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In a week, my work will be displayed in a spring group show about 350 miles away from my home.  I am an established artist in the gallery, and will have plenty of new, freshly painted work on display.  It typically is a time when I can meet my collectors, recruit commissions, and interact with other artists.  I have begun to enjoy these events, and my early anxieties and self-consciousness have given way to security in my abilities, and joy in sharing my gift.

As I have shared before, my husband has cancer, and we have only just returned from his first successful surgery.  We are about halfway through his treatment, and still have a way in the journey, but we are encouraged, and he is responding well to his treatment.  He is still very frail, and while we are working toward his independence in taking complete care of himself, it is a future goal at this time.  I am not far away from his side.

Therein lies the rub -- I have a show 350 miles away and a husband that very much needs my attention.  What to do? Travel to the show? I have a place to stay, even if I decide at the last minute.  The gallery is very understanding and supports my decision either way. We have a week of improvement and learning ahead.  It is possible, maybe not likely, but at least a chance.  Maybe I should go down and drive back in the same day?

As this train of thought goes through my mind and onto the computer page, I can see my old foe, FOMO (Fear of Missing Out).  It cannot tempt me into running myself ragged for fear of missing something.  I've played this game before, and fallen for this before.  Now, I have too much at stake to indulge my fear.  I know my artwork sells well, and it is appreciated by the art collectors who visit the gallery.  My art is selling almost every day  --- while I am 350 miles away.  I also have someone very dear to me, who depends on me to help him through an invasive surgery and into recovery.  The choice becomes clearer and clearer.

My art life defines who I really am.  I find my purpose and peace in creating artwork that I can share (and sell).  I play many roles, but my art is truly where I find my personal, just me, justification.  I also have a family, with roles as a spouse, a parent and grandparent, daughter and sister.  I have a heart, and a circle of much loved souls who support me and ask for my support in return. 

The solution is clear. The answer is to stay home and nurse my much loved husband.  It's just not right to leave.  My art is there in my stead. The gallery manager is an excellent representative of my work, and takes pride in selling it.  And there will be other shows.  Sometimes timing IS everything. My disappointment is overshadowed by the knowledge  that I did the right thing, and my stress level immediately lowers.  A decision has been reached and FOMO is defeated.  This time.

Over two years ago, I picked up a $.99 clearance plant at the grocery floral department.  At one time, it had been a beautiful, creamy white orchid, but it was then a shriveling, rooty splay of four leaves amid a clump of brown bark.  I took a chance and brought it home.  It spent a winter plumping up.  In summer, it thrived on the patio, and a was a healthy clump of five leaves.  By last spring, it had a little nub of a bud that in time became a stem.  Another summer outside, and the stem grew longer, with obvious buds of flowers.  A month ago, the first bud bloomed.  Following the first, another bloom, then another, until there are now six white blooms along the stem.  It should produce another three in time.  My patience, care, and attention paid off.

The past few months have been a crazy time for me, with many ups and downs, distractions, and trials.  I have fought with the time monster and gone to the studio regardless of the stacked laundry or the unvacuumed rug.  Some weeks I had to devote my efforts to non-art activities - "neccessary" tasks.  I had to wait, to be patient.  The images I wanted to create percolated in my brain, as I mentally critiqued, devised, planned, while doing what required my time more than my art. 

When I entered the studio, my mind was at rest, I knew what to do, and my hands pushed paint into canvas with assurance.  My art required less troubleshooting, less decision making, because the decisions had already been made.  I had been patient.  I had nurtured my ideas, my dream, and at the right moment, it paid off.  Patience has been a lesson that life has been teaching me for some time now.  I'm beginning to get it.

I have a group show in May. I've been working on fresh pieces, and pleased with where it is taking me.  I also have a serious family challenge that will take all my effort, my strength, and my attention that falls less than two weeks before the show.  But I know I will be ready, nonetheless.  I've been patient.  I've painted my works in my head, now I'm just waiting to connect time, materials, and joy.  It will come together as it is meant to happen.  And I'm at peace with that.  I'm patient.

Here in Atlanta, spring has definitely arrived!  Amid the azaleas and blooming dogwoods, temperate days and soothing nights, the blessings of spring lend legendary beauty to this Southern city. A drive through one of the older intown neighborhoods reveals banks of pink, red, white and lavendar azaleas, and the mature forests are sprinkled with white blooming dogwood trees.  The occasional bed of tulips or daffodils add strokes of color to the visual landscape.  Purple wisteria climbs the pines, releasing its sweet grape scent into the pollen-filled air.  The annual powdering of cars, streets, buildings, and noses by pollen-releasing trees and grasses reaches epic proportions here.  It is a true rite of spring. Rain washes rivers of yellow down the gutters, and the pollen invasion tapers off, the dogwoods drop their flowers, the azaleas begin to green out, and summer heat sets in.  It's not called Hotlanta without reason.  But for now, we are still in spring....surrounded by loveliness that only this bustling city of the South can produce.  Where's my easel?! The oils, and brushes!!

This morning, I was going to the office, and the sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon.  The light caught the scattering of clouds and the sky turned to gold as the clouds became a bluey purple, edged with a warm pink.  The light caught the treetops and turned the brown bark a pinkish hue.  The wild pears, redbuds and early cherry trees were beginning to bloom out, even though we are still having touches of frost.  Jonquils and hyacinth splashed color in the beds along the roadway. I could catch a glimpse of a bird or two as I drove along, and as I turned into the office drive, a couple of Canadian geese picked at the fescue lawn, searching for bugs. 

As I walked inside to start my workday, I carried that vision of the blues, golds and pinks of sunrise in my mind.  The world can be a wondrous place, if we will only open our eyes and see. 

And I couldn't help but wonder how I would capture that pinky salmon color the next time I sat down at my easel!

Are you living a life of passion?  Not the bodice-ripping, "shade of grey" kind.  I'm referring to the meaningful, soul-satisfying kind.  As you might know from my other posts, I am in the midst of caring for a husband in treatment for a serious cancer.  Thanks to the expertise of his doctors, our joint commitment to being diligent regarding diet, rest and activity, and the many, many prayers of friends, family, and complete strangers, he is hanging in and doing well enough.  Keeping the household running, attending to my many work responsibilities, and doing what needed to be done had taken its toll on my energies and optimism.  I was running on empty, late nights and distractions all around. I was anything but passionate.  Then, the phone rang, and the gallery was on the caller ID.

On the line was the gallery manager where I show  with the most consistent success.  We talked about what was selling, different sizes that showed promise, the upcoming shows the gallery would be hosting, new opportunities, business in general. She is such a positive influence and a true partner in my art journey. Overall, an uplifting conversation.  When I hung up the phone, I realized I was smiling.

Isn't it amazing, when you start to talk about something that brings you joy, your mood lightens, and your conversation becomes a pleasure.  That passion lights your internal fire and you just GLOW.  You could talk for ages about that passionate subject.  Mine happens to be art.  Mention art-related issues or observations, and off I go.  I revel in the opportunity to share that passion, that fire that brings me happiness. I forget the things that are mundane and troublesome, and enjoy those talks like a refreshing tonic. It was so GOOD to talk ART.

I don't know how things happen in life, why one thing leads to another and so on, until you find yourself down the road and see how it all came together.  I sometimes wonder if I wasn't being prepared for this difficult time by caring for others in their disease and struggle.  I grew to be strong emotionally and mentally.  I was prepared to face my husband's illness with courage and calm. But what changed me the most was the seed of art being sown in my life 30 years ago.  I've had passions in my life:  for people, for work, for places.  But the passion for art has been running like a deep river, sometimes exposed to the light of day, peaceful and serene, other times challenging and tumultuous, pushing limits. And it is MY river...it has become a part of me, running through my soul.

We are the sum of our experiences, and I am so grateful to have had the experiences of caring for others, working hard, seeing beauty wherever I look, the love of family that always WAS and IS.  But art is a major experience, a major motivator in my life.  I wouldn't have it any other way. How many of us can say that something we discovered on our walk of life has made us better for the finding?  Made us better people?  My faith has done that for me. But art has done that for me in a different way - challenged, taunted me at times, but as time has passed came to bring satisfaction, reward, and a sense of knowing who I really am. 

When I hung up the phone, with a smile on my face, I could not wait to get to the easel.  I was already seeing the paintings I would create come together in my head.  I could not wait to get to the studio.  I was happy -- pure bliss!!

Have you ever wished you could control time?  Make it stop when something wonderful is happening, or hurry it up when you are suffering?  Remember when you were 10 and you couldn’t wait to be a teenager?  It took forever, it seemed.  What about now – are the days and weeks and years flying by? If you follow Einstein’s idea that time is a force affected by what is around it, we should be able to control time, given the right circumstances.

Well, I have yet to figure out that whole Einstein thing.  Obviously, I am lacking in the required forces! In the past few weeks, I have seen that precious commodity, time, flow like the proverbial leak in a dike.  No amount of trying to slow it down has been successful.  All I can seem to manage is to fit as many actions into the time as I can.

Now that my husband has been diagnosed with cancer, and we’ve begun his treatment regime, everything is scheduled.  Treatments, doctor visits, medications, meals, sleep – all at a certain time on any certain day.  As I am shouldering a number of tasks that previously fell on his responsibility list, my time is being stretched as never before.  At certain times, I am obligated to be a certain place, doing a certain thing.  That happens a lot. 

It has become more and more difficult to “make time” to be in the studio.  I find it harder and harder to go to the studio, with so many other household tasks that need doing.  I even take turns feeling a bit guilty for leaving my husband resting in front of the television while I trot up the stairs to be alone with the canvas and paint.  Some might say I should just put that “art stuff” aside until “things settle down.”  How little they understand! 

The studio, the act of creating something beautiful from raw paint and canvas, and the satisfaction of the process from beginning to end – these are moments that feed my soul.  It is as if I enter a place of peace, healing and grace.  Being there, being who I am, speaks of what my purpose is in life.  It reminds me of something within me that restores me and makes me whole. In the studio, that creative person steps out and dances!  That person bursts out with hope and joy, and has fun!  So, how can I stay away? Who wants to miss a great party?  I don’t! 

Except for commissions, I create work smaller instead of larger, so I can complete pieces in a reasonable amount of time and keep feeding the creative flames (and supplying my gallery connections and collectors). I continue to explore new processes as the inspiration comes. Because the time is so precious, I find I am creating at a higher, more focused level than ever before.  When I come down those stairs to my other roles, I am refreshed, restored, and ready in mind and body to do what my responsibilities require of me.  I’m ready to face whatever comes, and be an encourager to my spouse as he wages his own fight against disease. 

I may be a caregiver, a business professional, a housekeeper, financial officer, contractor, landscaper, active mother and engaged grandmother at some point of my time each day.  One thing I am every moment, no matter what other hat I am wearing, is an artist.  Art plays an important part of my life, and I would not have it any other way.  Who knew those years ago when I first began that creative journey, it would come to be so essential to how I see myself and who I will always be. 

So time will keep on rolling, as it has and will always do. I’m so glad that I am an artist, in all things, in every day. What a blessing!

I remember as a child loving to fly high on the old metal swingset in our yard.  Swinging my feet, back and forth, higher and higher.  That feeling of weightlessness when you would reach the top of the arch...as high as you could go without crashing to the ground.  One time, pushing the envelope, I lost my balance at that critical moment, and came slamming down on the ground.  Flat on my back, the air in my lungs crushed out -- I had “the wind knocked out” of me.  Struggling to breath, I was terrified.  Tears in my eyes, and lungs pulling hard, the air began slowly to be pulled in, and over the next few moments, my breathing came easier, and my swimming head steadied.  I was fine, but I didn’t have that same trust in the swing that took me high in the air. 

The other day, we got a call that “knocked the wind out of me”.  As I have shared before, my husband is disabled, and impaired in a number of ways.  But somehow we manage.  He wasn’t feeling well, and doctor visit led to doctor visit.  The first tests came back – cancer.  When I heard that word, I mentally and emotionally fell to my knees.  My breath came hard and my thoughts swirled.  I was back on the ground of my childhood, fighting for air.

As my husband’s main caregiver, and also the provider for our family, my time is pushed to the max.  A challenge has been put before me that will take my thoughts, my attention, my physical strength and endurance. My art has to be considered in this suddenly complex time management puzzle.  But keeping art was never a question of priority.  It was a matter of surviving.

I can’t tell you that I have a handle on how we will do going forward.  But I can tell you that my art, the time in the studio and the action of creating, will be my lifeline.  It is a place that I make something beautiful out of thin air, and create with paint and brush, a work of magic. It rejuvenates me.  It feeds my soul. I know that it is essential that I keep going there, even in the challenging days ahead. This illness my husband fights may leave me exhausted, frustrated, and even afraid.  It is important to fill my heart with the joy that art gives me, even as I give my joy away in love and service to my ailing husband.  What we will do for love…

Along the lowcountry,the marsh has many faces, showing several a day!  On this morning, the colors grew in the eastern sky as light rose, soft colors in gold, blue and pink.  The water came creeping in with the tide, filling in the marsh between strands of grass, forcing the tiny snails that hold on to the blades upward.  There were calls of egrets and sea gulls in the distance, but for the most part, there is little sound, other than the quiet lapping of the water, caught by a light breeze.  The morning begins in peace.  By evening, there may be storms, or violent winds, but the morning dawns in peace. 

Growing up, my father taught me a lot about cars.  It was his passion, and he could build just about anything for the road.  He loved automobiles.  He took us to car shows every year, and we knew every car on the road.  My first job was working in a car dealership office, and I learned to love chrome and the shape of a sleek auto.  That love of shape and form, sleekness and color -- all speak of childhood.  My father passed away almost 30 years ago now - how could that much time have flown by? - and I still love a "hot car". 

When I began my journey as an artist, it never occurred to me that the love I had for cars would connect with my love of art. But I came to see that automobiles ARE art; they are sculptures that we get in and drive every day, or artwork we save for sunny days alone.  Some are almost lyrical in their beauty and form, others are chunky and brutish. We flow together into the daily traffic in our own expressions of art - practical, functional, or extravagant and excessive.  As Americans, we are tied to our cars through tradition, through the message they convey to every young driver, whispering "freedom!"  They are beautiful when handled well, and terrifying when they are not, dangerous takers of lives when handled poorly.  

When I get in my car, the designed interior, carefully thought out and tested, remind me that there are many types of art - and that we are surrounded by art every day, whether we readily recognize it or not. There is very little we come in contact that ISN'T art.  When I think back on how my father could shape a piece of metal, smooth it and join it with others to create a mobile piece of art, I have to give him his due.  He was truly an artist. How blessed I was to know him.

My car? A red Chevy Camaro.  Awesome.

Recently, my grandchildren came for a Thanksgiving visit.  They live in Pennsylvania -- I live in the South, so I don't see them in person like I would prefer.  The times together are precious for me.  The old timeworn sayings about being a grandparent are true...there is truly nothing like it.  My two oldest are young ladies who love to paint and draw, and we do that whenever we are together. 

As we sit at the table, they paint and tell their stories along with the developing art.  They create symbols and shapes to represent what they want to share.  They are creating a visual language as they play.  It is fascinating to watch. 

I am sure that the same can be said for many young artists out there, drawing at an easel, or painting at the kitchen table.  They feel a primal need to convey what they are thinking, and art is a way to do it.  As an artist, I am always reading and trying to learn new and different techniques, be informed as to the work of developing artists, and generally "keep up" with what is going on in the world of artists.  It is a pleasure to be reminded of the seminal reason we do what we do -- to be understood and to experience joy. 

As the house quiets again, and I go back to the studio, I hope I can keep in mind what I learned from my girls - to keep the joy and wonder of art, and the fun of creating what I love so that it is understood and shared.  How lucky and blessed I am to have such sweet teachers! And so fortunate to have something I can share, something of myself, that they can carry in their own memories.  Something that they may, too, one day follow with their art and with their hearts.