www.riverstonestudio.com

I'm blogging over at www.riverstonestudio.com now, which is my new website. You can find me there and learn about all the creative things I'm getting up to.

Hope to see you there!

Super Exciting Spectrum Announcement

Hali Karla is an artist/healer, with a deeply intuitive creative practice. She is wise, kind, loving, and generous. And I am extremely grateful to be able to call her my dear friend.

Her call to help women heal has inspired her to develop SPECTRUM, a holistic, online, visual journaling workshop that will run for 10 months in 2014. She has gathered together more than 30 artist/healers to share their intuitive wisdom and creative practice over the ten months.

I am even more grateful to announce that I am one of the artists who will be contributing over the course of the year. I'm already deeply involved in devising my offering--delving deep into my journey to tell my story and to devise a workshop that will allow women to explore their own creative intuition.

Let me tell you more about why I am so excited about this program. I got the chills when I saw the photo collage of the contributing artists. Some I consider my friends, other my mentors, some are wise women that I have long admired, and some I cannot wait to learn from.

To be more honest than that, I got teary eyed to be part of such a beautiful circle of women. I just know that their offerings will be so rich with wisdom, guidance, inspiration, and love. The ten-months will be a potent time for reconnecting with your body wisdom and deepening your understanding of your creative intuition.

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Each of the eleven PDF guides will carry a theme related to one of our body's systems. Hali has created a structure for SPECTRUM that is rich in metaphor and meaning. I'm looking forward to seeing how beautifully our bodies' natural cycles map onto cycles of life and creation and inspiration.

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I'll be sharing more about what I have planned and what others will be offering over the next few weeks, so stay tuned.

If you want to read more, check out the SPECTRUM page. There you will learn about the Early Bird Pricing of $99 that runs through December 16, 2013. As a contributing artist, I am an affiliate for SPECTRUM and will receive a portion of the registration fee if you use the green link below.

Use this link for more information and to join as part of my affiliate program.

Breathing Room

Space is the breath of art.
~Frank Lloyd Wright

One of my themes for 2013 has been Release. Over the course of the year, my husband and I have decluttered almost our entire home--excavating every closet, cupboard, and drawer for items and objects that were unused, redundant, or just taking up space.

It has been an amazing process to work through that touched on concepts of abundance and scarcity. It made me question what we truly need versus what we think we need.

For each item, I asked myself three questions:

• Is it beautiful?
• Is it useful?
• Is it loved?

If I couldn't answer Yes to at least one of the questions, then the object, in theory, needed to go. In reality, I still found myself clinging to some of my stuff.

The most unexpected items sometimes caused the greatest difficulty. Who knew that so much of my sense of security revolved around owning 38 bath towels, 18 hand towels, and 45 wash cloths? It took my husband several days to convince me that we would be fine winnowing it down and that the local animal shelter could use them more than we could.

But as we worked through the process together (all along it was much easier for Kevin than for me), it became fun. There was something liberating in sorting through our belongings and keeping only those that were beautiful, useful, or loved.

And so after several months' work, we managed to work through almost the entire house, releasing umpteen carloads to local charities and to the local landfill. The change was dramatic. Our newly decluttered home felt spacious and open. There was truly room to breathe.

I say we worked through almost the entire house because one room saved for last was my studio, which was my responsibility. Kevin didn't care if I decluttered it or not.

As the year went by, I found myself increasingly uncomfortable in my studio. It is a large room and contained my fabric, craft books, sewing and cutting tables, ironing board, painting table, shelves for paint, an easel, a design wall, and my mother's hope chest. That is a lot of stuff, even for a large space.

My studio was no longer a place of refuge, no longer a sacred space for creation. I'd toss things in without putting them away. It became a confusing jumbled mess.

One morning, Kevin and I were enjoying our morning caffeine, and I started musing about my ideal studio. This is how I described it at the time: "I can see it perfectly. White walls. High, sloped ceilings. Excellent natural light. Wide blonde pine floorboards. A large cabinet for storing supplies. Loft area for reading. Open. Spacious. Clear."

Not only could I see the space, but I could feel how it would be to breathe in the space. It felt so different and I longed for the ability to make the change. Then I had a realization: I already have a studio. If I decluttered and reorganized, then I could make the space feel closer to my dream.

I mapped a plan.

With Kevin's encouragement, I decided to move all my sewing and quilting supplies to a spare bedroom and dedicate my studio space to painting.

It's been a week since I finished and the space is more than I dreamed. I may not have the pine floorboards or a loft area, but those are mere details. What I do have is the experience of an open, spacious, and clear studio.

I no longer feel confused when I walk into my studio. I feel clear and creative. And I can breathe. 

 

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Taking Risks When Failure is Not an Option

Imagine this familiar storyline from any number of sci-fi or action movies. An imminent threat, such as an approaching meteor, erupting volcano, spreading contagion, or growing super storm, has the fate of the world at risk

In the control room or cargo plane or reinforced bunker, a small band of special forces or scientists or everyday citizens develop an audacious plan to save the world. As tension mounts and they review their roles, the grizzled leader says something like "We get one shot at this. Failure is not an option."

I've decided to take that on as a motto for my studio, but for a different reason. The fate of the world doesn't rest on my painting. There is no life and death situation at hand when I step into my studio.

Instead, quite literally, failure is not an option. I can't fail in the studio. Oh sure, I can paint better or worse. I can get closer or further away from painting what is in my heart. But I can't fail.

In my studio, failure is not an option. It's just not possible. I cannot fail.

Sunday night I brought that attitude into my studio. I had been working on a small 12" x 12" canvas but was feeling meh about it. I had a pep talk with Kevin and remembered that I can't fail. I wanted to paint a giant eye on the painting. So I took a risk and did. And I found a new energy in both the painting and how I felt about painting.

Since then I have returned to the studio and have been actively pursuing risk taking, liberated by the knowledge that failure is not an option. It feels like soaring.

Failure: A Corollary

There is true freedom that results from realizing that failure comes from holding back (and not from the attempt or the result). I can make choices based on the needs of the moment balanced with my long-term goals.

Take today as an example. It's Saturday and when I went to bed last night I had great intentions to make today full of painting, writing, and creating my business. But when I woke this morning I felt tired, a little stuffy, and low in energy.

So I made the conscious decision to nap in the recliner with one of our kittens. Usually, I would feel torn between the needs of my body and the need to meet my intentions. The disconnect between the two would cause tension and resistance. I might nap, but I would beat myself up about it. "You'll never achieve what you want if you spend all your time napping," I'd think to myself. And then after my nap I'd think "Well, you just wasted that hour. You'll never achieve your goals." These negative thoughts would spur negative feelings and I'd avoid the studio (which would now be associated with negativity in my mind) in favor of mindless Internet surfing or a silly computer game.

Today was different because after my realization I now feel free to pursue my goals without worrying about failing. I know they will take time to achieve so I don't feel the pressure to always work towards them (that pressure that seems to always lead to resistance).

I could take a nap with Torbie without fearing that it proves that I am a failure. A nap with a cat is just a nap with a cat--and not evidence of my unworthiness.

The corollary to knowing that failure comes from holding back is understanding that I can pause in response to the needs of the moment without facing resistance or deeming myself a failure.

I can return to the work when I am feeling better. I don't need to go through the cycle of pushing and resisting and pushing through the resistance while doubts flood my mind.

It is a a natural flow where I can respond to the needs of the moment, secure in the knowingness that I can always return to my path.

What Failure Really Is

It's funny how the deepest wisdom resides in the gut. I mean, we can know something intellectually, but never truly understand it. It's the difference between reading something and saying "Yeah, yeah, I get it" and coming to a realization that strikes so deeply that you can feel it in your body.

 

Our bodies hold an infinite source of intuitive wisdom. The trick is learning how to sense it. Our everyday lives are so overfilled with stimulation that it can be hard to find time to be quiet, listen, and feel what our body is saying.  Learning to listen is so powerful because when we tap into our bodies' wisdom we connect with a deep-seated knowingness that has the capacity to change everything.

Last night I was reading and reflecting upon a question posed within the pages:

• How do you hold yourself back because you fear failure?

Almost immediately I was struck with a knowingness that I could feel. Even before I had thoughts, I had a sensation that something changed within. So I paused, quieted, and listened to the knowingness of my body. And as I listened, I realized something.

•  Failure comes not from the attempt nor even from the result. Instead, failure resides in the holding back that keeps us from ever trying.

In that timeless moment, something changed within. My body's wisdom told me that if I tried something and failed, well, it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't change the way I feel about myself. And if it changed the way other people saw me, that didn't matter either. Failure was just not a problem any more. It's the holding back--the fear of trying--that is the real failure

I have many dreams. Some dreams are even bigger than I've dared to dream. But now I see that my life--that all of our lives--are full of limitless possibility. We can dare to dream. More than that, we can dare to do. And all the while we are safe in the knowingness that the only real failure comes when we hold back from ever trying.

How Do I Tell This Story?

Four weeks ago I boarded a plane that (along with a rental car) would eventually lead me to Sedona, where I would join an intuitive painting retreat with my teacher, Connie Hozvicka of Dirty Footprint Studios.

Five days later I returned home a completely transformed woman.

I do not know how to tell you the story of the days in-between. I do not even know how to tell you how I have changed. All the beauty and healing I experienced happened in a space beyond words. I feel helpless as I sit here trying to describe it.

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How can I tell you how it felt to paint under the light of the deep blue Sedona sky?

Or how it was I found myself only after I lost myself on a trail?

Or how it felt to spread myself on the red rocks and let the bright desert sun clarify me from the inside out?

And how it felt to have my pain and fear and suffering burn and leave naught remaining but a cool, celadon crystal in a pile of ash?

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How can I tell you what it meant to meet my dear teacher and find her even more loving and wise than I imagined?

Or to connect with five other women so bravely willing to paint deep into their own hearts?

And to know that loving support and intuitive guidance was there in the circle, whenever I needed it?

How can I describe how in the midst of painting I felt my feet connect with the ground?  And how can I explain just how important that was to me?

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Or how it felt to breath in the clear desert air?  And then allow myself to exhale not just carbon dioxide, but the old stories that burdened my heart?

I feel so lost in trying to explain these things to you, which is deeply ironic because I think what I am most trying to say is that my trip to Sedona ultimately led me home where I found my truest self.

Public Face, Private Heart

Everyone has a public face. It's the one we show to the world. We gussy it up. Smile broadly. Pluck and tweeze relentlessly. Smooth our hair. Edit out the flaws. Enhance our expression. 

We literally show our best face. 

For a long time, that was my Facebook profile picture. It's a self-portrait I played with in Instagram. I like it but it's only part of the picture. Only part of who I am. 

The other night I was reflecting on living a big life, a true life, a vulnerable life. What would it mean for me to show my true face? The private me. The one that no one really sees. Maybe not even me. 

I took some pictures with my phone and played with them in Instagram. One in particular struck me as more revealing, more honest, more true. 

Before I could change my mind I made it my profile picture. 

The moment I did I felt a sense of relief, like maybe I wasn't hiding myself so much anymore. Like maybe I could speak with more authenticity. Like I could be vulnerable and still feel safe. 

Since then I have felt this new sense of power. Of knowing. Of being. 

In that instant of showing my true face I changed my understanding of myself. And my relationship with myself. And that's changed my relationship with the world. 

It's a surprise to me that so much has changed. I don't want to over analyze it or make it something I'm not sure it is. I merely want to be grateful for the opportunity to be me. 

What If's and Why Not's?

When I head to the studio I bring two very important questions with me. I ask myself, 

What if?

(meaning, What if I try this? or What if I risk that?)

and then I answer

Why not?

(Why not try this? Why not risk that?)

These questions, when I remember to ask them, offer me tremendous freedom to try new things. It's like a hall pass for creation. Instead of feeling trapped in a certain way of creating, I give myself permission to wander at will and follow visions and ideas with abandon. I make new connections and discard old expectations. These powerful questions offer me creative liberation and when I yield them, I soar.

But that is only when I remember to ask them. 

I have to remember.

Because when I walk into the studio without them, it's too easy to fall down the rabbit hole of expectations and burdens. Without these two questions, I take the known path and follow the well-worn tracks to certainty. I begin to listen to the cruel counsel of my inner critic. Without them, inspiration vanishes and creation stagnates.

And so I am considering my life to be a creation too. I'm thinking about how I've gotten to where I am now and envisioning where I would like to be. I'm daydreaming about my future and what I want it to hold. And I'm setting an intention for who I want to be and how I want to live. 

As I was envisioning my future, I was struck by a question,

What if I bring my two studio questions to my life?

The only honest answer I could offer was

Why not try?

What if I dare to shine as brightly as a supernova?

What if I take down the facades and just be me?

What if I live and love with abandon?

What if I trust in my dreams and challenge myself to make them real?

What if I trust in my dreams and challenge myself to make them bigger?
What if I start now?

The only honest answer I can offer is

Why not try?

Why not?

 

Loving Cat Pee

Last week, after an extremely long 13-hour day, Kevin and I arrived home to discover something that cat owners dread: our calico cat had peed on our bed. In my spot, to be precise. While we stripped the bed, peeling away layer after layer of sodden quilts and bedding, we talked about our shock and concerns. Callie is 15-years old and recently diagnosed as hyperthyroid so litter box issues are not unknown or unexpected. But we know our cat and this seemed more personal. Our long hours have kept us from giving her attention she needs and that always upsets her.

So while I loaded the bedding into the washer and googled "how to remove cat urine from memory foam mattress", Kevin found Callie and gave her some snuggles. We were concerned and stressed. Was this related to the new medication? Would this be the start of a new habit? Or, was it true, as we suspected, that she was giving us a more personal message?

The next day, the vet "reassured" us that it was not likely to be the medication, but that litter box issues were especially common in elderly cats and the causes are often unknown. All we could do was experiment and try different things.

So we did more internet sleuthing and bought another litter box. We also began adjusting our schedules so that she would never be alone for more than a few hours at a time. Over the next few days our conversations centered around Callie. We followed her around the house like a hawk. We gave her lots of attention and playtime. And we sighed with relief every time we arrived home to a house that was dry where it was supposed to be dry.

The day after our discovery, I arrived home to find Callie sleeping peacefully on the bed. She gave me a few cranky "why are you bothering me?" meows and stretched. Shortly afterwards she padded out to the kitchen and gave me a few demanding meows. I knew she wanted attention.

One of my rules for life is "When in doubt, love." So when I find myself in a sticky situation and I'm not sure what to do, I remind myself that love is a verb. I think of the most loving way to respond. Just the process of loving often provides clarity and allows me to move forward.

So I picked her up and carried her to the couch. As we began snuggling, I was present with her. I didn't pick up my iPhone to idly surf until the snuggling was over. Instead, I brought forth feelings of deep love. I thought of our may years together. And I envisioned a warm golden glow surrounding us both. Her purrs deepened and she relaxed into an extended nap on my chest.

Since then, I have continued to be present with her. Kevin and I continue to give her plenty of  attention and playtime. And we have not had one problem in a week. I know that life is uncertain and that the situation could change, but I also know that if I am in doubt, that love is the answer.

Word for 2013

It's nineteen days into 2013 and I'm changing my mind about my word for the year. If my word for 2012 hadn't been IMPERFECT, I don't think I'd be able to do this. I'd think "You chose this word and started the year with it, so you have 346 more days to go until you can change it." But living life imperfectly last year taught me that flexibility is a virtue. Instead of trapping myself in an arbitrary rule of perfection--that the word chosen on New Year's Eve must be held for the next 365 days--I've decided to change my mind.

I entered the New Year believing that 2013 would be my year to DARE. At first it was exciting. I copied all kinds of daring quotes into my art journal. I thought about all the opportunities I would seek out to challenge myself. I imagined myself living a bold, adventurous life.

But quickly I began feeling uncomfortable with DARE. I chalked it up to fear and my generally risk-averse nature. As days passed, DARE felt like a pair of shoes that don't quite fit. I felt pinched and trapped. I worried that DARE would lead me down paths that weren't right--that I would say "yes" to things out of a desire to be daring rather than from an intention to be true.

I thought about DARE as a word and what meanings it held for me. As a child of the 80's, the ultimate daredevil was Evel Knievel. But somehow jumping a motorcycle over a river while wearing a spangled jumpsuit wasn't the role model I was seeking. And then there is that famous Helen Keller quote, "Life is a daring adventure, or nothing." That always seemed horribly unfair to me to because a simple life can be profoundly beautiful.

So I turned the question around. I asked myself "How do I want to feel at the end of 2013? When I look back over the year, what do I want to see?" The answer was clear: I wanted to make a lot of art. I wanted to take risks and be bold with my art. I wanted to inspire and motivate and teach people to discover their own creative hearts. I wanted to create a beautifully simple home. I wanted to live a life of art.

I was reading Free Play by Stephen Nachmanovitch and came across this quote:

"The work of the improviser is, therefore, to stretch out these momentary flashes (of creative inspiration), extend them until they merge into the activity of daily life. We then begin to experience creativity and the free play of improvisation as one with our ordinary mind and our ordinary activity. The ideal--which we can approach but never fully reach, for we all get stuck from time to time--is moment-to-moment nonstop flow. This is what many of the spiritual traditions refer to when they speak of "chopping wood, carrying water"--bringing into the humdrum activities of daily life the qualities of luminosity, depth, and simplicity-within-complexity that we associate with inspired moments. We can then say, with the Balinese, "We have no art. Everything we do is art." We can lead an active life in the world without being entangled in scripts or rigid expectations; doing without being too attached to the outcome, because the doing is its own outcome."

We have no art. Everything we do is art.

Yes.

Oh yes.

In my heart I felt a single word float into place: ART. 

ART will be my guide, my intention, and my constant companion. I will practice awareness and seek beauty. I'll challenge myself go deeper, express more, and live with honesty. I'll carry my sketchbook everywhere, dive into my studio whenever possible, and share my work with the world. I'll create with an open heart. I'll love abundantly. To be fair, that sounds like a daring life to me, but the difference is that it is daring on my terms with deep intention.

Shine Your Love

I 

A couple weeks ago I was feeling unsettled. An anxious uneasiness was eating at me around the edges. I felt disconnected from the present moment and uncertain as to my path.

My normal tendency would be to withdraw and hibernate until I regained my equilibrium. I'd seek some solitary space to go inward and explore the source of my dis-ease. I'd heal by myself, alone, in silence.

But something inside me resisted that tendency to hide. Retreating to a secret shelter didn't sound healing to me. My gut was telling me that instead I needed to reach out, to connect, and to offer love.

Offer love? That seemed so odd. Here I was feeling vulnerable and my intuition was guiding me to share my heart? Where would I do that? How would I do that?

I sat with the feeling for a while and became more and more certain that it was the right path. I remembered three lines I wrote in my art journal a while back:

Can you shine imperfectly?
It seems to me that if you offer of yourself and give of your heart, then it's going to be full of light.
Can light be wrong?

I reached out to my sisterhood of painters on facebook. I told them I was feeling uneasy and unsettled and that I wanted to try something different and send out blessings of love and light. From the moment I pressed post, I felt a sense of lightness and release. And my painting sisters responded with great love and light in return.

The uneasiness calmed and I felt a warm sense of well-being.

Since then, I added love to my practice of mindfulness and gratitude. I sit quietly and open my heart and let the love shine out. The more I practice, the more love I find I have to share.

In a full heart, there is room for everything,
and in an empty heart there is room for nothing.
-Antonio Porchia

 When in doubt, love is the answer.

How Hands and Feet Made Me Forget

Last spring I took an online painting class BIG with Connie Hozvicka of Dirty Footprints Studio. To say it was transformative is not an overstatement. During those six weeks, I nurtured my intuitive creativity, learned to release my inner critic, healed some hidden wounds, and discovered a deep love of fearless painting.

When the class finished, I vowed to keep painting and stay connected with that sense of open joy. I thought of creating a painting that reflected how it feels to be open to the world, to trust in my intuition, and to be fearlessly creative. A vision flashed in my mind of a woman sitting cross legged in the midst of flaming lotus leaves. When I got home that night, I taped together four pieces of paper to make a large surface (48" x 72") and sketched out my image. I quickly blocked in the colors. I was thrilled that the painting so reflected the vision I had imagined.

I knew how I wanted to continue. I wanted to add detail to the leaves, add depth to the colors, and outline everything with black for contrast.


But I hit a wall and stopped. Something scared me. Painting on my own was different from painting with a group of supportive sisters. And so the painting sat in its unfinished state for the entire summer. And although I created lots of great things during that time, I never really painted again.

Just last week I received notice that Connie would be offering the second online painting class, DEEP, for the last time as live group class. Even though life is busy, I knew that I didn't want to miss the chance to paint fearlessly with a fabulous group of sisters again. So I signed up.

Today was the first day of class. I nestled in the recliner with my laptop and watched Connie's welcome video. Within minutes I was crying tears of loss. I hadn't realized how much I lost when I stopped painting. I had started playing it safe, avoiding creative risks, and hiding from myself and the world. I lost that deepest connection with my creative self.

And so having finished the video and dried my tears, I went into my studio. I had an assignment in hand, but I also had permission to follow my intuition and paint what I felt--assignment be damned. I began taping two pieces of paper together with the intention of taking down my unfinished painting and beginning something new.

But that didn't feel right. My unfinished painting reflected exactly those feelings I was hoping to rediscover through the class. So I decided to start painting on it and see where it led. I turned on my favorite Pandora station, loaded up my palette with an array of gorgeous colors, and dipped my brush into beautiful gooey paint. 

Within minutes I lost myself in the paint, which really means I found myself again. 

Time passed without my awareness as I danced in front of my painting. When I found myself holding a brush in my right hand, another brush and palette in my left hand, and a third brush in my mouth, I felt so good I wondered why I ever stopped.

As I finished painting the leaves and the background, I was faced with painting the body and face. I then realized why I had stopped painting--it was those darned hands and feet. Back in the spring, I was so nervous about painting hands and feet that I stopped painting altogether.

But today I had a different way of thinking. This painting was not about hands and feet. It was about the feeling of creative joy I get from fearless painting. I didn't really care what the hands and feet looked like. What I did care about was how returning to painting was like returning to myself. I wasn't going to let some silly appendages keep me from that.

So I loaded my brush with black paint and drew some outlines of hands and feet. That felt like blessed freedom. Look! Feet and hands! Are they perfect? Not even close. But that's not important to me. What is important is that they are. They exist as hands and feet.

I finished the painting soon after that. I don't think I can adequately describe how I feel. It's like a mix of relief, release, joy, and hope. Those missing hands and feet had weighed so heavily on me. But now they are.

And more importantly, now I am.

A Painter's Eyes and an Artist's Heart

I am discovering that I have the eyes of a painter. What do I mean? I am starting to see the world in a new way--in terms of colors and forms and lines and compositions, rather than constantly making the mental translation from form to object. When I look at the changing orange leaves on a maple branch, I see terra cotta and pumpkin specks over a deep espresso crooked line--rather than orange leaves on a brown trunk. In other words, I am beginning to see with my eye, rather than my mind.

I first noticed something different in my seeing this summer, while whizzing past highway hills covered in wildflowers. The patches of varied greens interspersed with soft lavenders, deeper eggplants, shocking yellows, and subtle pinks made me want to stop the car on the spot and immediately learn how to paint landscapes in oils. Since then, I have been practicing mindful seeing as I drive, which leads me to stop driving at times and try to capture what I am seeing. (All of the photos in this entry were taken with my iPhone and filtered through Instagram.)

I am also discovering that I have the heart of an artist. I deeply feel the things I see. I can be overcome by a glimpse of subtle beauty, such as a single yellow leaf clinging to the tip of a branch silhouetted against the grey stormy sky.

I remember driving to work one morning in early September. I rounded a bend and was deeply affected by the view. The golden, slanting light filtered through the foliage and dappled the mature greens of late summer. It was breathtakingly sublime and my breath caught as my heart filled with deep joy and gratitude of the beauty of our world.

It's a wonderful gift--this transition I am experiencing in my eye and my heart. And one that I want to honor. I'm going to begin studying photography, so that I can capture more readily these singular moments that steal my breath away. And come spring, I'm going to begin learning to paint landscapes. I'm ready and excited for the challenges ahead as I stretch myself to capture in paint and pixels that which I see and feel.

Saying Yes

Saying "Yes" doesn't mean that things will always be easy.

Saying "Yes" just means that I will give it my best.

Saying "Yes" means that I am going to listen to that little voice

calling out "more, more, more, jump in, try, do, be."

Saying "Yes" means that I am going to

jump in

do more

try more

be more.

 

Saying "Yes" is a promise to my heart that I will listen and follow,

even if I feel afraid and uncertain.

Saying "Yes" is an act of courage.

Saying "Yes" is love.

 

Instant Instagram Art

Ok. It's eleven o'clock at night and I realized I miss my blog! I'm in bed and too tired to go to my laptop so I'll try a quick iPhone post about my favorite iPhone app: Instagram.

Have you tried it yet? It's a photography social media app that lets you take pictures, modify them with filters and frames, and share them with your followers.

I've been using it for a couple months and absolutely love it for several reasons.

First, it lets me make art in an instant. Second, it lets me share my art with others easily. And third, through it I am learning a lot about how I see the world.

Here's a selection of some of the photos I've taken and posted. I've learned that I look for patterns and compositions in unexpected places. I love to look for beauty in odd little corners of the world.

I'm especially inspired by gritty urban scenes, which is funny because I live in such a rural area. Parking garages are some of my favorite places to look for compositions. I think it's because they are so graphic, with such strong lines and shapes.

I'm kimberly_paints and you can see my work on the app. Just download the app and join in the instant art fun. I follow everyone that follows me. Hope to see you there!

Sometimes You Just Need to Flop

My cat Callie, like all felines, is an expert in relaxation. Many times each day, Kevin or I will walk into a room to discover Callie flopped down, stretched out on her back, paws flailing into space, in a state of deep relaxation. We call it "a puddle of silliness" and will warn each other "Watch out! There's a puddle of silliness on the bathroom floor." At which point, the other will tiptoe around the corner to catch a glimpse of a being in a state of complete and utter rest. 

 

Callie in a deep state of silliness

There's something to consider here: how often do we allow ourselves the opportunity to just flop down and rest? Maybe it's not silliness at all. Maybe it's a super-important state of being. I know I don't take the time to rest--not nearly as often as I should. And I just recently had to relearn that lesson again.

In January, I changed my way of eating to one of whole foods: meats, veggies, a little cheese, berries, and nuts. I stopped eating wheat and sugar and anything that came from a can, bottle, or box or had more than five ingredients. The improvements to my health and well-being were amazing: my rosacea cleared up, leaving my complexion smoother than it had been in years and my blood sugar stabilized, meaning that I didn't have to eat every three hours to prevent headaches. But the stable, sustained energy I gained was even more amazing.

Before I changed my eating habits, I would come home from work, cook dinner, and crash on the couch until bedtime because I just didn't have the energy to do much else. But after I started feeding my body the nutrients it needs, I noticed prolonged energy that would last from morning until night.

My skyrocketing energy levels enabled to take on new projects and new responsibilities. I said “yes” to commitments that I would normally eschew as taking too much out of me. Numerous index cards with project lists are lined up on my kitchen island, helping to keep me on track. From morning to night, I have been working and making progress on projects for home, work, and art. This extended period of productivity has been amazing to me because—although I always work hard, I’ve never been able to sustain that level for months on end without physical collapse. I attribute the change to my new diet and no longer feeding poison to my body. The past five months have been a period of creative bliss, growth, and expansion.

Last week I started to feel a collapse of my mental, rather than physical, energy. I felt intimidated by my to-do lists, rather than energized and encouraged. I wondered why I added yet another exciting, yet time-consuming, commitment onto my already burdened list. I became afraid of failure and anxious about not completing my responsibilities. Everyday problems that are normally manageable, like running out of cat food or forgetting to register the car, started adding to my stress level.

I was feeling overwhelmed and burdened. I was able to recognize some negative thinking that can lead down a dark path. That became my deepest fear—that my feeling of overwhelm would encompass me and spiral me down.

So instead of helplessly watching myself disappear into the dark, I reached out. In talking with friends and family, I came to realize that I was on the edge of burn out and that I really needed to step back and rest. It was a revelation to have them say “Hey, you are under a lot of stress right now. Take it easy on yourself,” because I’m so used to handling things that I forget sometimes I can let things go. I reached out to an online support system that I recently joined. I put my fears out into the world and was inundated with messages of support. I did something formerly unthinkable and asked for help on a project that seemed particularly unmanageable. 

With Cynthia’s help, we shifted the schedule so that I could take four straight days off from work.

The first day, I just sat on on the couch and watched the European Championships and some truly horrible television. Then the next day I read a book for fun and knitted on a shawl for fun—my only goal was enjoyment. Saturday I spent enjoying a street festival and coffee shop with my husband. And on the fourth day, I began to feel strong enough and my mind was clear enough to begin tackling my list and responsibilities again. 

I re-learned the same lesson about balance. I need to take breaks. I need to plan time “off” when I am not being productive and not even thinking about being productive. In the past, my body has served as a natural regulator for overwork. I would break down with illness that required me to do nothing but rest. Now that I have straightened out health problems, my body can keep going, but sometimes I need to just stop and flop. 

How to Find Ways to Flop

1) Talk with friends or loved ones. Often they can provide you a different perspective that can remind you that "Yeah, you do have a lot on your plate and you are not taking the time you need for yourself." We can get so caught up in doing that we don't see the larger picture. Other people can give us a broader view of what's going on and help us know when we need to take a break.

2) Ask for help. This can be a difficult one because we are so used to doing it on our own. It can be hard to say, "Hey, I would love a little help here," because that would be an admission that we can't do it all. But there's a little secret: we can't do it all. Not even if we want to very, very badly. So it's more than okay to ask for help. Think of it this way: if someone you cared about asked for help, wouldn't you be more than willing to help them? That's how your people will feel when you ask them. 

3) Reach out. If your real-life support system is less than supportive, you can find a like-minded online group that will serve to provide virtual support. Sometimes it is helpful just to admit that you are feeling overwhelmed. Being heard and acknowledged is very powerful.

3) Find time for yourself. I'm incredibly lucky in that my work is flexible enough to allow me to take the time I needed. But even if your work isn't as flexible, try to carve out a free hour, free afternoon, free day, or even free weekend when you can rest and recharge. It's paradoxical, but taking time away from your list will help you get through it.

4) Just stop working. Draw an imaginary line on the clock past which you will no longer work. In my case, I just stop working after 9:00 p.m. at which point I'll pick up my knitting and watch a movie or settle in with a good book. Let yourself wind down before bed and turn off that need to be productive around the clock.

5) Know that this will pass. Life can throw some really nasty curve balls and sometimes, no matter what strategies we use, it's all we can do to manage them. In these instances, the best thing we can do is keep breathing and taking it one step at a time. Focus on the present moment, rather than what you need to do in the future or what happened in the past. Taking things one breath at a time makes it more manageable.

6) If all else fails, get yourself a cat and flop when they flop.

Incubation Inspiration

I've been working hard to find ways to incorporate both paint and stitch in my work in a coherent manner. I get closer and closer to finding a method each time I try something new. So doing the work is a very important part of the process. As important as it is to actually do the work, I am finding that it is also critically important to take time away from the work as well.

Back in January, I wrote about my struggles finishing paintings with patchwork and stitched frames. I posted a picture of some pieced borders I had sewn to a painting, but I was never happy with it. It was too predictably patchwork with the multi-color pieced border. There was nothing innovative about it. But even worse, to my mind, there was nothing expressive about it. It looked like any old quilt border sewn onto a painting.

 

So two months ago I cut the borders right off and played with raw-edge applique to create a border that I then quilted with an irregular grid pattern. This made me happy because it felt like it was getting closer to my intention and my vision.

A month later, I played with the idea some more with a photo of a bridge I took with Instagram. (You can find me there as kimberly_paints. I follow everyone who follows me.) While I really liked it the effect,  I felt that it lacked presence and didn't feel substantial enough as it was just a small floppy quilted piece. (I am still playing with different ideas adding substance to the piece.)

And just this past week, I had another inspiration during my commute home. I took the basic idea of raw-edge applique and grid quilting, but stretched it around a canvas. That made me happy because it added that presence that I felt was lacking.

So today my intention was to return to the studio and continue working on my finishing conundrum. But it was a glorious Central Pennsylvania summer Sunday and I found myself drawn to planting flowers and vegetables in my garden, reading on the back deck, knitting while watching Spain vs. Italy, and going for a meditative walk.

I didn't enter my studio until well after dinner. I painted for twenty minutes and then decided to pull fabrics to frame this small painting.

I chose a wide range of colors thinking that I would create a border much like the previous pieces.

But as I started placing the painting on the fabrics in different configurations, I wasn't happy at all. I didn't want it to be derivative or predictable. I wanted to take another step forward.

And then, like a flash in the night, I had an image of an appliqued frame that echoed the motifs of the painting. The painting itself would be mounted on a piece of black duck cloth. The appliqued shapes would be stitched to a background of osnaburg that had been painted to resemble the background of the painting. And then the entire piece would be stretched around a canvas.

I grabbed a sketchpad and pen and quickly captured my idea so that I wouldn't forget it.

 

I am learning that as important as it is for me to do the work, it is equally important for me to take time away from the work. I had a relaxing day that was clarifying and was a break--a  pause--from the constancy of work. While I was enjoying myself, my subconscious was still mulling my creative conundrum.

Doing the work is essential, but it may be in the pauses where the greatest growth happens.

A Little Bird Told Me On the Drive Home

My beautiful commute takes me past sheep farms, dairy farms, a llama farm, and through some state game lands. I'm very grateful for the quiet country roads that I traverse twice daily. It's a familiar path I've followed for over ten years. Other traffic is minimal--I may encounter a handful of cars along the way--and the driving is pleasant. Once I came across a roving herd of cows. Traffic was barely mooo-ving that day.

It's a twice-daily twenty-minute drive that I enjoy. Because it's so pleasant, I find I can use the driving time productively. Sometimes I practice mindfulness exercises: maybe I look for the color blue in all its hues or maybe I look for things that have changed, which helps me become attuned to the seasons. Other times, I use the time for problem solving. When I'm in the midst of figuring out how to construct the block-of-the-month quilt, I drive around for weeks considering different construction methods and how to write about them. And sometimes, my drive is full of flights of fancy where I let my creative imagination soar.

Last night, as I was driving home, I started thinking about a question that I have been working with for some time: how to incorporate both my painting and my stitching into coherent pieces. I'm enraptured by painting, there's no doubt about that, but I still want to use my stitching. It was through quilting that I found my creative path, so it's important for me to honor and incorporate my stitching background into my work. I'm been trying different ways to meld them both together, but haven't quite found the combination that makes my heart sing.

As I was driving, I began playing with different possibilities in my mind. It was a very fruitful and fast process. The best way I can describe it is that it felt like swiping from one picture to the next on my iPhone: one idea would appear, I would examine and ask questions of it, and then a modified idea would appear. I came home with a handful of potential ideas to try.

And so after a delicious dinner of grilled ribeye and asparagus followed by strawberries and cream (nothing beats seasonal, local eats), I went into my studio and started fooling around with fabric. I started pulling pale shades of aqua and green, which lead me to pale yellows and peaches. I placed them on a piece of felt in a colorwash design and stitched them down using an irregular grid. I grabbed some unpainted paper cloth and cut out a bird and the letters S-O-A-R. I marked them with pencil and then used light washes of acrylic ink to add color. Then I stitched them down. I stretched the piece around an old canvas (learning how to use and load a staple gun in the process) and called it finished.

Stretching the piece around canvas gives it a presence that I like. It has more structure than a flat, floppy quilted wallhanging. It also makes a deeper connection with painting. I need to perfect my folded corners, but that will come.

The other idea I want to try--and I don't think this is the right piece for it--is brushing gloss medium onto the piece after it is stretched. I've played a little with gloss medium on quilted patchwork before and I really like how it confounds expectations: it looks like fabric but is shiny.
As I'm playing with mixing media I'm discovering new perspectives on stitching, painting, and art. It will be interesting to see where future commutes take me.

The Artist Formerly Known as Punxsutawney Phil

The creative process is so juicy and lush with possibilities. I love reading blogs by people who open up and share all the fruits of their process--whether it be successes, stumbles, or sidetracks. Reading someone else write "Yay! I just had this great success," or "Hey, you know what? This went wrong for me, but here's what I learned and here's how I'm going to move on from it," or "The project I'm working on is leading me to ask these questions and I'm going to follow that path, even though the destination is unknown," is very inspirational. It's raw and open and honest and I believe that the best art comes from expressing the real essence of ourselves.


But as a blogger, I've taken a more Punxsatawney Phil approach. Every now and then I'll pop up, give a quick status report, and then return to hibernation mode, not to blog again for months. During those months, there are juicy things happening inside my studio and inside me, but I tend to keep them to myself, preferring to only blog when I have things set in my mind.

Over the past few months I have been deeply engaged in painting. I mentioned way back in January that I had started painting and had fallen in love with it. And then I disappeared into my studio not to be heard from again. During that time I took the BIG online painting class with Connie Hozvicka of Dirty Footprints Studio (who I absolutely love and is one of my blogging artist heroes). It's not an overstatement to say that that class radically changed me.

What made the class so real is that the focus was really on process, rather than product. We were encouraged to blog on the class website about our experiences--whether good, bad, or ugly. I had to be mindful of the painting process and pay attention to my internal chatter, listen to what my inner critic saying, and discover when I was being resistant. But it was also about figuring out what was going well and what worked.

It was about sharing my experience and listening to the experience of the other students. Someone would write about their struggles and I would know exactly what they meant. Or I would write about my challenges and someone (most often several someones) would offer me a new perspective that would help me breakthrough.

Going into the class, I made a commitment to myself to participate deeply and share openly about my process with the other students. And so I found that the more honest I was, the more I learned.

And that has made me rethink my blog. I don't want this blog to be a stage showplace, where I pop up every few months, say "Ta-Da," and unveil my latest works. I want it to be as messy and honest and real as my experiences in the studio. That means sharing my process, warts and all. That means sharing my art. In some ways, that scares the daylights out of me. I fear someone commenting, "That face looks weird. Why do you think you can paint?" But the truth is those words truly reflect my own insecurities and struggles with my art.

Today I did something terrifying. I started a new painting last night and this morning I posted a picture of the in-process painting on facebook. And you know what? No one said the face looked weird or that the arms were funny. Those who commented were totally sweet and supportive. And really, even if someone did say something critical, it wouldn't really matter. The reality is: I am learning. But the deeper reality is: I am painting and writing from an open, honest place that reflects the best part of me. As long as I do that--as long as we do that, as long as we work from the deepest, most true part of ourselves, then our work is successful.

And so I will breath deep and share with you my final class project from Connie's class. Are there things I would differently? Are there parts I could improve? Sure, but we can always say that about things. But it's rich with personal symbolism about becoming a painter and living a BIG life. And it comes from an open space in my heart. And so I wish to share that with you.

My deepest wish is that your creative path be fruitful and juicy.