Sometimes throwing away my usual routines is exactly the right thing to do. The other day in my studio I ripped up a few small sheets of paper and wet them and spattered India ink on them; after they dried I added watercolor and some oil pastel. I finished this small piece today and like it. I really love the way India ink behaves on wet paper — it can make beautiful patterns, and it feels like magic. To create — whether art or a yummy dinner or plans for the future — we must do it. It’s so easy to get sucked into dark places these days. Sunshine, time in my studio, dancing in my living room, being surprised by a shooting star (last night!) all help me keep moving forward. These are very difficult times, and I’m still vertical. More or less.

6″ x 6″ watercolor, oil pastel, pencil on paper = $45

Survival is sometimes a challenge as a 6-decades+ old woman during a rampaging pandemic, terrifying insurrections in Washington (is it civil war yet?), watching a Death-Valley-like drying up of my freelance business, grieving a dead sister (did I miss anything?). So afternoons like today boost my heart, give me hope, help me live in the moment. I was graciously invited to join two sketching friends to explore a charming garden in Ballena Bay in Alameda to draw and paint and my god what a tonic. We sat at a table and enjoyed the sun with a spectacular view of the SF skyline at our backs and fun and interesting growing things at our feet. And bushtits hopping about the branches above us. And laughter at a nearby table in the yard as the innovative and hard-working gardeners joked and rested. Conversation sans Zoom! Laughing through our masks! Commiserating about today’s world that seems completely mad! I want more of these conversations and arty afternoons. I feel more sane and hopeful because of today’s gathering. As humans how we need conversation and time together! I will never again take things for granted like parties, meeting friends at restaurants, a good blues club. Even a brief interaction with a neighbor soothes and encourages. Sigh. OK. Soldiering on. Well, maybe “soldiering” is not quite the best word these days. But you get it.

7″ x 7″ watercolor, pen on paper = $65

You know how strange bumps in the wee hours morph into a life-threatening disaster in your brain? And then, in the light of day, your fears seem silly? Last night was that night. Today, I understand my upset. We are all besieged and frightened right now for a zillion reasons. So if a funny mechanical noise at 1am sent me into a terror spiral, I can understand and have compassion for my battle-weary brain. Explanation: I live on a houseboat and depend on electrical pumps to discharge wastewater from a holding tank under my floorboards into another larger tank, operated by my marina, that connects to city sewage facilities. That marina tank is outside on the dock next to me, and I do hear it, but it isn’t noisy or annoying. As I drifted toward slumberland last night, I heard a strange noise — like something mechanical was trying but not working. It sounded strained. Immediately I thought of my own sump pump under the floor. The noise was regular, about every 20 mins. Now, dear reader who must be bored out of your mind by now, if a pump fails, you can imagine how disastrous that can be; if my electricity goes out, I do not run water or flush the toilet for fear of overflow (it’s happened and is messy). So. I was completely freaked out — imagining the mess, the expensive repairs, the inconvenience. In the middle of the night it felt life-threatening and horrific; rationality had long since flown out the window. I laid down on my floor, knowing if my pump was stressed out and breaking down, I would hear it under me. The noise happened again, and I could tell it was outside my house. PHEW. So then I thought it was probably the marina pump in the tank near me, not working. After a fitful night (the whining motor noise was really bothersome), I woke up and opened my windows to better hear if the marina pump was the source. The marina pump seemed to be working normally. And the noise stopped and hasn’t repeated itself since.

If you’ve suffered through this useless information so far, you probably know I’ll get to the punchline at some point. The lesson is — these are dark times. Full of grief and loss and threats. It makes sense that my stressed brain would pour miracle-grow onto a puzzling sound in the night and turn it into catastrophe. Once again, as I keep reminding myself, gentleness and compassion are the answers. To soothe myself I walked on Crown Beach this afternoon. I painted in my studio (results above). I will do whatever I can think of to comfort myself and hope that it doesn’t have long-term destructive consequences. And there it is. Bob’s your uncle.

18″ x 18″ ink, watercolor, pencil, pastel, oil pastel, crayon, acrylic, on paper = $425