Ladies and gentlemen, this week’s lesson is about patience.  And wait, before you stop me to remind me that my word of the year is trust, not patience, let me explain.

At the turn of the year, each member of my art group selects a word for herself to use as a guide or a beacon through the coming months.  Choosing a word allows us to set some intention for the year by reminding us of what we value, and what we would like to emphasize in our lives as we move through our daily chores.

My word for the year is trust.  Trust is an important concept for me and a difficult one.  It means that I have to give up the control that I hold onto tightly.  I have to let go of control of situations, control of other people, control of information.  It means that I have to move out of “fix-it” mode and trust the process that is life.

Patience.

I’m having a conversation.  I have to leave in 35 minutes.  There is some information that I want to get before I go.  I sip my coffee and look out the window at the sunlight on the snow.   I am feeling impatient.  I just want to ask the questions and be done with it like filling out a form.

I say “Beautiful morning.”

I wait.

The conversation moves along at its own pace. Sometimes we are quiet.  Sometimes one of us says something.  I laugh.  Information is revealed slowly like the pulling back of a curtain. Instead of the one word answers I would get by drilling with questions, I get small stories.  I get a smile.  Instead of demanding, I get sharing.  Instead of resentment I gain some trust.

At the end of the conversation I am late to work but before I leave, I get a hug.

Trusting the process is about patience.  It’s about letting yourself be in the moment and allowing yourself to really feel what is happening.  It’s about trusting others enough to let them love you.  In some ways, it’s easy.  Relax, stop worrying and enjoy the ride.  In other ways, it’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.  Relax, stop worrying and enjoy the ride.

After my first lesson I sang all the way home in the car.  According to Tony, lots of his clients practice in their cars; it’s private and the acoustics rock!  I sang when I got home.  I got out my tinny electric piano and sang with that, I sang in the shower and while I ground the coffee.  I sang to the cats and got out some old sheet music and sang with that.  What a blast!

And then my sister came for a short visit.  We sat outside to have an apple and enjoy the autumn afternoon.  The trees were glorious, blazing with color.  I said: “Hey – I’m taking singing lessons”.

Her retort was quick, automatic and completely expected.  “Do you think anyone can help you”?

And this, my friends, is why I called Tony in the first place.

After an entertaining hour where my son and I tried to capture the rabbit (I do have a garden and rabbits are voracious vegetarians) where we tried to corner it in the woodshed, capture it with a rake, and toss a tarp over the elusive thing, I gave up and decided that I could use the company in the garden more than the occasional leaf of kale that he ate.

One day during the summer, my sister and I caught him.  We snuck up on him while he hid under the tomato plants.  She distracted him from one side of the bed and I grabbed him from the other.  As I held him, I felt his heart pounding wildly while he snuggled into my chest.  It felt like he wanted to be close to me while trying to overcome his fear.  His fur was rough and hard as though he had had it spiked with gel.  Along his backbone the stiff hair was beginning to fall out, leaving soft black fur that was pleasant to stroke.  I held him for a short time and let him go near the broccoli where he nibbled on the leaves.

I was worried that he would destroy my garden.  I expressed my fear to my son who replied that it was time to either “shoot him, or name him”.  We started to call him “RB” for Runaway Bunny.

All summer as I weeded and harvested, RB kept me company.  He stayed at a cordial distance, always close enough so that we could share each other’s presence and far enough to be sure never to be caught again.  I talked to him in the morning as I visited my plants and I looked for him in the evening when it was his habit to nap under the peach tree.

My son left for college and I continued to check in with RB every day.

Last week there was a chill in the air as I sat in the yard enjoying an apple with my sister and a friend. The leaves were in full autumn color and it was a glorious sunny day.   Jack, my black and white yearling cat was crouched, tail twitching.  He was obviously on the hunt.  He darted across the yard and from a cloud of dust and leaves, emerged with RB in his teeth.  Jack had him by the throat and was carrying him like a lioness carries an impala, furry bunny body between Jack’s front legs.  I tried to catch Jack, to rescue RB, but he was determined that RB was to be his prize of the day.

Jack finally let go and RB ran under a tarp in the yard where I was allowed to pick him up.  His fur was thick and black, the spikiness had been shed over the summer.  He lay limp and resigned in my arms.

I put RB in a small cage, fed him some of my kale and started to look for a home for him.  RB died the next day.  I don’t know if it was a physical injury that I couldn’t see, if his heart gave out from the trauma of the attack, or if he just lost all hope in the tiny cage after a summer of freedom in my garden.

I wrote to my son to let him know that RB had died and that I was feeling sadder than I had imagined I would.  He wrote back “That’s too bad about bunny but he was kind of a miracle anyways.  Just think of it as a good story”.

Yes, he was kind of a miracle.  My first summer as a single parent, my son involved in his own life, planning for college, and this little furry being appeared out of nowhere to keep me company.  He kept his distance, allowing me to feel the quiet of my new life but he was always there to remind me that I wasn’t alone.  He visited with me in the garden because it was what he wanted.  He chose my yard, my garden, my company.  He was a reminder to me that a life lived in freedom is a life worth living even if it is dangerous and perhaps short.  I’m glad I let him go that day earlier in the summer.  I’m glad that he got to live like a wild bunny for the months that we shared.

I am sad that he is gone and I will miss him.  He and I shared a slice of our lives this summer.  And of course, he gave me this story.

Last year I took my TV and stuck it in the closet.  I figured “out of sight, out of mind” and since it was a time in my life when I felt strongly about modeling healthy behavior and since I had a lot going on in the evenings, it was easy to forget that it was lurking a few feet away behind a couple of flimsy louvered doors.

Instead of tuning in to one of the two channels that I actually get with the rabbit ears on the top of the set (yes, there is no cable in my house, no microwave, no automatic coffee maker), I knit socks and listened to music, I worked hard on a journal that I was writing and painting in.  I cooked.  I read.  I wandered about the house a bit but my mind was mine.

I did miss movies though and thanks to my then 17 year old son, found out that I could watch them on my computer.  It’s a tiny screen but if you sit close enough, who cares?  A couple of nights each week, we would sit together and watch a movie and then turn the computer off.  He taught me how I could stream them, which increased the number of viewing options I had exponentially.

One evening as I sat waiting for him to come home from an evening out, I decided I was tired and didn’t have enough energy to be creative or even to concentrate on my book so I went online and selected a movie and watched it by myself.  When it was over, I started an online Scrabble game just to pass the time; an occupation I had discovered during a time in my life when mental distraction was necessary to my sanity.  When I heard the door open, I closed the computer before I could be “caught”.

The number of evenings when I was too tired to be creative started to increase after that.  I was still secretive about my watching habits.  If no one knew, it didn’t seem to be quite as dangerous a transgression and after all, the TV was still in the closet.  I wasn’t watching every day and what the heck, I was tired at night.

From a friend, I found that a couple of TV shows that I had watched could be found on the internet.  This was getting dangerous.  The number of shows and movies that caught my attention could now easily entertain me every night of the week if I allowed them to.  Luckily, summer came and the afternoon sunshine turned into early evening sunshine.  The porch was open and the frogs were singing their sex songs.  I was being entertained by nature and my computer use stopped.

It is now fall again.  The evenings are getting dark and sometimes I have to light a fire to keep the house warm.  The computer is out on the table in the living room because it’s my only source of music at the moment.  I have watched a couple of movies at night.  I haven’t yet taken out my knitting and my journal is hidden deep in the case I use to haul it around.

Before the cold gets too deep and the nights too dark, I have a decision to make about my time.  I know what I want to do.  I know what would make me feel good about myself.  I know that time wasted is never returned.  I know that what you practice, you become.

I know that sometimes I am too tired to be creative and that watching movies can be fun.

Decisions can be made day by day as long as my practice is intentional.  More on that in part 2.

Well – let’s say I’m an in the car with the radio turned up high singer.  I’m a shower singer.  I’m a singer on the beach with the wind blowing.  I’m a singer in the garden when no one is around.  And if my closet was big enough, I’d definitely be a closet singer.

My mother loved to sing.  I learned show tunes from her, standing by the piano listening to her wash that man right out of her hair.  My grandmother once admitted to me that the real reason she went to church every Sunday was so that she could sing.   I have four sisters who sing.  They have lovely voices, all of them.  Christmas carols at our house were sung with sweet harmonies.

I was the one who couldn’t carry a tune.  It became a joke.  Every time I opened my mouth to join in the refrain, a comment would be made.  As a young girl, I had a short stint in the church choir.  I remember being asked to sing a little more quietly, please.  I’m not sure if my voice was that bad or my enthusiasm so high that I wanted to belt those hymns out at the top of my voice.  Even then, I was trying to channel Janice.

Yesterday, I set myself up with singing lessons.

I am thrilled and terrified with the idea of learning to sing or as my teacher put it “finding my voice”.  I know where my voice is – it’s been cowering in the corners of my house behind the spiderwebs, coming out only when I’m alone.  It stays tucked into the glove compartment of my car bursting into the light during my commute.  It’s time to introduce it to my teacher and maybe later to my friends.  It’s time to teach it some table manners so that it doesn’t embarrass me in public.

Yep – I’m nervous about introducing my voice around.  It opens me up to the same teasing that I got as a girl when I sang in my family.  It’s possible that someone might ask me to sing a little more quietly like they did in church that day.

I set myself up with singing lessons.  It’s time to shake things up in my life; make some changes; take some risks and say yes to opportunities that arise.  What’s the worst that can happen?  I go back to singing alone?

What’s the best that can happen?  I told a new friend my singing story the other day – he said “I like it when you sing.”

The last time I said it, I listened to myself and realized that behind the smart words was a cynical tone.  The feeling that I was expressing  was “Why are you wishing for such things?  Come back to reality.  Live in the real world where there aren’t enough horses for everyone.”

It must have felt that way when someone said it to me.

Today, I want to encourage those wishes.  I want to encourage the hope that lies behind the wishing.  I want to talk about how you make wishes come true.

I wrote the following words for my son during a difficult time.  As I read them again, I want to repeat the words I started with: “If wishes were horses, we’d all have a ride.”  Only this time I’ll add – “and how wonderful that would be – just wishing is the first step to making them come true.”

What I wish for you

I wish that you find passion in your life and the courage to pursue it.

I wish that you have the strength to meet your struggles head on with integrity and honesty.

I wish that your mind be filled with curiosity and openness to new ideas.

I wish that your life be filled with awareness of the people who love you.

I wish that you love as much as you are loved.

I wish that you are able to greet each new day with joy and anticipation.

I wish that at the end of a hard day, you find a cup of tea and peaceful sleep.

I wish that you heal quickly from the injuries that life brings.

I wish that you find something that you are willing to work very hard for and that you do the work and find the satisfaction of a well earned reward.

Dangerous words, all of these.  These words reflect our cultural attitude toward people struggling with their mental health.  They are words that are used to describe people with behavior that we don’t understand.  They are words that provoke fear and ridicule.  They are words that dehumanize and stereotype people because they are different from us.  They demean our family members, our friends and our neighbors who struggle with demons created by experience or the betrayal of their physical bodies.  Because we use these words, we continue to support the fear and ignorance that they reflect.

There are worse things than being called names.

The Surgeon General describes the economics of burden for a disease is by using a scale called the Disability Adjusted Life Years or DAYL.  According to a report written in 2000, the DAYL for all cardio diseases was 18.6.  The DAYL for all mental illness (including suicide) was 15.4 followed by cancers at 15.  Most people who have heart problems or cancer go to a doctor and are treated for their disease.  2/3’s of people suffering with mental health disorders never seek treatment.

There is a peculiar silence around mental health issues.  Glenn Close, actress and advocate for speaking out wrote these eloquent words:

“It is an odd paradox that a society, which can now speak openly and unabashedly about topics that were once unspeakable, still remains largely silent when it comes to mental illness. This month, for example, NFL players are rumbling onto the field in pink cleats and sweatbands to raise awareness about breast cancer. On December 1st, World AIDS Day will engage political and health care leaders from every part of the globe. Illnesses that were once discussed only in hushed tones are now part of healthy conversation and activism.

Yet when it comes to bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress, schizophrenia or depression, an uncharacteristic coyness takes over. We often say nothing. The mentally ill frighten and embarrass us. And so we marginalize the people who most need our acceptance.”

You can find the entire article here.

Next week is Mental Health Awareness Week.  Take the time to read some stories.  Bravely talk to someone whose life has been affected by suicide or attempted suicide.  Educate yourself.  Help to bring this discussion into the light so that we can help each other.  Only when we talk with knowledge and caring can we change lives.

During that training we were charged with not only judging the animals and deciding who would win the blue ribbon; we were asked to describe them without using the words good, better, best, bad, worse and worst.

I don’t judge cattle anymore but I do find myself using those forbidden words to judge the world around me.  If I happen to be having fun, I think “I’m having a good day”, if the sun is out, it’s “good weather”, if I feel crabby or sad, “I’m feeling bad”.  Instead of taking the time to reflect and describe the world around me with meaningful words, I take the easy route of judging my experience with my single word proclamations of good or bad, better or worse.

Last week I took a vacation with some good friends and noticed this habit I have of judging.  We all had bicycles with us and every bicycle was different.  I sat on the porch of the little cottage that was home for the time being and with time spread out before me like a soft carpet, I looked at the bikes.  My first instinct was to think about which bike was the “best”’ bike.  I noticed myself trying to do this and decided that instead, I would describe each bike, as it was, without placing a judgment on it.  I noticed the color, the tires, the type of frame and even looked at the wear on each bike.   I took the time to describe what I was seeing to myself in words.

Here is what happened to me.

Instead of seeing one bike as good and dismissing the other bikes as somehow inferior and so not worthy of my attention, suddenly all of the bikes deserved my attention.  Each one had qualities that were worth noting.  My attention to the detail in the bikes became more pointed.  My curiosity about the bikes was peaked and I found myself using my imagination to explain some of the detail that I explored.  By describing rather than judging, my world opened up and became more interesting and more appealing.

I’m back from vacation now and back in the busy world of work and commitments.  It is certainly more challenging to be mindful of myself and the world around me when time seems less like a carpet and more like a treadmill.  My experience with the bikes stays with me and reminds me of the possibilities and the pleasure that is there for the taking if I am willing to stop, move out of the habit of judging and take the time to describe.

I intend to do some baking, continue reorganizing the house, garden, clean the pellet stove, get some exercise and pull at least one print.  This week I have been fairly busy with my friends who have been making sure that I’m not wandering incoherently around in an empty house or sobbing myself to sleep.  I have had lovely invitations to dinner and taken advantage of every one.  There comes a time when I have to see what it feels like to be alone for an extended period without the anticipation of my son coming home.  After all, the next time he will be home is Christmas.

In truth, I am looking forward to the alone time.  Last night I set up the radio so that there is more sound in the house than just me talking to myself or the cats (I’ve always talked out loud to whoever is or isn’t around so please don’t count this as “crazy cat lady” behavior – for me, its normal).  I intend to bake some bread for myself for the coming week to prove that I really do like to bake bread; it’s not just an activity that I do to nurture others.  And then there is the studio.  It is waiting for me like a living thing.  I hear it whisper to me as I glance its way.  I notice that the drafting table is cleaned off and waiting for a new plate.  The inks are patient for now but need stirring and want to sing their sticky songs as the brayer rolls over them.

I am excited about this.  I am looking forward to this private time.  I am happily anticipating a weekend of my own.  I’ll let you know how it goes…..

So I’ve got about three thousand ideas for prints running around in my head at the moment and so now comes the part where I decide how to deal with them.

• Do I write them all down so that I can work on them later?
• Do I work on the most pressing one so that I don’t lose the power of its immediacy?
• Do I clean the studio just a tiny bit more or work around the mess that is still left?
• Do I sketch them all out and file them in the later pile?
• Do I make myself a cup of tea and watch a movie?

All kidding aside, this is perhaps one of the most difficult parts of the process for me.  After a time of studio drought, when the ideas start coming back and it seems like I could be productive in the studio, where do I begin and how do I keep the ideas from leaking out of my ears and running down the proverbial drain?

The answer in the past has always been to just run with the most urgent ideas.  Put ink to plate and just start.  Once working, ideas mature and morph into something that just might work on paper.

This year I have a new tool though.  For the past year I have been actively working on an art journal.  I have been using ink and watercolor to set down emotions and ideas as they come to me.   It is an improvisational way of working and it is fast and honestly, very satisfying.   The idea that comes to me as I write this is to keep doing what worked in the past; jumping on the most urgent idea and using that to guide me on my next round through the artistic process.  Along with that I will add the journal tool to explore some of the other ideas that seem to be more shy, less likely to jump and down and call out “Mememememememeeeee!!!”.

And that worry about ideas leaking out and running down the drain?  I just remembered an idea I had at least thirty years ago that still deserves some attention.  Sometimes they just won’t go away!