So it’s becoming clear that I’ll never write a line like, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” or paint something that captures the essence of war.  Once upon a time I thought if I wrote and drew long enough that I’d come up with something really profound, but for some reason, I keep coming back to family.

Family is universal, but so much is written about it, that it would be difficult to be profound.  That’s okay because when I look at my family-inspired drawings I see something else there that’s just as good.

There is kid chaos and inspired silliness and something our media has gone to great lengths to discourage.  There are people of completely different shapes , sizes, colors, points of view, and walks of life seeing the differences and finding strength and joy in them.

I’m starting to believe that, in a world where so many voices call for division, trying to see the people in it as part of one human family is joyfully subversive.  And that may be more satisfying than being profound.

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Perhaps it’s appropriate but I finish my tongue in cheek alphabet book about parenting the same week the kid who started me on that journey turns 16. I feel like I’ve been on two marathons. when is nearing the end, and another is getting ready to go onto the next phase and who knows how long that will last.
 I’ve been a feminist as long as I can remember. I’ve believed women should be in charge of their own lives and not be defined by motherhood. However, as I watch my gentle giant help around the house and I hear reports of his contributions at a friends farm, I’m keenly aware of this, and not any book, is the part of my life which I am most proud. 

No, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. I have been wrapped up in illustrations and now scans as this book begins to resemble something I could show an agent. Or Child Services if they ever question my mental fitness and keeping skills.  

The great thing about finishing this book in the summer–when the kids are home– is that as I redid drawings and rhymes a few I have been surrounded by inspiration. I’ve chauffeured it, chastised and refereed it, and I have had the chance to write–and draw–exactly what I know best.This project started with a rhyme that was inspired by the ritual all parents undergo-the all nighter.

Two redos, 26 letters, and umpteen rhymes later this picture book for parents has evolved to include not only the adventures inspired by my kids but chaos they created with their cousins.

 My sister and brother-in-law are also appear, and it’s appropriate. My oldest son and their twins are about a year apart, so the four of us grown-ups have also been partners in crime in this venture called parenthood.

Three of the kids in this book are almost driving now, and even though none of us has been on the evening news for any giant parenting fiascoes, my intent was never (and will never be) to write a book on how to parent. My intent was to write a book about how to laugh while you parent because let’s face it, most days you end up facing an opportunity to laugh or cry, and one of those is definitely more fun.

I thought that after a month of playing in the garden as I got ready for the Open House at Bedlam Farm and Full Moon Fiber Arts and then played longer at a workshop on abstract Expressionism, getting back to the drawing board–to the “work” of illustrating my book would seem like, well, work.

Instead, this morning as I picked up a brush to color in one of the last letters, I felt renewed and excited, and it occurred to me that there is some value to playing in the garden at least a little bit every day. so I finished the letter and got out my easel and a package of oil paints that I bought years ago but had never used and began to play. 

I painted the same little green apples and filberts I always paint when I’m trying a new medium knowing it didn’t matter if the painting stunk. Today’s stroll in the garden wasn’t about turning my studio into a painting factory. It was about making it a place to keep growing.

The weekend of art at our Landscape into Abstraction class ended with the group going from table to table to view and discuss each other’s work.

At the beginning of the weekend, that discussion would have turned my stomach.  Most of the participants were former art students, and for the first half of the first day, I worried I didn’t really belong in the class.  By the time we began discussing each other’s work, I knew everyone belongs in that class — or at least one like it.

The weekend began with a brief look at abstraction, it’s history, and the places it has taken artists from van Gogh to Rothko.  Then our instructor, painter Marianne Mitchell, then talked a little about her own creative journey through different media and techniques, culminating with a demonstration of her own method.

After a few timed drawing exercises, we went to our tables to experiment with her technique and medium (oil pastels).  I had no idea what I was doing and, after trying a few pieces with the oil pastels and abstract expressionism, tried to implement ‘reckless abandon’ in my usual medium of watercolor.  At first I worried that by introducing landscape elements such as a horizon line, I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to do. I worried what all writers and artist worried – that it wasn’t good, that I should be doing something differently.

Then our teacher, in the tradition of the best creative mentors said something that everyone should hear.  “Be kind to your (creative) self,” she said.  Then she continued, “There is no supposed-to.”  And the phrase was banned for the weekend.  The rest of the weekend we explored techniques and talked about infusing principles of composition with our voice, beginning each piece with what our instructor called ‘Reckless Abandon.’

And that’s when I realized what the class was about.

At first I thought of Reckless Abandon as Reckless Joy, but it isn’t. It’s actually digging deep into your soul and finding that voice you might not ordinarily share.  It’s about just getting it out.  The next phases of the work were about shaping that voice, making it more than noise to really make it heard.

It’s something I’ve been discovering in my writing through my blog over the last few years.  But, even though I’ve reconnected to art in a very meaningful way, I’ve still felt like I wasn’t sure who I was as an artist.  It was in the timed drawing and painting exercises that eliminated planning and judgement that I realized I’m still searching for my visual voice.

That the class was as much about voice as technique came through during our final group discussion.  I noticed that each person’s reckless abandon looked completely different from the rest, and that was exactly as it was supposed to be(that was the only ‘supposed-to’ I let myself say after Saturday afternoon).

There’s this idea in our society that one needs to be a professional to engage in and share one’s creativity, whether it’s a painting or photography or music.  But when anyone, professional painters or plumbers, first chair violinists or kids plucking out a first tune on a keyboard  share their art or contribute to a community play, they are giving the gift of their authentic selves — their voice.  They are connecting us to them and themselves to us in a world that badly needs connection.

It was that gift each of us was giving the other on Sunday.

I feel like I’ve been falling all day, on the verge of tears every time I think about Dallas or Minnesota or Baton Rouge Orlando. Nothing seems to be able to drive them completely from my thoughts, and I’m not sure if I want them gone. I don’t want to forget the victims. I do not want to withdraw from the community of other people who want to make the world more peaceful, but this morning all I felt was helpless sorrow.

About 9:30, I turned off my cell phone, disconnected from the world, and went into an art class. The class was Abstract Painting for realist landscape artists. It’s the first I’ve taken since high school, but I felt subdued as I walked in. I needed to switch gears.

As we talked about theory and technique, I felt something coming back to life inside. We went outside for a few semi-guided drawing exercises, and the power of creating began to pull me up, feeding the need to reconnect as well as the idea that positive change is still possible. 

Our last exercise incorporated contour drawing and a few moments of letting go to draw what we were feeling. When I looked down I realized I had drawn anger.  

I knew the anger would remain for some time, but that was okay so long as it only informed and did not halt the reconnecting and contributing to life. 

and for Headaches, Hives, and Hemorrhagic Fever, and all the other reasons they concoct give Homework the heave-ho.
That was several letters ago, and I am almost done the coloring of the pages. I thought to scan everything in and use the computer to ink and color, but the thing I love about drawing is not using the computer.

“A is for All-Nighter” is in the final stages of painting, and it has gone through some big changes since the beginning. The biggest change happened around the letter H was the addition of the couple kids, most notably a girl.
Now, most of the chaos in the book is inspired by my two boys, but growing up, they’ve had a couple partners in crime. They have been blessed with a host of cousins, but they have grown up spending the most time with my sisters kids, who are geographically closest to us. During family get-togethers, the foursome has been more than willing to egg each other on in the volume department, and I thought it was only fair that they get some credit.

There were two other reasons I included these two kids in the book. The first was that I felt like it would be nice to include a girl. The second reason was that the girl, my first niece whom I held when she was barely a week old (we could not hold her twin brother at the same time for reasons that I will keep private) is the closest thing to having a daughter I’ll ever have.  She was the baby who made me realize I was ready to be a mom and probably the reason we have T1.

i’m hoping it’s a good precedent. If people like the first book, I’m planning to include my other nieces and nephews in future works, If only to try to capture a little bit of their spirits from this time when they’re young.

But now it’s time to get back to the drawing board.

We spent the morning cleaning out the Big Guy’s workshop, and I took the kids to the local driving range for a reward.

I have an ulterior motive for coming here as I am getting pictures together for another Honor Box painting. The owners have left the honor box in charge of this Farm Stand/driving range that’s just up the road from the antique place that also sells chocolates, and it may inspire another series of paintings of the quirky things I love about Vermont.

One of the things I love about participating in Art Shows and Open Houses is the opportunity to experiment — to play in the garden.

Back in what high school (the dark ages as T1 knows them) loved designing clothes.  I desparately wanted to draw, and I loved sewing, and the two matched up nicely. I designed a kimono and my prom dress. I painted on jean jackets and jeans.  In my mind I was the next Coco Chanel as I slavishly copied drawings and dresses by Erté.

The road back to drawing and painting has been a gratifying one, so a few months ago, looking for ways to make art functional, I decided to trace my steps back even further and started thinking about wearable art.

Not wanting to make something I wouldn’t use myself if it didn’t sell and realizing that I’m a tad old for a prom dress, I started thinking about accessories which, if you’re like me and strike fear into the scale every morning, are always fit.  I made up a fabric pattern from some designs to make scarves and, acting on my firm belief that you can never have too many handbags, started thinking about tote bags.

The result was a romp through the painting and sewing garden. My studio is just now beginning to recover.

Experimentation was rewarded at the Open House at Bedlam Farm with good sales, but playing in the garden and getting paint on your fingers is often its own reward.

I’ve been part of a short story class with bestselling author Jon Katz for the last few years. It is an offshoot of a writing workshop that started at Hubbard Hall, a community theater and arts center in Cambridge, NY. Now held at Pompanuck Farm, not far from Hubbard Hall, our group has changed little and exists to support writing and creativity in general.

One of the great things about being part of a community of writers and artists is not just the support you receive but the inspiring people you meet.  One those is Jacki Thorne.

Writer, photographer, poet and painter, Jacki has been sharing her journey of creative exploration with us in class and on her blog Creative Journeywoman. She is a natural writer, drawing in the reader and holding them hostage until the very last word, but she’s also a natural adventure as she forges her own distinctive path.

She has just released her first book of essays and poetry called Gone to Ground, and I am anxiously awaiting my copy.

You can buy yours here.  Jacki will also be reading from her collection at 4 p.m. on Saturday, June 25, at Battenkill Books in Cambridge, N.Y.