painting of rose in brown ink

daily painting | rose in brown ink

It’s a lovely May Saturday. My neighbors are out watering their plants and washing off their decks and complaining about bird poop from the night herons (one had apparently occupied my front porch overnight and left a puddle of poopy whitewash which I found hilarious; my neighbor does not share my delight but I loved the thought of a heron looking out for me while I slept). I’m thrilled that my heart feels better and that my taking time to rest is paying off as my energy is starting to return. So I hosed off my deck too. And there was a beautiful gray-blue feather in my geranium pot, a gift from one of our nocturnal visitors.

I’m enjoying, between naps, preparing for Feather River Art Camp which begins in a week (which makes my finding a feather outside very funny). The river is running high, as is Spanish Creek, the river’s offshoot, which runs through the camp. Unlike a year ago, when the brother-brain-cancer-crisis was only 6 weeks old, I will be better prepared to teach my class both physically and emotionally. 

I’m amazed almost every day at life’s crazy ride. I’m learning not to fight its twists and turns, and to accept that there is no nav system, much less a tattered old paper map. And my bro is still alive and kicking, and this journey with him has been terrifically bonding. I wake up in the morning happy for the love we have, an intimate connection I could have never imagined.

Maybe it’s best to relax and trust how life unfolds.

About this painting — I have a bottle of marvelous brown ink that called to me yesterday, so I did a quick sketch of a scrappy single rose I’d plucked by our parking lot which I’d put in a little bud vase in my kitchen windowsill.

6″ x 6″ ink on paper




watercolor and ink painting of rose by emily weil

daily painting | ripe rose

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