I look at a lot of abstract art. Now and then a certain line, color combination, or paint application catches my eye and makes my heart jump - usually something that feels real, honest, unaffected.

When I came across Mark Dunst’s work on Instagram, every painting did that to me. Not just a section - the whole piece.

I was walking down a Southeast Portland street this weekend when I came across a sign covered in cartoon cats with the caption: “Felines Against Felons.”

It made me chuckle. I even stopped to take a picture.

But as I kept walking, my mind got stuck on the fact that this was yet another sign against something. Sure, it was silly, but why did it have to be at the expense of a group of people? And honestly, weren’t exclusion and pigeonholing some of the very things these felines were really protesting?

So no, on second thought, I took my chuckle back.

I’m good at holding the vision. I stay on track. I stick to my daily practices, my nurturing methods, painting! I’m willing to work with whatever I find. I notice glimpses. All that good stuff.

I find inspiration everywhere. In nature, in my work with clients, in my relationships, in art, music, poetry. It’s not hard to find.

Until it is.

I can’t thank you enough for the kind responses to my last newsletter. Reading them felt like a warm hug during this winter slump.

That, and choral music.

I took a break from newsletter writing. It wasn’t planned, but it was needed, so I took it.

That’s a skill I’ve been practicing: noticing what feels right for right now and giving myself permission to do it. 

It’s the season of intention-setting, after all.

It would be easy to shut down. Or at least go on autopilot.

Did you? After the outrage, disbelief, and fear subsided? 

I did.

I used to think that confidence comes from knowing what the heck you’re doing. So I figured I would wait.

I put off believing in myself. 

I thought, “Just learn a little more, get some life experience, and then you’ll be ready.”

I was wrong. 

I’ve been painting for a while now, and every time I step to the table I still get that same mix of joy and peace. 

There’s this journal I’ve had for almost twenty years. It’s a tall spiral notebook, lined, in four different colors. There’s a yellow section, a green, a red, and a blue section. 

I loved it as soon as I saw it. It was simple but pretty. And it had room for lots of words.

I discovered a fairy house in the woods the other day. 

It was the cutest little house inside the remnants of a fallen tree by a trail in the middle of the woods of Northwest Portland. 

I’m back!

Did you miss me? 

I’m not gonna lie, taking a break from writing this newsletter was awesome.

I could just be. And paint. Or not paint. In peace. 

And I did. Paint. And not paint. In relative peace. 

It’s graduation season.

As a mother of 4, not many years go by without some momentous celebration or other.

Yesterday, my second daughter graduated from college.

She’s known she wants to be a doctor since elementary school.

How?

No idea. She just knew.

Ta da! Did you notice the new name and logo?

It’s what my newsletter will be called from now on, to differentiate it from the therapy side of things.

When I write, I’m wearing my artist hat.

I will still talk about the same things. In fact, I could have called it Permission to Create and Be Joyful in a World That is Full of Suffering and Grief.

But then I would lose the alliteration. And it’s a bit long.

Two weeks ago, at the San Francisco MOMA, I had a profound experience.

I felt like I belonged.

It moved me.

And it shook me.

Coming back to Corvallis, I asked myself, Do I belong here?

I spent four hours in heaven this past weekend.

Room after room, floor after floor filled with color, shape, composition, value, texture, luminescence, and movement, speaking the language of the soul.

The first few times I was introduced to the power of the breath, I was not impressed.

In fact, it left me woozy, gasping for air, and happy to leave my breath to its own devices, thank you.

I can feel a tiny panic rising in my chest just thinking about it.

Remember cracking open a fresh box of crayons?

That waxy smell, the pointy colors all neatly lined up just for you - beaming up at you, murmuring, rumbling, squealing to be broken out.

When you hear me going on about embracing your inner silly goose waddling your way through life with a paintbrush in one hand and blowing kisses with the other, do you ever find yourself thinking,

That all sounds great, Mary, but it’s not for me.

There’s this thing I do that fills me with delight.

Picture me in pajamas and boots, robe flapping in the wind, trudging through rain soaked sod, tall grasses, or even snow while lugging one or more paintings.

I’m not sure what happened but somewhere in the last year Joy left me. Here I am writing about how to bring more joy into our lives and my own joy just quit on me.

Adios, she said, I’m out of here.