gratitude and goats

I've never been able to keep a gratitude journal, not that I don't love the concept of one. I'd like to believe years of attempting mindfulness have made me sensitive to recognizing those moments when my attitude should be deep appreciation and thanks.

The Thanksgiving holiday naturally brought about a questioning: What gifts have I overlooked? For what - or whom - am I overdue in giving thanks to for impacting my life in a positive way?

A little over two and a half years ago, I created this image for Susannah Conway's Unravelling: Ways of Seeing Myself:






At the time I had just ventured back into this dream world of creative exploration and expression and I felt very alone in my immediate community. I feel very tender towards that me of not-so-long-ago. I wanted a friend to join me in my escapades, to share my dreams and fears, leaps of daring, skinned knees and bruised ego. I didn't know how I would ever find anyone who would really get me.

I sit here and pinch myself for this Lucy hasn't just found an Ethel - I have a whole tribe of Ethels! And if you are reading this, then you are in that tribe.

I once read that what we all crave is to be loved and to feel understood. If we are loved but not understood, then we doubt that love. If I am grateful for anything in my life, it is the fact that I am so deeply seen and understood by this community of creatives I am fortunate to know in the flesh and here, "in the matrix."






I am grateful for all of you who fearlessly share the experience of your life in written and visual forms for it inspires me to pick up my brush, pen or camera and capture my world.

I was talking with one of you about this Brave New World of creating for personal fulfillment and how it is so hard for people to wrap their minds around this concept of creating just to create. In our consumer driven world, it is consider just plain odd not to be actively engaged in trying to sell something. But what I think is even more threatening is the notion of putting oneself first; daring to say "my needs and happiness matter" when the work ethic we've been taught to embrace is do do do and one day you will be rewarded for your efforts.

I ask: who is going to reward me if not myself? Not that I am advocating blatant disregard for the care of others and the responsibility to give of ourselves for the betterment of our community, our world. But how often do we deny ourselves the small gift of time and attention to cultivate our dreams? How often do we put off to tomorrow doing what our hearts yearn for today?

And now I've wandered down an unexpected alley when my intention was simple to say thank you. Thank you moon, thank you stars, thank you geese on Thanksgiving day,








thank you poppies,









thank you Tooth Fairy,








thank you goats,









thank you Cowgirl,








thank you kitten (whom we can't take home but oh-how-we-wanted-to),










thank you to my family who embrace Cowgirl with all their love,








thank you Moose dog,








Thank you everyone and everything that brightens this world. A humble but heartfelt thank you.


And a special thank you to The Husband who watches me paint goat after goat and never question "why?" (He too knows and loves me.)













I am also grateful for the opportunity to share my "out there" thoughts over on the blog of the always inspiring Jen Lee. She is birthing some amazing projects which have supported me in believing there is a place for my perspective, my voice in this world. Goats and all.

my three c's (and lots of p's)

I've been pondering these questions posed by a in a special SouLodge circle gifted to SAW attendees:

What do I most want for my loved ones?
What's behind every gesture of love that I make everyday?
What three qualities describe who I am as a contribution to this world? How do I incorporate those qualities into my life and how do I extend those gifts towards myself?

In the shower (the best place for ideas - you know, water, flow, being in the body ...) I came up with my three c's: cherish, curiosity, and connection.

Cherish was obvious to me - it is my style statement (I am a cherished creative!) When I think about my loved ones, what I want most for them is to feel and know themselves as beloved for who they are. Cherish conjures up the sense of appreciation and celebration for the individual. To cherish someone or something is to honor the qualities that make them unique. When we feel cherished, we feel seen and loved; we know we are held deeply within another heart.

Curiosity has become my favorite quality. To be curious is to engaged fully with life and all its adventures and magic. To be curious is to be an explorer, open to the unknown and eager to discover new things. When we are curious we believe our understanding of the world is meant to be always changing, growing, and expanding.

Connection for me is about honoring individuality but recognizing the bonds that unite us. Connection is knowing we are participating in something larger and that our lives extend outward in waves of influence and empowerment.

Empowerment is a HUGE concept for me, but it seems when the other elements are in place it just naturally flows.

What I find challenging is to consider how I weave these qualities into my own life - how do I nurture for myself being cherish, curious and connected? I think I am pretty good about supporting the last two ideas, but harder is knowing how I create or support the act of cherishing towards myself?

Things that make you go "Hmm ..."

There's the very likely chance I am being hard on myself. I mean, I have been making time this week to yes, paint more poppies!









(Seriously, they are addictive! They must be related to increased levels of serotonin or some such bliss hormone.) By honoring my need to have time for pure pleasure and joy, I am acknowledging and cherishing my joyous self, aren't I? I've been painting myself bouquets of poppies - watercolor love notes perhaps?








I know, I'm crazy with this whole poppy thing. But what it has opened up in me is an adventurous side, a me that is feeling frisky and playful and wow! creative.

So much good stuff happening. I am totally digging a practice called "dropping ink" which Leah Piken Kolidas shared on goddess Leonie's World's Biggest Summit. (While I could not find the exact video, here is another variation Leah offered):










I have been playing with ink, watercolor crayons, water soluble oil pastels and whatever is handy in the moment. I also have been drawing with my non-dominant hand (and painting with my dominant one so often I have both hands going at once!)

this was just india ink on untreated paper - i went back in with watercolors.
some kind of crazy turtle woman and angel/magi keep manifesting?

my picassoesque horse.
hmm ... here are those flames again ...

total WTF? a zoo nightmare? rhinos and tigers and monkeys ... Oh My!
(yes, yes ... a pink elephant ... sigh ...)

no clue. strange lady in a cavalier's hat?

Not sure how to tie this one all up (other than to hope no one is trained in psychoanalysis ... je suis un Surrealiste!) I know there is more for me to ponder and just to offer these ideas out to y'all because, well, connection is my thing.

Along with adopting new accents it seems ...








Sleep tight my friends. Know that I love and cherish you all.

what my angel might say ...

As a recovering perfectionist, it probably isn't surprising to say that when I was in school, I was pretty much a straight A student. I didn't always get A's but I tried and I believed that was what I was supposed to be doing: earning the grade, pleasing the teacher, achieving excellence. Which oddly enough, I did not extend to myself: I might receive the A, but a good grade did not translate into self esteem.

So my dark secret - the one time (yes, one time) I did not receive an A or a B but gasp! a C grade was in a college watercolor painting class.

I found myself recalling that bleak moment in my life as I enjoyed a leisurely afternoon yes, painting with watercolors. On a total lark (and because I cannot resist at least checking things out) I decided to look into this whole poppy madness:

October is Poppy Spree Month!

Now I should give a warning that if you are a total art materials junky and are trying to go cold turkey, then don't look! Because once you watch a few of these joy-filled lesson videos, you will find yourself making an art supply list (and also praying to Mr. Blick to please send out another 40% off discount love note ... I mean, postcard) and heading out to your car, debit card in hand.

Wanting to just indulge myself today, I decided to paint some poppies. I mean, poppies to me evoke a kind of light-hearted freedom and bliss. Maybe it is the French association - Monet and all his poppies - but I think poppies and I think countryside jaunts, wine, flirty skirts and lots and lots of sunshine. Total joie de vivre.

So while I was digging the juiciness of the whole poppy/watercolor experienced, I remembered that C grade. What was particularly galling about that grade was the fact that I so thoroughly enjoyed the class. I went to college where we took one class at a time for 3 1/2 weeks, so every day for hours at a time I was in the studio painting.

I mean, I was experiencing the life of a painter!

I was learning by studying and copying the works of great watercolor artists. To really learn about technique there is no better practice than to study a work and try to replicate the technique. Look at Andrew Wyeth's paintings and you will learn volumes about the color white. Winslow Homer taught me buckets about suggesting forms through the barest of brushstrokes. And Cezanne? Oh man, let me tell you about his apples ...

It was heaven.

And then I got that damned grade. I knew my final project was not the best work I had done but it was what came out of me in those final days. I had learned and grew and developed and I was pissed to receive what amounted to me as a failing grade. The whole experience felt discounted because the professor rated me so low.

In an unusual move for me, I went in and fought the grade. The fact that the professor rarely showed up in class and that Mr. Wyeth and Homer were my main instructors discredited any authority that gentleman had in my opinion. (He also retired at the end of that year which speaks volumes right there.) I stood up for what I had accomplished in the course and argued that I had worked really hard (which I do not believe qualifies one for an automatic higher grade, but others who came in with talent did very little to improve their skill) and that my grade did not reflect that. At the time I was fighting for my GPA but now I see I was also fighting to preserve my memory of the experience. I mean, I loved painting! And how dare that old man rob me of that!

I must have been convincing (or he was old, tired and close to retiring and probably figured in the larger picture, did it really matter what grade he gave me?) because he changed the grade to a B. (Side story: years later when I T.A. my first art history class I had a student who was borderline B+/A-. He was an engineering student and was way outside of his normal way of thinking within the class. In the end I gave him the A grade because I knew that would seal the deal on his new-found passion for art. I was not in the office when he picked up his final exam and saw the grade, but other instructors told me "He was the happiest student we've ever seen." I'd like to believe he still loves art.)

So what does all this have to do with angels? Before going to bed last night I was listening - again - to my mentor Mr. O'Donohue and he posed this playfully wonderful question: At the angel bar in heaven, what stories might your angel be telling about you?

I believe my angel would be saying this (over a good pint of hard cider because that's how my angel must roll): The dear lamb ... she often gets it, really gets it and then she goes wandering about again. Sigh. (another swig) I keep at her though because she so damned amusing! I mean, I've costumed myself as a blue coyote for heaven's sake! I just let her go because one day she will tire of these antics and then, oh then it will be magic!

i mean, i don't even care that my poppies look like blooming tomatoes -

they are just so much fun, nay, JOY to paint!

Perhaps a whole room filled with fat, juicy, red poppies would be a place to start? (Although - and here I go again - I am thinking about Mr. Van Gogh and his affair with sunflowers and wouldn't a whole journal of sunflowers be grand?)

Don't be surprised if the next time you hear me, I am speaking with either a French or Irish accent. Just feeling that way these days. And there is sooo much more to tell ...