A bubble, a safe space

Before I get into it, a little FYI, I'm still figuring out how I want to organize and use my digital studio. What I have determined so far:

I want to share more on my digital studio than my kind supporters may wish to land in their inboxes. To solve this, I plan to send my digital studio notes to subscribers 2- 3 times a month. I will, however, post photos, notes, and content to my studio more often than that. So, feel free to poke your head into the studio whenever you want. There will be new work waiting for you. And, I will love and appreciate your showing up with friendship, conversation, and support.

So, how are all of you feeling? I feel confusion, grief, and fear. I'm embarrassed to have unconsciously bought into the idea of American exceptionalism to the extent that I thought we were, as a country, not going to go fundamentally, tragically backwards. Paul and I have discussed the deep disappointment that our future looks less like a Star Trek world and more like The Expanse.

Since the election, I've discovered more acutely that my emotions live in my body first and my awareness sort of second. I'm aware of the stress, but it isn't until I feel the acid in my throat, the sickness in my stomach, and the rushing beats of my heart that I realize just how much. It lives in me in more menial, obnoxious ways - like forgetting things, diminished ability to focus or stay on task, and insomnia. It's so weird that this authoritarian assault on the structures, supports, and people of this country is happening at the same time as my everyday life.

This week I spent time poking my painted canvas with a needle, pushing and pulling threads of yellow, orange, green, and blue. Headphones on, I filled my head with artists sharing how and why they create. During those hours, I floated gently along in that space - a bubble, a safe space.

Earlier, I had an anxiety attack. That day, Paul encouraged me to walk to the park with him. Not two minutes into the walk, the leaves on the trees rustled in the wind over my head. It made a stop-in-my-tracks, beautiful, shivery, papery sound. Paul said my face changed when I heard it: a bubble, a safe space.

The night before last, I had insomnia. I've learned not to struggle against it, so I got up and took an Epsom salt bath. Before crawling back in bed, I exchanged texts with my sister, Natalie. We shared how our day had been difficult for each of us, and what had brought us something good. Texting with Natalie: a bubble, a safe space.

Paul, Acorn, and I had breakfast together this morning. We hugged, laughed a lot, and enjoyed delicious food —a bubble, a safe space.

Art is not a mirror held up to reality, but a hammer with which to shape it.
— Berthold Brecht

"There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature—the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter."
— Rachel Carson