Entries Tagged as 'risk'

Message from Rosemary

Friday, July 10, 2015

I was trying to decide if I should send the check for the trip to Cuba. Traveling has never been my thing. I think of it as a luxury reserved for those with means, and I grew up in a family that lacked such means. A simple day-trip to the beach could and often did end in financial and emotional disaster. To this day, I get heart palpitations when I think about spontaneously going to the springs or the coast, despite the distance that now separates me from my childhood and the relative accessibility of those watery destinations. I’ve only been overseas once ten years ago, and I still feel terrified when I click the “Purchase Now” button on airline tickets to visit dear friends in domestic cities I love. What if the apocalypse strikes just after I purchase the flight?

But I’m working on this. Breathing helps, and relaxing does, too. And perhaps even, a kind of fledgling trust, a willingness to just experience what comes up. If I’m willing to make myself uncomfortable, perhaps my fears and doubts and discomforts will gradually lose their power to inhibit a more expansive relationship with life.

To this end, this summer I have a list on my refrigerator that contains the following items: Do yoga, dance, paint, write, cook, travel.  These are, of course, all things that are good for me. To varying degrees, these activities make me uncomfortable and are easy to avoid.  But I’ve been implementing the list, and in the next two months, provided calamity doesn’t strike, I’m going to the Tennessee mountains, to San Francisco, and to…Cuba.

The Cuban Tropics, to be exact.

But this isn’t really about Cuba.  It’s about Rosemary.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a yoga class at the gym. The practice room was large and smelled of dirty feet and sweat. The sandy floor quickly filled with members, each angling to get their ideal spot in the room, not too close to other people but not so far from the neighboring mats that latecomers could scoot in and take away those extra inches of space.

I’d found a spot by the window, coveted not only for its natural light source in the fading dusk but for its sense of privacy–people surrounded me on only three sides instead of four. Class started, and I settled in for the opening postures, noting the window on my left and the slightly risky open space to my right. It’s too small for another mat, I thought reassuringly, as the door opened several times to admit latecomers who inserted themselves awkwardly in several remaining spaces. Not my space, I thought, and relaxed a little more.

And then I heard it. On my back with my eyes closed: little feet gently walking. Sound coming closer. Closer. Yoga mat unfurling. No! But yes, a presence. Someone on my right. The open space was gone. Damn.

The teacher called us out of our meditation, and we rose to our feet. I looked at my intruder, and she looked up at me. A slight, hunched woman, older than anyone I’d personally seen practicing yoga,  smiled at me with bright, mischievous eyes and whispered “Sorry” with a little shrug of her frail shoulders. I smiled back. I couldn’t help myself. I adored her immediately.

Over the next hour and a half, she moved through difficult postures with the studied grace of a professional dancer, her hands and feet moving like bird wings in slow, intentional flight. I was deeply moved. A number of times the instructor called our attention to the front of the class, where she was demonstrating a pose. The woman on my right shot me apologetic looks for blocking my view.  In fact, I could see around her easily, but I didn’t want to.  She was my teacher.

Class ended and we rolled up our mats. “I really enjoyed practicing with you,” I said, smiling again. She said, “Oh, me too with you, honey,” and touched my arm with her long fingers. “Your practice is beautiful,” I said, feeling clumsy but wanting to tell her how inspired I felt being next to her, seeing her body’s strong elegance in the presence of significant age. “Are you a dancer?” I asked. “A long time ago,” she said, smiling and thanking me graciously.  She was, of course, still dancing.

So moved by this experience, that night I posted about it on Facebook. A friend and fellow yoga practitioner wrote me privately and said, “I think that’s Rosemary you’re talking about.” Apparently, my friend had also connected with this sparkly woman.

The next night, I was running late to yoga. This class, much harder than the previous class, was a 30 minute drive through traffic, and I got unexpectedly delayed. As I anxiously dashed in just before the opening pose, I saw that my usual spot in the back, next to another window, was somehow still open. I ran to it and unrolled my mat, relieved. Then I looked up. Just in front to my left was the old woman. And, to her right, an open space. Not much, but enough. I looked at my window, at the luxurious space around me–my comfort zone. I looked in front of me, at the small but adequate space next to my new friend. Shyly, I nudged my mat into the space beside her. She smiled and moved her mat to make a little more room for me. “Hi,” she said, “what a treat to practice with you again.” At the end of class, I asked her name. “Rosemary, my dear,” she said, “It’s so nice to meet you.”

A few days after these encounters with the woman called Rosemary, I was going back and forth in my head about the Cuba trip. “It’s expensive. Your GI just put you on a restrictive diet. You’re already taking trips. What if your car dies and you really need that money? What if it’s dangerous there? Plus, the planes will be cramped and you’ll have to share a room with a woman you don’t know.”  The other voice simply said, “Cuba.”

I went into my studio and started to paint. By then, I’d written the check and addressed the envelope for the Cuba trip, but I couldn’t bring myself to put in my mailbox. I finished the painting and almost immediately heard the title arise, “Message from Rosemary.”  At first, I didn’t know what the title meant, I just knew that was the painting’s name.

And then, I got it.

I put the check in my mailbox and raised the red flag.

Sink and Source

Saturday, June 27, 2015

Sink and Source

Millhopper painting in process

Recently I’ve been feeling a little lethargic about painting, and earlier this week, I even heard the dementor voice in my head saying, “Maybe you’re all dried up and won’t ever paint again. Maybe that’s it for you and the painting thing.”

Thankfully, I’ve been reading a lot–from Lynda Barry to Mickey Singer to the Harry Potter series. All these books, the ideas and just spending time in the languaged worlds of other creative people, act as protective aids, so I can see what my mind is doing and step back from it, not buy into its fears and doubts. The truth is, I’ve just needed a little rest and time to gather the courage to show up and take the next risks in my work. When I’m risking, I’m playing. Then the energy just comes; I don’t have to force it, and the work seems sourced by something beyond me.

Really, I’ve found that whether I’m dancing or painting or writing or doing yoga, the trick is to move and create in such a way that I can bypass the mind, which is to say, prison break. I did this last night when I came home from the art opening at the Thomas Center for the wonderful new exhibit curated by artist Anne Gilroy, Beauty and the Beasts. It was late and I was tired (said my mind), but I turned on some music and began.  I lost track of time, and when I fell into bed, the painting was finished. Read More >

Exposure

Saturday, March 28, 2015

Exposure

I sat in Volta this morning with my nephew, sipping coffee and trying to read. Almost all the art I’ve made over the past two years currently hangs at the cafe, and I was distracted as I overheard several strangers pointing, commenting, and appreciating the work. A father and his young daughter came over and introduced themselves when they realized I was the artist; the daughter put a gleeful hand over her mouth as she registered her dad’s explanation that I was the person who’d painted the pictures she’d just been admiring.

These are warm moments for an artist, yet I’ve spent most of my shows trying to avoid them. For many years when I exhibited, I wouldn’t leave any contact information with my work, even though it was all for sale and I needed the money. People would have to hunt me down and inquire privately. I told myself I didn’t want to be identified because I was somehow “humble,” but the truth was, I didn’t want to be identified and rejected. I was worried that a critical response would impair my painting process and potentially my ability to paint. Even today, no matter how hard I try to maintain a psychic distance from my work–to see it as separate from me and not a reflection of me–I still experience my art as a deep part of me; it’s how I spend almost all my spare time, and whether I like it or not, when I sit amongst my paintings in public, I feel like there are pieces of my soul hanging all over the walls. Yikes.

This feeling isn’t new or unique, though; being creative in any endeavor is inherently vulnerable territory. Makers of all kinds put ourselves out in ways that are risky and therefore courageous. Artists battle myriad internal struggles to birth works of art, and then face “the public” to share beyond controlled studio environments. Maybe this is why many of the highly creative people I’ve known seem to hover just above or beyond the social fray, giving off an air of what seems at first sniff to be snobbery or elitism. Of course these aren’t ideal qualities–“too cool for school” vibes are exclusionary and unkind. But perhaps at the heart of this external thickening of the personality is simply a well-intentioned form of preservation, a way some artists have learned to navigate the uncertain world and still inhabit and converse with exquisitely sensitive inner lives. Maybe I’ve unwittingly come across to others as “too cool for school” as well, when really, I just felt tiny, frightened of rejection, and overwhelmed with the desire to curl up and disappear.

But then there are little girls and their fathers, pointing and smiling, and taking the uncomfortable social step to say hi and make themselves known to me because I was willing to make myself known to them.  I keep learning from these sorts of encounters, receiving gifts from the connections that come from openly identifying myself as the person who made the art. Maybe I’ll never find this part of it easy, but as I continue to paint regardless of shows or sales or public interest, I’m starting to believe it’s also worth it to stop treating the inherent vulnerability of art-making as a valid reason to stay hidden, unidentified, and socially aloof.

Me Too

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Mee Too

Over the past week, I’ve given five guest talks on suicide prevention and intervention to university classes. I start out by saying that every year, approximately 10% of college students will consider suicide as a potential solution to life’s difficulties, and 1.4% will make a suicide attempt. I tell them that learning how to recognize and compassionately connect with someone who is thinking of suicide can save lives, and then I ask if they are surprised that so many college students consider suicide. To this, they shake their heads no.  I ask if they believe that the 10% of college students who consider suicide are necessarily “mentally ill,” and they emphatically shake their heads, “No, no–that’s not it; something else is going on.”

“So what do you think is going on with college students who consider suicide?” I ask. They respond astutely. “Well, it’s hard,” they say. “First there’s the adjustment to life away from family, and all the financial stressors, and the realization that we’re not as special or gifted as we’ve been led to believe. Then there’s the struggle to make friends, and the sense of isolation and failure if our social life doesn’t take off, or if classes are harder than anticipated. Maybe we bring in trauma, too, from the past, or experience trauma in college. Plus, there’s this overwhelming anxiety about the future–will there actually be jobs for us? What if we can’t get jobs, let alone meaningful work? And speaking of work, do we know what we want; are we really pursuing the right things? We can’t be certain of any of it. We’re all competing for seemingly limited resources, we’re still trying to figure out who we are, and on top of it, we’re told by the culture that we have to look and be perfect and have it all together, right now, or else there’s something really wrong with us. Nobody talks about what they’re feeling, either, so we’re alone with this stuff, which only makes it worse.”

As we talk, I tell them about a dear person my family and I lost to suicide. I tell them about people I’ve known who were in crisis, in seemingly inescapable pain, and we talk about the power of human-to-human connection to restore lost hope. As we speak frankly about the taboo topic of suicide, it’s clear that most people present have either known someone who died by suicide or who considered it. It’s a heavy discussion, but also meaningful, and there’s a shared acknowledgement that whether someone considers suicide or not, life is hard, and we need connection, especially around the hard parts.

As I leave these talks, I’m aware that I was once a college student on the same campus at which I now work as a professional. I once felt overwhelmingly lost, in pain, invisible, and at times, hopeless. In fact, I started drawing just after beginning college, because I didn’t know what else to do with my feelings. I carried unspoken, unaddressed traumas inside me, traumas that had created a profound estrangement from myself and a deep longing to return to wholeness. Only I didn’t know the path back to wholeness, and I felt a lot of shame. The unacknowledged traumas had led to a crippling cigarette addiction, which bloomed into a health crisis, which lowered my self-esteem and fed into other risky behaviors. Life wasn’t turning out as I’d planned, and for a semester, I too was among the estimated 10% of college students who may consider suicide.

Making art like the drawing above helped me express my despair. It was the first way I started to return, and the early art that came revealed that I was returning to a person wounded, like a house abandoned under duress and left in disarray.  Then came the loving attention of family, and one good friend, and a caring professor or two who took the time to sit down with me and just connect. Eventually I got up the courage to see a counselor at the college counseling center where I now work; this person, too, cared about me and supported me and encouraged me to keep drawing. That was 15 years ago, and thankfully, I long ago put out my last cigarette, and I’ve never returned to thoughts of suicide. But I will always carry a keen, personal, and often unspoken appreciation for how difficult the college years can be.

You see, when I give these talks, I don’t usually tell college students about my own period of suicidal ideation, even though it was long ago; nor do I tell them how I gradually healed. It’s not that I’m afraid to tell them; more often than not, they get it. In fact, talking about my own experience would probably improve the talks by making me more relatable, more credible, and thus moving the conversation from the abstract—from suicidal ideation as something that happens to other people over there–to something that can touch any of us, even mental health professionals, under overwhelming circumstances, and something that can often, with supportive connection, be overcome.

It is ironic that in a field that believes fiercely in the power of speaking about painful issues, mental health professionals are reluctant to talk about our own lived experiences of emotional and mental health challenges, and we tend to stigmatize one another for speaking up about our stories. Our training teaches us to focus on other people’s pain, and to avoid discussing our challenges, even with our colleagues as we go through school. The reasons for this are complex, but I believe we do this, in part, because somewhere along the line we got worried about revealing our vulnerability. We got scared that our vulnerability might make us appear less qualified, less credible, and we started policing each other. We bought into the myth of professionalism=perfectionism and now are facing an isolation similar to that which burdens so many college students.

I know about this isolation from both study and experience. Before I was a professional counselor, I was in graduate school to become a therapist for nearly a decade, and today, in addition to doing therapy, I teach a course The Counselor as a Person, where graduate counseling students open up and share more of who they are–as real people, with challenges and resiliencies, just like our clients. I will tell you that when they feel safe enough to do so, my students express their confusion; they say that they went into the helping professions because of their own difficulties and ongoing recoveries, and yet they feel discouraged from acknowledging these experiences for fear of being judged. Students who cry in classes or “over-disclose” are often seen as “breaking down” and told that if they can’t keep themselves together, they need to get their own personal counseling to work through their “issues.”

Boundaries are important in therapy work, and I endorse personal counseling for all counselors-in-training, and for licensed professionals as-needed throughout life—in my opinion, it’s just part of a good, long-term self-care regimen. But I believe that mental health professionals and students alike who don’t allow each other the space to be vulnerable and real do ourselves and possibly the field a disservice. When we ourselves struggle, we may not reach out to connect in ways that could be protective, healthy, strengthening. We may also unwittingly make it harder for prospective clients to reach out to us because they think it means something is wrong with them for needing to talk.  We can thus perpetuate the myth that we have it all together and our clients are “ill” because they alone struggle.

As counselors, we intuitively know that our real power is in our ability to connect, person to person, in genuine ways, yet many of us feel blocked and shamed from sharing our stories in productive ways with each other or with the people we serve. We’re taught that to be professional is to somehow be both relationally close and “appropriately distant,” and that we need to transcend basic human struggles but dare not let on what we’ve transcended from or how we managed to do so. Granted, there are ways to show empathy and create connection without over-sharing our personal stories, and one of the gifts of a good therapist is the conveyance of deep knowing without distracting insertions and projections.  But of course therapists have and do struggle with our own stuff. And while we can never know exactly what someone else feels or experiences, in times of great emotional pain, the most encouraging words aren’t necessarily “here, let me help you with that, I’m an expert” but some authentic version of “I connect with your pain because I also know deep pain.” In other words, “Me, too.”

There is a place where my art, my profession, my inner life, all the people who have loved and wounded me, and all the people I’ve loved and wounded, intersect. It is difficult to speak of this place, but it is real, the source of my energy, the seat of my heart. Staying in touch with this place allows me to keep showing up to work, to art-making, to myself, and to relationships. I share about this place with you as I strive to stay connected to it in a mental health culture that, however unintentionally, can shame its professionals for being human.

Personally, I appreciate when my therapist shares about her experiences, hints at her humanity, when she indicates her own personal work is ongoing, because she knows that to be alive is to leave and arrive and get lost and return a thousand times or more. I am glad she is a little wiser than me, for her years and her commitment to her own development. But I am even more encouraged that she and indeed everyone who has played a healing role in my life can look at me with eyes of compassion that say, “Me too, my dear, me too.”

On Uncertainty

Thursday, January 22, 2015

On Uncertainty

“When we’re hard on ourselves, it’s because we have a very rigid sense of what we’re supposed to be doing. We run from doubt because we feel we should know. Ironically, people want choice yet are afraid of uncertainty. But the truth is, If there is no doubt, there is no choice.”

Ellen Langer, from On Becoming an Artist: Reinventing Yourself Through Mindful Creativity (p.65)

I’m stuck in this painting. It’s an abstraction of the prairie and not going well. I like certain elements, some of the shapes, mainly, but I know the colors are wrong, and when I consider working on it, I feel uncertain, lost. When I’m home in the studio and a painting is not going well, this lost, uncertain feeling can change the whole quality of my day; I sulk about the house, make more coffee, engage in a little emotional eating, leave my brushes in water too long. I peek back into the studio at the mess on the canvas, and wonder who I think I am, painting. I feel guilty–wasted time, wasted paint, wasted energy. Shouldn’t I be cleaning some river somewhere, or feeding orphans?

Usually, I need to get some distance and perspective, which I’ve been getting this week being back at work, to catch the energy again. Or, I need to do something radical to the canvas, like smear it with magenta stripes, just to break out of my funk and stop taking it all so seriously. What’s the real risk? It’s just a canvas, after all, not my entire life on the line. Yet at that precipice of creation, when I’m lost, I feel my life on the line. To move forward into the unknown, even just on the canvas, I feel I’m risking everything.

It’s helpful for me to pay attention to what I do when I feel uncertain–about an artistic direction, a professional issue, or a personal matter. Life is full of uncertainty, and uncertainty is inherently vulnerable. It’s tempting to deny or avoid experiencing the discomfort of uncertainty, and there are endless ways to distract.

Hanging out with uncertainty is of course an option, too, and perhaps the hardest, though potentially the most fruitful. As Wendell Barry wrote, “It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work, and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey.” Similarly, the poet David Whyte speaks about sacred terrains of transition–that we need to cultivate an appreciation for times of deep uncertainty, where we are changing profoundly, but the new place hasn’t yet revealed itself. Pema Chodron writes about getting comfortable with uncertainty–trying to keep things loose and open when we’re feeling vulnerable about the unknown. My counseling mentor used to tell me that if I designed my life around feeling comfortable, I wouldn’t have a very interesting or rewarding life. He encouraged me to lean into uncertainty, and to accept the presence of doubt even in my greatest commitments.  “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?” he’d ask, and then, “Can you be afraid and do that thing, anyway?”

As a counselor, I sit with people during their times of uncertainty and transition; I try to befriend the part of them that wants to know, but doesn’t know yet, the part that may need to retreat from risk, or venture boldly into it, or wait, uncomfortably, for a clear sense of direction. It’s easier to befriend this place, its discomforts and possibilities, in another than to befriend it in myself.

Painting, or any creative discipline, is a relatively safe way to play out these themes. But the larger arena of life carries the same themes and struggles, with far more at stake. I appreciate the way painting and life feed back into each other, until they become each other’s teachers, and I sit at their feet, watching and taking notes, uncomfortably learning to cultivate patience and acceptance while I wait for a glimpse of my next direction.

The Flowers Are Coming

Monday, December 22, 2014

I couldn’t ignore it: The field needed flowers. The other way–crisp, perfect, clean, and sterile–a green field without flowers–no place I’d want to be. No place to take off my shoes, sweat under the sun, no place for children to run.

So I’m taking the risk and adding flowers. Childish flowers. The flowers I would have wanted to see and paint as a child, the flowers I still want now. Just the outlines first, then the colors. The flowers are coming with their colors.

Last night a friend in his mid-thirties who still snuggles with a teddy bear asked me, “At what age is it creepy to still sleep with a teddy bear?”  “Oh, you’re well past that age, whatever it is,” I laughed, adding, “Can you keep your eye out for a good bear for me?” If it’s never too late for a happy childhood, by all means, sign me up.

My parents loved me, but childhood was still pretty miserable. Poverty and stress and intergenerational trauma will do that to you. Today I’m much happier.  Today I paint places my little girl self would want to visit, teddy bear in one grubby hand, flowers in the other.

Don’t use pink; skies aren’t green

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Dont use pink

In order to re-engage with this still-unfinished painting, I had to break two of my own rules: Don’t use pink, and skies aren’t green.

The pink rule came from messages I received in childhood, messages about femininity, the frivolity of bright colors, and not drawing needless attention to myself through embellished appearance. I questioned this rule as I felt compelled to make pink leaves. Perhaps the rule has been limiting me, not just on the canvas but in other arenas of my life. Pink is putting it out there, without apology or self-censorship. Pink is flamboyant, worldly, exuberant, even childlike. I was taught that children should be quiet, obedient, seen and not heard. Seen, that is, but not in bright colors–not in pink. As the pink leaves came in, I realized I had ideas, not just about pink but (sorry here, if you love pink) about the kinds of people who wear pink, use pink, like pink. I had to come up against these rules and judgments just to paint pink leaves, pink leaves that won’t hurt anybody or otherwise cause damage or pain. Innocent pink leaves. And you know what? I love the pink leaves, possibly more than any leaves I’ve painted. Go figure.

The other rule, skies aren’t green, came from, well, never seeing a green sky before. The actual background color is a sea-green, which depending on the light, tends towards blue, green, or gray. In Tennessee, the green trees filled the skies in domes of luminescence. “Skies aren’t green” didn’t allow me to express the feeling of green skies. When I mustered the courage to break this rule, I was glad I did.

After working on this painting for much longer than usual, I’ve begun to think that commitment to a practice may be another kind of freedom.

The Next Right Step

Monday, August 25, 2014

The Next Right Step

Celebration
(Detail, unfinished)

Often in a painting, what I need to do next is the very thing I’ve been resisting. I got bored with Celebration well before I finished it. My painting style has changed since I started the piece several months ago. I keep setting the painting aside, making something else, and then returning to it in hopes that I’ll be able to finally reach a conclusion, but I still find it boring to work on. While working, I’ve heard a recurrent voice, “You might want to just wail on the canvas and see what happens. Also, try adding a bunch of lines to the trees, and use a smaller brush.”  I’ve dismissed those suggestions. “No way, that will take too much time! Leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.”  But indeed, to re-engage the painting, I’ve needed to listen to those suggestions–to roughen the surface with movement, texture, dimension, and line in the trees. I began this process on the left trees, and they’re not nearly done–this is just the beginning. But I come back to this again and again at the canvas: I have to risk and sacrifice the outdated image when it fails to reflect my integrity. This allows something more raw, organic, and honest to emerge.

In painting, I use a guiding principle I learned from my psychotherapy mentors: Notice boredom. I try to paint, teach, and do therapy in such a way that I’m not bored, and hopefully my students and clients aren’t bored either. There isn’t anything wrong with boredom per se, it simply may indicate being less than fully engaged.

 I need to experience energy as I paint. When I follow the energy where it leads and listen to what it asks of me, I re-engage in the process and am often happier with the results.

 Noticing and following the energy to a sense of completion is a hallmark of process in Gestalt therapy and other experiential modalities. Often, the way into a deeper, more energetic process is to acknowledge disengagement/boredom, which feels risky because it’s exposing. But the great thing is, when we do take risks to acknowledge where we are, even if we are bored, BAM! There’s suddenly energy again, and we’re off and running somewhere interesting.

I’ll keep you posted on how Celebration unfolds from here.

When I Get Stuck (part 2)

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

When I Get Stuck 2

This is the painting that came out after I applied the “just for me” treatment. I loved it. Then I sold it. So I guess it wasn’t just for me after all. But I did get to keep what the painting taught me; those lessons weren’t just for me, either, but they were–and are–certainly mine to use.

When I Get Stuck (part 1)

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

When I Get Stuck 1

When I get stuck or feel lost in a painting (like when I snapped this photo), I tell myself that the painting is just for me, that I never have to show it to anyone else. I tell myself this again and again–a salve for that nervous, self-conscious part of me that’s hovering over my right shoulder, whispering encouraging things like, “Abandon all hope” and, “The dumpster is only a short walk up the street; no one will see you if you go under the cover of darkness to discard this abomination.”

Also, friends help. Friends have happened by just in time to save paintings I’d placed on the curb. They hang these paintings in their homes, and tell their visitors that I’m the artist who made them. I don’t like this. Friends have stopped in when I’m so frustrated that I’m threatening the garbage. “Don’t give up!” they say. “It’s got potential. Stay with it. Or give it a rest and come back to it. But please don’t throw it away.”

What I do then is a sort of mental dump. I imagine myself throwing the painting away, and then I give myself permission to be as wild and raw with the remaining surface as I want to be. I decide it’s no longer precious; there’s nothing to preserve. I wail. And usually, those are the ones I wind up loving the most. So there’s that.

Because of this, I do try to finish every painting I start, try to wrestle my way to the end and live with the consequences of what’s emerged. Almost always, telling myself that a piece is just for me frees me up to paint more fearlessly, which in and of itself is a kind of triumph. And often, by the time I’m done, I may not have made my all-time favorite piece, but I’ve succeeded in giving myself to it fully. Then, I can’t help but love the painting for what we’ve been through together, and for where we’ve come out just by coming through.

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