morning meditation

This morning I meditate

I take all the rocks off the window sill and put them in front of me

I greet the waving leaves on the trees and note the colors are more vibrant than yesterday

I think the sky has grown or I’ve shifted my seat because it looks bigger

I watch the clouds drift slowly by

And I feel the inside parts of my body moving with them

I check my pulse where my heart tattoo is to see if it is beating in harmony

It is not

I picture the blood flowing swiftly to and from it 

I wonder if I hold my finger there if I will be able to slow it down

I don’t

I go back to prayer pose

I seek the presence of the Lord but my thoughts go back and forth and there is a song in my head that keeps getting in the way

I seek forgiveness and peace and mostly Love and I think all these things while I pick up a rock from the pile

It is round and rough and I embrace the rock into my clasped hands

I don’t know what the rock stands for except that then all of a sudden I do

It is fear

It is the perfect rock for fear because it is flat enough and round enough and rough enough to feel good and fit perfectly in my hands

I think that I will let it go as soon as I hear the last gong

But I’m not ready and I squeeze it tighter

I picture it squeezing itself into my chest and becoming part of my body 

It represents the dark unknowns that keep me up at night 

It represents my longing my doubt my anger my hurt 

it is the foundation of all my frustration

it is at the core of all the dark thoughts in my head that I don’t want anymore

I let the rock go and place it on the empty windowsill 

I feel relieved 

but immediately I feel the absence of the rock

So I say a prayer that the empty space will get filled with Love 

and as I’m repeating the word over and over I hear the last gong

Art Studio Upheaval

This is a fun, and awkward post to write.

I am in the midst of a serious reorganization-upheaval of my art studio. Somehow the studio has become a dumping ground for a lot of shit I don't want to deal with.

I've been going through boxes and piles of artwork that I've been avoiding for over twenty years. Drawings, photographs, journal entries, scraps of paper with scrawled notes and sketches from age 18 until now.

IT IS SO MUCH!

And most of it is clearly like my worst depictions of teenage (and twenties' and thirties') angst and depression. Not to mention postcards, receipts, and tax papers from every failed business and art gallery I've owned or managed. All neatly piled in boxes that I've hauled from one studio to the next over and over throughout the years.

So, here I am happy to report that I have not only mustered the courage to look at all of this head on, but I've been able to purge most of it once and for all. Some of it was way more difficult to throw out, but I made a point of not only tossing things into the bin, I ripped them to shreds first.

Can you say Catharsis?

The memories are there and of course I'm still the same person and all, but I don't need the baggage anymore. I have saved a few gems, at least they're gems to me, and I suppose this is the fun part, sharing these silly self portraits with you!

This is a drawing I made when I was 18. Pastel on newsprint, 18x24". My eyes have never been that big btw and my hair has never been that straight, but there it is! It was part of an application for something and I remember the person reviewing it saying to me, what did you get bored by the time you got to the hair? Obviously I didn't get accepted into whatever it was!

This was a school assignment copied from a photograph from I'm pretty sure St. John's University, ca. 1992. Pencil on Bristol paper 16x16". I was damn cute as a four year old wasn't I?! Oh and the brown dots are moldy bits from being stored in my parent's basement for a few years.

This doesn't actually look like me either but I do like this little painting. Oil on canvas, 1999, 10x11"

... self portraits


My mother has often referred to me as stubborn. I used to agree with her but mostly because I liked thinking of myself that way. It implied that I had my own opinion, which gave me a personality, which I desperately craved when I was younger because all evidence pointed elsewhere.

But it has more to do with something else I think. It's not that I refuse to believe certain things, it's just that I need to see it for myself first. I can't believe in anything until I've made up my own mind about it. My daughter is the same way. She won't take my word for it. Maybe it's not the worst thing, except that it does end up taking an awfully  l o o o o o o n g  time to process things.