On Seeing the Infinite

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Moving northwest at midnight, seven strangers and two friends in a rented van. Driving into a pitch black wilderness with the southern cross as guide, we are bound together by faith that some force beyond our knowing will take us to the place where a tribe has gathered.

We find them on a hillside. There are hours still to wait. 

It begins at dawn. The orange sun rises behind the Queensland Hills. And then it slips behind the moon. It seems so simple to write these words: the sun slips behind the moon.

But in that moment – that singular moment – spirit is made visible. The universe becomes a sanctuary of peace.

No one can speak. The rhythmic click of shutters that sound like mechanical crickets continues to record the celestial sorcery but in my ecstasy they no longer register. As the world falls dark birds call to one another, confused. Sandy termite mounds turn red in the changing light. The air falls on my skin cool and moist.

We cry. Or at least some of us cry. We open our hearts to the truth of the cosmic order and our own insignificance. Or at least a few of us do.

And then the sun slips out from behind the moon and we take our first new breath. I expect my life to be different now. I expect my life to be different now that I’ve witnessed the infinite. That perfect black hole in the sky. Except I know it won’t be. This was an illusion. It’s only the moon. It’s been the moon all along.

Brucie

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The Stoics remind us to contemplate our death each day. I contemplate Bruce the Cat’s.

Bruce the Cat turned twenty-one in September. I’ve known him since he was fourteen, when his previous human companion passed away and Bruce came to live with me and Ben. Over the years, and especially since our move to Virginia almost two years ago, Bruce and I have developed a morning routine. He wakes me sometime between 5:00 and 5:30 AM. I follow him down the stairs into the kitchen. He stands by the door to be let out onto our porch, where he searches in vain for a nibble of the mint or Thai basil I grow in pots during the summer. But it’s gone now, pulled out just after the first frost. Back inside he paces and cries at my feet while I brew coffee in my stainless steel cafetière and shred the chicken I cooked for him the night before. He turns his nose up at it until I add two of his favorite treats. After his breakfast he sits at my feet for a moment, then gracefully jumps onto my lap and squeezes in between the laptop and my belly for cuddles while I read headlines from the New York Times website and try to conquer the day’s Connections. After twenty minutes cuddles are complete. Bruce jumps from my lap, ponders a detour to his litter box, but decides instead to lumber over to his chair. The same chair that I once envisioned as my ‘writing chair’. But instead of being my writing chair it has become – and this is non-negotiable – Bruce’s chair. Covered in a mound of blankets to protect the upholstery, it is the throne from where King Bruce the Cat holds court. It’s where he sleeps and dreams wild dreams of chasing rabbits. I can see why he likes it. First of all, the chair is positioned at an angle that provides the royal feline a view of everything his subjects are up to in the living room and kitchen. It has the added benefit of being placed near a window that has afternoon sun, which is perfect for nap-taking when counting the number of times Ben and I putter about in the kitchen becomes too boring. 

But one day soon Bruce’s throne will become my chair. When it does my heart will be broken because it will mean King Bruce the Cat is gone. But I know my sadness at his passing will gently transition to happy memories I’ll keep of having had the honor of being his human companion.

I wrote those words on a cold pre-dawn morning in early November. And this past Saturday Bruce’s throne became my chair. His health had been declining for a few months and then, over this past week, Ben and I witnessed a rapid decline. On Saturday we knew it was time. An appointment was made for early evening and so we had one last day with our most wonderful Brucie.

The vet techs and doctor were compassionate and with gentle assurance promised to take care of Bruce. Promised we were making the right decision. We can never know for certain but Bruce seemed ready. I scratched his chin, gave him a kiss. Ben stroked his head and talked to him. Then we said goodbye.

Bruce and I first said ‘hello’ eight years ago, while Ben was out of town on business. I made the executive decision to adopt Bruce after seeing his photo on NextDoor. Ben, not a fan of felines and convinced he was allergic to dander, reluctantly agreed via Zoom (yes, he loves me that much). But when Ben returned from his business trip a few days after Bruce the Cat moved in he made it clear that ‘the cat’ was not allowed on our bed. ‘No problem’, I said. ‘It’ll never happen’, I said. ‘Bruce is too old and too fat’, I said.

Not long after that conversation Bruce decided Ben and I would suffice as human companions. He wiggled his sixteen pound frame out from under the sofa where he’d been hiding for the first three days in his new home, waddled past us with his head and tail held high, and in one graceful leap jumped on the bed.

It was clear to Ben and me there was a new boss in town.

And now our boss is gone and we are bereft.

The connections we share with our non-human animal companions are unlike any we share with our human animal companions. The love language Bruce and I used to communicate had no words. It was energy based, instinctual and intuitive. Bruce asked for few things: food, water, shelter, cuddles and a clean litter box. Easy things to provide. In return he provided warm, comforting purrs and the occasional, perfectly formed hairball. We met each others’ needs without speaking a word.

I want to go on and on about the impact Bruce had on Ben’s and my life. His antics. The trouble he sometimes caused. The many smiles and laughs he provided. His willfulness. These stories are what make mourning Bruce’s loss a beautiful process. Because the massive waves of sadness I felt on Saturday are gentler now as all those memories wash over me. 

So I won’t bore you with stories about Bruce. I sorta wanna keep them to myself anyway. I’ll just tell you this: Brucie was a wonderful cat. The house is empty without him and we will miss him very much.

Surviving the Apocalypse

There’s a hiking trail in the Stanford Hills called The Dish. It’s named for the 150-foot-diameter radio telescope that has been planted there since the 1960’s. When I lived on California Avenue in Palo Alto – not far from the Stanford campus – I had a fair view of those hills and that telescope.

In winter the Stanford Hills are brown. Not an ugly brown, mind you. More a mix of yellow ochre with burnt sienna shadows, while the bare brush and bark of trees draws random but perfect streaks of Payne’s grey across the topography. 

It doesn’t matter how pretty the Stanford Hills are. If you know those hills you also know that months of sodden brown can cause us to take those gorgeous winter hills for granted. We stop looking at their beauty. And it’s right about then that a miracle happens.

The Stanford Hills turn green.

On the morning of the first warm day of the first warm week of spring, you  awaken to a hint of the joy to come. The scent of something rising up from the earth. By lunchtime there are scant traces of green. It happens so fast that if you don’t stay present you’ll miss the transformation. An hour or two from dusk the low angle of the bright sun turns what were brown bumps just the day before into glimmering emerald waves.

To be honest, I don’t remember if the hills turn green in only a day but I can promise you it feels that way.

And anyone who has been witness to the transformation knows, of course, that in a matter of weeks great, green waves of grass will transform again to parched summer straw. But isn’t that all the more reason to celebrate those few short days when the Stanford Hills look like shimmering emeralds?

The last quarter of 2023 was an amazing highpoint for me –  a visit to California and a reunion with friends and students I’d not seen since Ben’s and my move from the Bay Area. 

But the last quarter of the 2023 was a low point for me, too. A decade long friendship was fractured, and then I experienced an unbelievably weird accident that left me questioning everything about my health and wellness as I turned sixty-five and navigated weeks of sciatica and plantar fasciitis.

As I wallowed in self-pity hundreds of young people were gunned down and brutalized at a music festival half-a-world away. Grandparents were slaughtered, arms of young men were blown off and on a bomb-scarred strip of land terrified and innocent people are – over one hundred days later – trying to survive and hoping to one day find their way home. 

And this morning, just east of the snow covered mountains that surround the Shenandoah Valley, I sit in my warm home. I drink fresh brewed coffee, its edges softened and sweetened by glugs of vanilla oat creamer. I watch the flurries drift and absentmindedly stroke the ears of Bruce the Cat. All the while anxiety stokes my fears. 

How will we get through what is to come? 

We have ten months of existential angst to survive before we learn if it’s the end of our nightmare or the beginning of a new one. 

I know that I am not the only person whose mental health has taken a direct hit over the past few months. For a time I wasn’t sure how I would find my way out of my ever darkening and deepening malaise.

But somehow, over the last two weeks, something within has shifted. Just like those Stanford Hills, my mental state has moved from grumbling brown to hopeful green. I know it’s a continuum, and that this change is not permanent, so I’m going to lean into this goodness I feel.

Because the Middle East is still on a short fuse and our former president continues to spew dangerous rhetoric. 

So to support the positive uptick in my mood, I’m using the tools I have that help me stay anchored to the present instead of spinning into the dystopian nightmare I sometimes imagine we’re heading towards.

In no particular order, here are those tools:

  1. Routine – I do my best to keep a regular schedule. This means I rise at the same time each day and fall into bed at the same time. It means I do my best to plan ahead so that navigating life feels easier somehow. And, when I know I don’t have the energetic strength to take on a new task or activity, I say ‘no’.
  2. Humor – I will watch any SNL skit where Jimmy Fallon breaks character. The ‘cowbell sketch’ has always been a favorite. But recently I’ve fallen in love with Gary Gulman’s comedy. Especially his bit about the committee that decides how the full names of our fifty states should be abbreviated to two letters. 
  3. Social engagement – I’m not a party type of gal but there’s something to be said for having at least one person outside of your immediate family with whom you can share how you’re feeling. I’m lucky to have that person and sharing with her helps me to shape a healthier perspective.
  4. Nature – I need to move to feel good and for me this means a walk in nature. On my trail walks it’s not unusual to see a few deer, a raptor or two, or scarlet cardinals flitting from bush to tree. Plus it’s really fun to run into neighbors walking their dogs. Especially the corgis. Nothing will put a smile on my face faster than a waddling corgi butt.
  5. Nutrition – When I feel myself sliding into malaise it takes no convincing at all for me to reach for that second glass of wine, or – and in excess, of course – those foods that bring comfort to me: a non-stop conveyor belt of fat, sugar and carbohydrates. But when our mental health is suffering, good nutrition will provide the energy we need to regain our strength. 

But everyone’s tool box looks different. When you find yourself sliding towards despair, what do you reach for as a lifeline?

Because I think we’re in for a bumpy ride this year. I could be wrong. Still, I’m going to prepare for the worse even as I hope for the best. I have my tools and I have my memory of the Stanford Hills turning green in the blink of an eye to remind me that if I don’t stay present I will miss opportunities to find joy.  And I have the feeling that this year we are going to have to embrace all the moments of joy we can find.

A Pain in My Tuchus and Shining Your Good Light

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A weird thing happened to me on Wednesday morning. I was in a rush to take off my walking boots (I’m at the stage in life where my bladder responds to seeing our front door like a horse catching sight of the stable). Instead of slowing down, bending over and untying the laces properly I tried to push the left boot off with my right foot. We’ve all done it. But the laces were caught in the hook eyelets and the boot wouldn’t budge. I pushed harder. When the left boot finally flew off my foot, it let go with such force that my right leg swung forward. I heard a very loud crack and felt an immediate, searing pain in my…well…to put it delicately…in my right buttock. And for the next forty-eight hours I was beyond miserable. Sitting hurt. Walking hurt. Thinking about sitting and walking hurt.

Miklat (Bomb Shelter), 20×20″ encaustic collage, 2023

This morning the ache running from my tuchus to my heel is down to a grumpy growl. I discovered that standing was better than sitting, and sitting was better if my butt was parked on a bag of ice, and any movement was better with enough ibuprofen to make my liver work overtime.

And right about now we’re thinking, ‘so what?’. 

But this story isn’t about what happened to my body. It’s more about where my chattering monkey mind took me and the vulnerability we all feel when order is lost.

On Thursday morning, twenty-four hours after my injury, I decided to walk to the class I teach at the local assisted living community. If I take the trails it’s a lovely twenty minute stroll. The direct route takes ten minutes. I chose the direct route. My gait was slow and I had a pronounced limp. But taking the car or even taking the day off didn’t occur to me. Why on earth would I give in to the pain? Why would I choose rest? I was just taking my boot off!

A few blocks ahead, walking toward me, was a woman maybe half my age. Fresh from the gym, a delightful spring in her step, the picture of health.

I crossed to the other side of the street. I felt fat, unhealthy and ashamed. I felt judged but I know now the judgement was not emanating from a stranger walking home from the gym. It was coming from my own heart.

And that’s when my brain tumbled down the rabbit hole toward the cesspool of despair.

Because walking is my antidepressant. It’s my anti-anxiety medication. And if I can’t walk then what will become of me?

On Thursday morning my brain answered that question with another one. ‘Why bother’  my brain moaned.  ‘Give up’ my brain told me. ‘This is your life now’ it chided. ‘Everything is going to hurt…forever’ my brain teased. 

This cycle of self pity continued through the whole of Thursday. Because far be it from me to use what I know about pain and the brain and the stories we tell. Far be it from me to use the same knowledge I use to help others in order to help myself.

Today is a rainy Friday morning. There’ll be no walking today. And that’s ok. I’ve spent the past few hours reflecting on the last two days and coming to the realization that my reaction to an admittedly very painful accident was less about my aggravated sciatic nerve and more about the collective vulnerability we’re feeling but perhaps not acknowledging.

The world is a tragic, messy place right now. Since March of 2020 we’ve lived through  a chaotic series of events that seem to be escalating and it’s impossible to know when or if the shift that is necessary to right the apple cart – to bring us to a healing path – will ever happen.

Everything feels out of control. And in an uncontrollable environment we seek order. Until Wednesday morning I had order. Ben and I walked three to five miles every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning. When I took off that boot order was lost. The loud crack I heard from my hip cracked the protective shell I keep wrapped around my psyche, too. It created a jarring chasm in me. Left me unprotected and vulnerable. It made me want to give up.

I wallowed. I have no problem with wallowing because after awhile it just gets boring and I come to my senses. Which is precisely what happened.

I remembered what I learned about accepting current conditions – not giving in to conditions but accepting that this is how things are for now – and still finding the strength to remain committed to moving through life according to the values we cherish.  

Conditions will change. Maybe for the better. Maybe not. Our values – those things that bring heart and meaning to our lives – are the bedrock to which we can anchor ourselves. Our values are always there. They bring order to chaos. They help us to remember who we are. They remind us that we are all capable of shining our good light into the world. 

My self-diagnosed sciatica will ease. Ben and I will be back to our walking schedule. We might even try Mint Springs tomorrow. In the meantime I will continue to park my tuchus on bags of ice and take ibuprofen as needed. And I will remember those things I value – humor and stillness, art and beauty, family and nature – and I’ll shine my good light into the world.

A Year at McGuffey’s: Gratitude, Connection, and Am I the Mean Girl?

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I have a cold. I’ve not slept. And I’ll be honest. Stringing together a series of cohesive sentences is a struggle. But it’s been too long and so I must try. Yet how dare I write about the trivial pursuits of my life when it feels like the world is falling apart? Although we know the detrimental impact to our mental health, Ben and I watched CNN non-stop most of last week. We saw Clarissa Ward dive into a ditch and Anderson Cooper cry. 

Turning away from what is happening in the world is not possible. Moving through life under an umbrella of blissful ignorance is wrong. It’s difficult to watch but not as difficult as surviving while bombs rain down. Meanwhile, Ukraine still burns and Putin rubs his hands together with glee. We live in tragic times.

The word clarity has been used. The phrase ‘moral clarity’.

Clarity is a good word. By the second half of last week Ben found the clarity to remain informed while at the same time focusing on the goodness in life. The beauty. The moments of awe. Like the maple trees outside our back window turning more crimson red by the hour. Or the adorable warblers making enough racket on our porch for poor deaf Bruce the Cat to take notice.

I gained a different sort of clarity during my week in California at the end of September. On a sunny Thursday morning in the garden of a friend I found myself surrounded by bright and beautiful people who had gathered to celebrate not just my visit but one another. There were moments that morning when I stepped back to a quiet corner so that I could take in all the color and the effervescent joy. Those moments were a rich reminder of the value of human connection and community. 

Before that morning and since the early days of the pandemic shutdown I’d seen most of the friends around me three days a week via the flat, muted scrim of Zoom. I assumed that was enough. It wasn’t until I was basking in their technicolor energy that I learned my assumption was wrong. I realized what I was missing.

I am so grateful for that experience. It was an invaluable lesson. The question is: how will I put what I’ve learned into action?

I’m not the natural traveler that I was a few decades ago but being with my friends that morning, in that garden, recharged my batteries.

I have to do it again. I’ve known many of these men and women for twenty years. Zoom chats fill a gap but I can’t let a continent keep us apart. I’m looking forward to seeing everyone again in September 2024.

Meanwhile, at McGuffey Art Center I’m creating relationships with my five studio mates. When we moved into the studio space in July I envisioned six women of various ages and backgrounds building something together – building a small community, I guess. But as the weeks went by and it didn’t feel like that was happening I withdrew into myself and began to work mostly from home, going into the studio for First Friday gallery openings and to install completed art. When I did see someone I heard myself complaining or being contrary about the silliest things. I felt myself being a little judgmental. One day I wondered aloud, “Am I the mean girl in this group?”

Yesterday we had an hours long critique of our work with two well-established local artists and teachers. My early hope of us being a community had vanished weeks ago. Besides, my cold was settling in and so my enthusiasm for the afternoon was at a low. But as each of us spoke about our work and why we do what it is we do as craftspeople and artists, I began to see the thread that binds us together. We are very different. Different ages, different faiths, different socio-economic backgrounds and different countries of origin. Our little group includes a potter, a pastel artist, a painter, a printmaker, a performance artist and a mixed media artist. And yet – there’s something that connects us on a level deeper than the fact that we were accepted into the McGuffey Incubator Program.

If I fail to nurture that connection – a connection that won’t last forever but will at least last until June – then I am failing myself, missing opportunities to learn and ignoring the lesson I learned in California. It won’t be easy for me. I am an introvert who enjoys her own company. But connection shines a light on our humanity.

And I want my light to shine.

The Iris Apfel of Trees…and My Hair

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It’s August. Almost September. And there’s change in the air. It’s as if the trees are tired of being green (and we all know being green is not easy). Stealth like a ninja, Autumn is approaching. It gives itself away, though, by helping those tired trees dress themselves in fall glory. There’s one tree in particular, just outside my window, that begins to show its true colors early. While the doubly tall and slender trees that form a line of sentries behind it appear too shy to offer anything but hints of drab yellow, this little tree has crisp hits of gold along the edges of its leaves and muddled russet on its lower branches. This time of year it is the Iris Apfel of trees. And it is a tree that offers me comfort. A tree that provides cooling shade in the summer for all the deer and other critters that drink from the creek that tickles its roots. A tree that becomes a vibrant, flaming show off in autumn, cuts the sky into hard edged shapes with its bare, black branches in winter and sweetly blossoms in spring. I’ve watched my tree embrace each version of itself for one full year.

I love having four distinct seasons and their clear reminder of time’s passing. (But do I? Really? Four distinct seasons – definitely. Time’s passing? Maybe not so much.)

Early next month I’m having my hair cut by a stylist for the first time in three years. Throughout the pandemic I relied on my tried and true electric trimmer to keep my hair well shorn with a number five blade guard. I didn’t mind that there was no attempt at style. I just wanted my hair to stay out of my face in downward dog. But the east coast humidity curls my hair in a way that others sometimes envy and for a brief moment I considered letting myself transform into one of those beautiful crones with flowing locks who look like they’ve just stepped away from their floor loom to go fill their seagrass basket with wild blackberries plucked from the forest. And then I looked in the mirror and realized I am not that woman. I’m more likely to morph into Rosie the Riveter. In other words, my unkempt curls have to go.

But time has passed and I can no longer pull off the Sinead O’Connor-esque buzz cut I wore with my vintage dresses, fishnets, costume jewelry and combat boots in 1990. Damn you, time. It was my favorite look. The look the made me feel most like me. Now I’m afraid I’ll walk away from my date with hair destiny looking like I have a ‘do’ – a poofy, teased, too perfect coif. I guess that’s easily remedied with a tussle of fingers but still I can’t help but believe that being sixty-four and eight months old is a really weird age for a woman. I no longer look like the woman I feel like and I have no clue how to embrace the woman I’m becoming. More than that, I’m not seen by others as the woman that I feel like.

I know I’m being silly. If I can manage the journey through puberty and adolescence I can survive this journey, too. At the end of the day we’re not measured by how we look and how our looks change. 

Are we?

A Year at McGuffey’s: The Artist Statement

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I love writing artist statements for other artists. I hate writing artist statements about my own work. It’s torture. How do I put into words the story I am wanting to tell through line and shape and form? How do I find the language to describe the process by which I chose a particular color? A specific texture? How can I describe what the work means to me when I’m not yet certain I know?

It’s not easy.

Visual art transcends the written word. Art is its own language. A language that is difficult to translate.

In the middle of July our Incubator group was tasked with writing personal artist statements for the McGuffey website. For the past few weeks I fought with mine. It finally came together yesterday. I submitted my three hundred and fifty nine words and hoped for the best. I tried to be concise and tried to avoid all the things I dislike about most artist statements. That being said, ‘ash of memory’ was a darling I could not kill. Here’s what I wrote:

Fail better. Samual Beckett’s words of advice are Mimm Patterson’s goal for her year as an Incubator Artist at McGuffey Art Center. Mimm, who moved from California to Crozet in 2022, is a mixed-media artist, writer and trauma-informed yoga therapist. She is also someone who knows failure. 

“In my thirties, before I moved to Ireland, I worked as an artist” she says. In the 1990’s Mimm was the quintessential struggling artist in the San Francisco Bay Area. “I survived but I didn’t thrive. I think I lacked the self-belief required to create from a place of authenticity. I wasn’t brave enough to be vulnerable. But now I possess a grounded sense of purpose and the tenacity that comes with decades of life experience. I won’t feel shattered if I fail. I’ll feel stronger knowing that I tried.”  

Mimm’s work is informed by the belief that truth is malleable. Once we understand that our own truth is unfixed – that it is determined by the perspective from which it is viewed – we are able to reconcile our past with our perception of the present. 

This concept is critical to her current work, an exploration of her family and the dark mark its ash of memory has left on Mimm like an inky fingerprint that can’t be washed away.

“In some ways my new work is a practice of self-study. When my mother and I reunited after twenty years of estrangement I learned my family’s history for the first time. When she passed in 2019 she left behind several thick volumes of photographs and documents dating back to the mid-nineteenth century. I am learning who I am and how I came to be through these images and the stories they tell.”

Over the next year she hopes to share those stories through a body of work that inspires connection and shines with clarity and resonance. 

Mimm holds a BA in Studio Art and Education and a MFA in Transpersonal Psychology. She is an ICF certified coach as well as a SoulCollage® and Guided Autobiography facilitator. Mimm shares her new home in Crozet with her partner Ben and their twenty-year-old cat Bruce.

A Year at McGuffey’s Art Center: A Body of Work, Everyday Distractions and…Squirrel!

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One of the distractions – a cuff bracelet made from the silk fabric Ben brought home from India.

When Ben returned from India in January, he brought with him half a suitcase of stunning silk remnants, trimmings and buttons. At the time I thought I might use the fabric and findings to make drawstring bags embellished with embroidery and beading. But I overestimated my machine sewing skillset and underestimated the difficulty in manipulating the slippery, fraying nature of silk. And so the fabric was neatly folded and stacked in a basket while I waited, frustrated and disappointed, for my ability to catch up to the demands of the material. 

Instead I satisfied my creative itch with coiled basketry and hand stitching. I made a few kumihimo braids and continued to play with image transfers. I tripped from one technique to another like a dog uncertain of which squirrel to chase. Yesterday I attended a fantastic  encaustic workshop with Karen Eide at McGuffey Art Center and I’m considering an online weaving course through Fiber Arts Takes Two with Harriet Goodall that begins in September.

All squirrels. Wonderful, fun, enlightening, creative squirrels. Squirrels that might be useful as I press forward. Or they might sploot and cool down my fevered creative energy. If there was a way to ignore the squirrels – the distractions – in order to stay focused, less impulsive and more intentional I don’t know it it would be useful. Maybe the distractions are good – even the splooting squirrel distractions.

But over the next eleven months, as one of six Incubator Artists at McGuffey’s, I need to create a cohesive body of work as part of our final group exhibit in June 2024. With that in mind, do I need to stop chasing squirrels?

An encaustic collage created with Karen Eide’s guidance over the weekend.

An artist’s body of work traces in color, form, line and texture the artist’s creative journey. Piet Mondrian is a good example. You know him for his iconic red, yellow and white grid paintings. Maybe his Broadway Boogie Woogie. But look at his earliest paintings of trees. Or his gingerpot. And we begin to see the process. The conviction. The exploring and the questioning.

An artist’s body of work can also be a gathering together of color, form, line and texture that contains the artist’s creative response to a chosen theme, specific experience or period of time. A reflection of sorts. An epilogue. Kansas City artist Mark Kielkulki is a good example. His works on paper are grouped almost as chapters in the story of his painting life. At the same time, when you look at his overall body of work, no matter how many themes he chooses to explore, there are underlying motifs that speak to isolation, Wes Anderson-esque oddities and shifting perspectives.

Thirty years ago I created a series of manipulated photographs based on Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Later I created another series featuring Jim Morrison of The Doors and the Fourteen Stations of the Cross. I was young and cocky, insecure and envious. I was in a race against time and a duel to the death with every other young artist. I was desperate to look the part of the artist, more interested in the external experience and eager to provoke. I’m grateful that, as far as I know, this work no longer exists. 

Because this time around feels different. I want my body of work to evoke. Not provoke. I don’t care what I look like and I’m eager to encourage rather than envy the five other much younger women who are will be my studio-mates at McGuffey’s this year.

I’m looking inward, not outward, this time. Maybe that’s why I should embrace the squirrels who come along to distract me. They offer me moments of peace. Of reflection. They give me space to consider the story I want to tell in the body of work I am creating.

A Year at McGuffey’s: My New Tribe

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Ben and I are days away from our first anniversary in Virginia. We’ve been here for one full tour around the sun. And yet I’m still settling. Still moving furniture around. Still figuring out the best cabinet for our pots and pans. Still looking for connection. For my Virginia tribe and community.

The final decade of the California life I left behind changed my destiny in ways I couldn’t imagine. It made this move possible. I met my beloved Ben and adopted my beloved feline Bruce. I cyber-stalked John Berg until he invited me to teach at Samyama. And it’s there I matured as a teacher and as a human. It’s there that I found a family of friends. A group of like-minded souls. We laugh together, commiserate together and attempt to navigate the journey of life and the practice of yoga one ardha chandrasana at a time.

And somehow, through births, deaths, illnesses, weddings, divorces, menopause, high school graduations, moves not only across the country but to the other side of the world, our community holds itself together. We even made it through a pandemic that put our lives on hold. Thank goodness for technology because it helped us navigate COVID. The shutdown is history and yet we are still signing in to Zoom and still showing up for ourselves and for one another three days a week to share asana practice. It blows my mind. 

In some ways the strength of my California Tribe makes finding connection here in Virginia less important. In some ways it makes finding connection here more difficult. Why make the effort when everyone I care about is one text, one email or one Zoom click away? Do I even need a new tribe? A new community? And if the answer to that question is ‘yes’ does it mean I need to surrender the community I already have or can the two co-exist?

We create community to build social connection. To know that we belong somewhere. Our tribe anchors us to the place where we began and at the same time supports us when it is time to take flight. We need community in order to find fulfillment within a group of individuals with whom we share similar attitudes, values and aspirations.

And so – yes – I need to find community here, in Virginia. And also – yes – it can coexist with the community that I love in California and to which I already belong.

I knew the move to Virginia would afford me more time to breathe life back into my artist self and reacquainting myself with her has been revelatory. I didn’t know how much I missed being able to tell my story through a visual medium. But isn’t creating art a solitary practice? Where does an artist go to find her tribe?

One morning in late March while searching for something else on the internet (isn’t always that way?) I found McGuffey Art Center’s Incubator Program. McGuffey’s has been thriving in an old brick school leased from the City of Charlottesville and a few blocks from the city’s famed pedestrian mall since the 1970’s. The Incubator Program, now in its ninth year, offers emerging artists shared studio space at a reduced rate while supporting their growth as artists through exhibitions, networking and education. The morning I found McGuffey’s I also discovered that applications for the 2023-2024 Incubator Program were due that weekend. I didn’t waste any time and without overthinking or second guessing myself I submitted an application.

I’ll be picking up the keys to my studio this weekend. It’s a very competitive program and I am proud to say that I am one of six artists chosen.

Does this mean that I’ve found a new tribe? We’ll find out.

Bruce the Cat and Full Moon Mornings

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The moon woke me this morning. Just like last month’s full moon. Suspended like a prison guard’s searchlight outside my living room window. So bright I can read by its light. That moon. Too stunning to turn away. I watch its stealth decent – soon half gone behind the trees across the way. Meanwhile, grey dawn begins to cast its own soft light through the kitchen window behind me. A reminder that soon there’ll be no time to be distracted by light bouncing from a pock marked rock floating in blue black space. My day is beginning. And in the last few minutes of pre-dawn stillness my task is to put down words to describe what I see and feel. 

But that’s impossible because the padded click of Bruce the Cat’s clawed feet across our luxury vinyl plank flooring tickles my ears as he approaches the overstuffed chair where I sit with my laptop resting – appropriately – on my knees. A fresh brewed cup of coffee is on the table to my right. 

Bruce the Cat is deaf. These days he compensates for his deafness with meows loud enough to wake the dead. They are meows that after twenty years are beginning to grow rough around the edges – a combination of Screech from Saved by the Bell, Urkel from Family Matters and a two-pack-a-day habit. And as his primary human companion I know what each meow means. 

‘Hold me. Love me. Feed me. Pet me. Take me out. Bring me in. Leave me alone.’

Despite a stagger in his step when he first wakes Bruce remains nimble and has no problem hopping onto the arm of the chair. He spends a good five minutes investigating – my computer, my face, my coffee cup – before settling on the sofa to watch the moon with me. Or to take a nap.

I adopted Bruce when he was fourteen-years-old the death of his first human companion. I saw his photo on NextDoor and was smitten by the cheeky look in his eyes and his long ginger coat. My own human companion, Ben, was not a ‘cat person’. But he loved me (miraculously he still does). He said ‘as long as Bruce doesn’t jump on the bed’. Not only was Bruce a senior cat, he was obese. So I said, ‘don’t worry, he’ll never be able to jump on our bed’. 

After three days, when Bruce the Cat decided that his new living accommodations were satisfactory, he crawled out from under the couch, sauntered into the bedroom, wiggled his butt to build maximum vertical lift, leapt onto the duvet and fell asleep on Ben’s and my pillows.

From that moment Ben and I knew who was boss. It wasn’t us.

And now, six years later, our lives revolve around Bruce the Cat. We’ve grown accustomed to being covered in cat fur. It’s become second nature to do a visual sweep of the kitchen floor in the morning to make certain there are no horked up hairballs. And we clean Bruce’s litter boxes with the ease and nonchalance of a mother changing a diaper. 

Bruce the Cat will be twenty-one in September and I know that means the time Ben and I have left with him is limited.

If I’m being truthful, knowing that Bruce’s best days are behind him, I feel compelled to spend time with him. To keep him nurtured and comfortable. I cook chicken for him and give him bonito flakes as a treat. I don’t like to upset his routine and avoid traumatizing Bruce with cat sitters. So I don’t leave the house for more than a day. And as the sun rises and the moon sets, I put off writing to offer Bruce the cuddles he and I both need. I love Bruce, I love Ben and I love my home. I feel immense gratitude for all three.