watercolor and ink painting of rose by emily weil

daily painting | ripe rose

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Embracing what is in front of me is my lesson these days. Not resisting. Which I do with reluctance and no small amount of resentment. But the dear bro is continuing to fade, and he’s not done yet with his life, and there must be reasons why he, with that amazing brain of his, is soldiering on. And I love him, and he loves me, and that alone is a bit of a miracle, after our childhood experiences.

Some time ago I read the quote,“People are like tea bags — you don’t know what’s in them until they are in hot water.” It was Nancy Reagan who supposedly said it but I’ve heard that nugget of wisdom ascribed to various other folks, including Eleanor Roosevelt (my true hero). First Lady Nancy wasn’t my favorite person, but these days I’m thinking about this apt description of humans under pressure.

What’s in me? Is it strong enough to make a good cuppa? I guess I’m finding out. I think today of Turkish earthquake survivors and Mississippians who saw a tornado devastate their town and thousands of others whose lives have been upended. I feel like a heap of twisted metal (certainly with plenty of sharp edges), but something stronger will be rebuilt in the aftermath. I’m certain of this.  

And thank you for reading these posts. I know they are often dark. I appreciate your caring observations.
[This painting is of a rose I photographed at Aldersly retirement community where my brother resides.]

7″ x 7″ ink, watercolor, acrylic on paper = $65

 

 

 

watercolor, ink painting of flowers by emily weil

daily painting | march sunflower

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Recently I had an email conversation with a very dear old friend. He offered prayers of support to me as I “help my brother transition.” What a liberating concept! I have the western idea of the sad, painful, long road of sickness that ends in death (and then there is heaven or hell, in Christian traditions). To see this as my brother’s journey from his current state into another is rebooting my brain and adding some bright sparkles to my thinking.

Because I believe it’s true, about death being a kind of passage. I think he’ll go join my sisters and it will be good and joyful. And I’ve already asked him to look after me (I call on Kay and Diana for assistance, often). His death will be wrenching and difficult and it will be a great loss, especially since Jim and I have become close these past months. But I know I will be happy too, for his release. And I will see him again.

7″ x 10″ ink, watercolor, acrylic on paper = $90

 

 

 

watercolor and pastel painting of red tail hawk by emily weil

daily painting | red tail

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Well, hell. That’s kind of my response to most things these days. But really I can’t complain — I’m safe, and now dry, in my home, my brother’s demise from brain cancer is slow, which creates room for lots of sweet and moving and healing conversations about family, and I’m getting a bit more rest which is leading to more energy for painting. Life is weird and strange and brilliant and wondrous and crazy and stormy and wrenching. All of that. I just want to soak it all up and experience everything, you know? Grief turns you inside and out and shakes you upside down, and the damn bitch has her own timetable. Which is frustrating. And today this is my life, and I embrace it. Often with resentment. But I’m learning acceptance. 

This carnival ride can be lonely. I love the response I heard recently from a counselor who several years ago lost her husband in a tragic kayaking accident; a year later her brother suddenly died. She gave me great comfort, as we talked about how our western world is deeply uncomfortable with the raw emotions that come with loss — you’re supposed to take a pill and chill out, as strong feelings make people squirm. She spoke of her experiences with some people in her orbit who lacked “emotional courage.” Someone told her that she should just “get over it; it’s been long enough.” And, “I’m sorry I didn’t call, I just didn’t know what to say.” Her reply to that was, “Google it! Takes 5 minutes!” which made me howl with laughter.

Giggling is good. Sometimes I seek out a comedy show, as I know laughing will make me feel better. Other times I watch a movie I know will make me weep. Both are healing. And necessary.

[This is a painting done for the president of the roofing company that replaced my roof; I bartered artwork for partial payment for the costs. This juvenile red-tailed hawk likes to hang out on the railing outside his window, hunting ground squirrels.]

30″ x 22″ watercolor, pencil, ink, pastel on paper

 

 

 

watercolor of dog by emily weil

daily painting | daisy-may

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I really like my Sunday mornings. I watch the news shows because I’m a junkie, sip my tea, watch Buster, my guinea pig, chow down on his morning salad and delight in the dancing shadows on my living room curtains of finches at the bird feeder. I’m getting more skilled at self-care, allowing myself to rest after almost 11 months of looking after my bro — his brain cancer is advancing, but slowly. He is in good hands; I don’t need to be there every day. I feel guilty, but am noticing how beneficial it is to not be so worn out. I’m no good to him if I’m a wrung-out old dish rag.

Jamey and I often have amazing conversations. Last week we had a difficult discussion about the secret abuse my little sister and I suffered at the hands of our fury-spewing dad. Jamey is 9 years older, so he was mostly gone, doing teenager things, when I was a kid. He wasn’t home when dad would go into his rages — he was worried he had been there but either didn’t realize what was happening, or chose not to intervene. I am certain my funny, kind older brother wasn’t around, as I don’t think Dad would’ve dared the abuse if he’d had witnesses. These hard facts weigh on my brother. He’s an engineer, not exactly conversant with his emotions, but his love for me is clear. I believe that more than anything he wishes he could have prevented those horrors experienced by his two little sisters.

Phoo, this is heavy stuff. My apologies. My point is that I am grateful for the sweetness of my times with my only remaining sib. These incredible moments would have never happened but for his illness and being confined in a nursing home where I can visit and spend time with him. He often surprises me, bringing up family topics I assume he would rather avoid. These exchanges heal us both. Isn’t that somethin’?

[About this painting — a dear friend’s sweet little Daisy May moved on to happier hunting grounds recently and this is a tribute to her.]

6″ x 6″ ink, watercolor, acrylic on paper

 

 

 

watercolor of flowers by emily weil

daily painting | february bouquet

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There was a promo on the other day for an upcoming show; something about a TV personality having a bout with cancer and recovering. The celeb said, “My mom said to ‘make my mess my message.’ ” So clever! On the outside chance you are not bored to tears with my current posts about loss, here’s my mess today: I’m still showing up, and have come to accept — maybe even make friends with — my boiling brain that bounces around in the early mornings. So I just say Good Morning to my scary thoughts, do my meditation and get up and make tea. I often wonder what the insides of other folks’ brains are like. Calm? Serene? Adult-like? Confident? Am I the only one who feels wobbly? Unlikely. 

I’m 70. Does everyone who makes it into these later years review their lives and have regrets and ponder the crazy side trips and wonder What-The-Hell-Was-I-Thinking? That’s why I love books and poetry. Literature is a reveal into a writer’s thoughts and feelings. I’m not so peculiar. So today’s commitment to myself is to sing my song. It doesn’t matter if it is harmonious with other folks’ songs. I don’t care if it’s pretty. It’s mine. It belongs to me. Grab your earplugs — I’m getting ready to belt.

[Painting is of a Trader Joe’s bouquet; the way the sun flowed into my living room and lit the sunflowers was lovely.]

7″ x 10″ ink, watercolor on paper = $90

 

 

 

abstract by emily weil using pastels, watercolor and ink

daily painting | tempest

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I think mourning doves have the prettiest colors. Did you know that they have turquoise eyeliner all around their eyes? I learned that because of the suction-cup birdfeeder on my kitchen window they visited, where I could take a close look (which I had to stop supplying with seeds as the pigeons were clutching onto my window screen, ruining it). I suppose it makes sense I’m fond of a pretty, taupe-colored bird with mourning in its name these days. But don’t get my neighbor started on this species as she hates it when they nest on her front porch; I saw a photo of a dove that had built its nest in the windshield-wiper well of a Honda.

I’ve been pondering the powerful forces of grief and loss (well, duh). Life-changing, for most folks. And no one is exempt from this experience. We are reshaped by deaths and painful losses — for some into despair and bitterness and rage and for others into growth and clarity and greater strength. This fascinates me, how we develop and evolve both as humans and as a country. I want more than anything for the deaths and losses in my life to make me stronger and more resilient. And kinder. And more compassionate. And less encumbered by childhood pain. Losing my sibs has upset my apple cart forcefully, affecting everything. Everything. Last night I couldn’t sleep and was mentally acknowledging various shipwrecks in my life — in my family, in my relationships — and visualized climbing into the lifeboat, rowing away, finding solid land. I can’t imagine feeling dry and safe again, but I suppose I will.
[Did this abstract in my kitchen today.]

9″ x 12″ ink, watercolor, pastel on paper = $140

 

 

 

watercolor of dog by emily weil

daily painting | loki

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I hope your holidays are sane and warm and safe and that you did not spend Christmas in an airport (wouldn’t it be nice if the airlines treated us like humans?). This little guy Loki was a commission for a Christmas present, and much fun to paint. 

With a lot of help we got my bro into friend Sue’s house for a fabulous Christmas feast. It took some doing — wheelchairs are cumbersome and he’s a tall man — and was a bit risky, for he gets fatigued easily, and crashes hard once tired. But it worked! And I had much help. I think it was fun for him — he wore a very dapper derby hat with a red feather and looked quite handsome.

This is Jim’s last Christmas, and his demise is slow as the brain cancer advances, but I’m told there may be a tipping point in the next weeks with a possible sudden decline. I would welcome that, so he’s done with this awful march of glio sarcoma through his neurons; he’s going into the 9th month of this sorrowful journey. My heart feels like it’s in a box of broken glass, but so far my homicidal urges have been restrained toward certain callous, cold-blooded individuals in Jim’s orbit. And such is the grief path I am on. I am getting more skilled at showing myself compassion as my emotions take me down this bumpy, harrowing path. I’ve given up on trying to be warmly social in human gatherings and I’m OK with that. I’m civilized — that I can manage; I haven’t snarled at anyone in awhile. One helpful outlet is to open my window while driving on the freeway and scream. Very cathartic but it makes my throat scratchy (no one notices, ever).

Grief is hard. There’s very little room in this world for expressions of raw pain and emotion. So it’s pretty lonely sometimes. And it’s weird but I also am finding this to be a time of amazing healing and love and connection, for my moments with my brother are sweet and precious and as we hang out together I find that some of my childhood pain is mending. And as I write this I am chuckling at the purring noises my guinea pig makes when he hears the chirping mobs of finches and sparrows outside at the bird feeder. They are conversing. 

Sending new year love to you all. Isn’t it something? We keep showing up and putting one foot in front of the other. I’m proud of that.  

8″ x 10″ ink, watercolor, pencil, acrylic on paper

 

 

 

daily painting | grief in technicolor

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My heart is full. There is such gob-smacking beauty in the world — earlier this week as I drove home from visiting the bro in San Rafael I was listening to Anderson Cooper’s podcast on grief (highly recommended). His mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, had a rough and lonely childhood and lost one son to suicide yet she embraced art and beauty in her life and loved the crazy juxtaposition of the heart-searing losses in life alongside the beautiful moments she experienced each day (“It’s about what is, not what if”). As I quietly cried, listening to the podcast (while carefully navigating the heavy traffic through Berkeley) I was amazed at how shattered my heart is with grief even as I marveled at the sunset over San Francisco (to my right) and the rainbow over the Berkeley hills (to my left). I am learning with humility to embrace all of life — loss, terror, joy, rage, gratitude, thrilling love and spectacular presentations from nature. It’s all just magnificent. I also heard of a book I must get, Our Book of Awesome, written by Neil Pasricha, a man whose wife left him at the same time his best friend committed suicide. He realized that every day life gives us tiny, brilliant flashes that we can embrace with wonder and awe. In this spectacular moment I aspire to keep my heart open and pay attention.  

10″ x 10″ ink, watercolor, pencil, acrylic on paper = $130

 

 

 

daily painting | november

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My brother is upstairs dying. He’s dying while playing online poker with his long-time pals. He’s dying while he eats his lunch of “unidentifiable white fish.” He’s dying while I sit in a pocket of thin November sunlight on a lovely patio with views of Mt Tam, listening to the pleasant watery voice of a garden fountain that is murmuring next to my comfy outdoor-furniture perch. [And yes I suppose I should acknowledge that my brother is also upstairs living, which is true and wonderful.]

I am staring through sun-lit branches of autumn reds and yellows, waiting for my grief-tears to catch up with me; it’s pointless to try and absorb the NYT Book Review, for my attention span does not stretch past five sentences. I am immersed in sorrow and that is my present moment that I haltingly, reluctantly embrace. There’s a gray-cloudy peace that comes from this acceptance of wretchedness. It’s awful. I adore my brother and losing him will be like losing an essential body part. I dread that concrete wall of loss I will smash into — but there it is, getting closer. I clutch at hopeful lessons and positive thoughts but they are slippery and fleeting and I’m exhausted and angry from trying to keep my damn chin up. And… last night’s moonrise took my breath away.
[This painting was a quick watercolor class demo]

9″ x 10″ ink, watercolor on paper

 

 

 

daily painting | aldersly rose

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Ahhh… the hungry ghost. He’s back. Here I was cooking along on this watercolor — I loved how the rose was developing — and then things got a bit muddy and complicated and the hungry ghost is jabbering in my ear about what a shitty artist I am. I HATE that.

A hungry ghost is a Buddhist concept I heard about in a lecture once. It is perpetually ravenous and feeds on joy, happiness, contentment and self-confidence. I notice that when I feel happy to be an artist or confident in myself as a sister or competent as a GGRO bander, the damn ghostie likes to rob me of my moments of peace and joy.

So I’m going to post this painting anyways. It is from a photo of the lovely rose garden at Aldersly, where my ailing brother resides. Those wonderful folks there told him that if he wished to employ Medical Assistance In Dying (MAID), they would help him do that in their beautiful rose garden (he has brain cancer and had expressed a wish to die outside).

He just told me he has decided not to make the choice for MAID, but will let that damn hungry cancer ghost do its nasty work. And I support him (as I would whatever he chose). Today painting is soothing me (I just started another rose painting) as I take a day off from brother care to stay home and rest. I feel so fortunate. I can paint and enjoy my home where I feel safe and content. Many, many gifts in my life. 

10″ x 10″ ink, watercolor on paper = $130