in my current series, "Where is Home?" reflects the period when our house of 20 years was on the market, and we had no clear idea where we would end up. Coming from an acreage, where we had unobstructed mountain and plains views, a big sky full of stars, horses in the pasture and neighbors we could see but not hear, the thoughts of moving into town were unsettling. We knew we'd end up with less property - after all, part of the whole reason for our move was that we were ready to do other things in life besides fix and maintain the property. Much of our life was up in the air at the time - and I desperately craved a sense of home, while at the same time delighting in the newfound freedom to reinvent and rearrange.

The concept of "home" is one that I return to again and again. What makes a place "home"?  In an article in the May, 2012 issue of Smithsonian Magazine, the author, Verlyn Klinkenborg, writes "When did 'home' become embedded in human consciousness? Is our sense of home instinctive? Are we denning animals or nest builders, or are we, at root, nomadic? For much of the earliest history of our species, home may have been nothing more than a small fire and the light it cast on a few familiar faces, surrounded perhaps by the ancient city-mounds of termites. But whatever else home is—and however it entered our consciousness—it’s a way of organizing space in our minds. Home is home, and everything else is not-home. That’s the way the world is constructed." Read more

To me, home is not a stationary place, but rather a feeling - of belonging.  Last summer I traveled back to Connecticut for my 40th High School reunion. I hadn't been back to what was my home for the first 30 years of my life in almost 30 years, and was amazed at how familiar and yet how different everything looked. I didn't feel like the physical "place" was home any more. However, reconnecting with friends and family - now THAT felt like home. I was amazed by how comfortable those old relationships felt, and how connected I felt to people I hadn't seen for years and years (except for on Facebook!).

When I moved to Colorado with my husband and kids in 1988, I remember that it took me a while to feel that Fort Collins was home. Even though we had a built in support system of friends here, I missed my family. I missed the Sunday dinners and holiday gatherings. But it wasn't like I could return "home" - my parents had moved to San Diego, where all my siblings now live.  Right about the time when my mother-in-law moved to Ft. Collins is when I started to feel like this was home.

Now, even though my mother-in-law has passed away and my mom and siblings still all live in San Diego (which in a way feels like home when I visit), and I've recently moved to a new house, my home is here, where our daughters and grand children are.  We have roots in this area. Indeed, home IS where the heart is.

I love the name "Earl" for a dog... the name conjures up an image in my head of a canine of undetermined breeding, a hound dog with a heart of gold.  Maybe you had an "Earl" as a child, a loyal companion who would join you on adventures, run alongside your bike, sleep on your bed, drive your mother crazy with his shedding and his propensity for getting into the trash or skunked at the most inopportune moments. But he was your best friend, your confidant, your protector.  Even if he did create strange and unwelcome odors under the dining room table when company was present.