Nothing 

needs doing

in this moment.

Just because there is

time on the clock

that is not occupied

by assignments or art

or dirty dishes or

weeding or anything

else

Don’t panic!

Sit in your rocking chair

and stare up into those maple trees

outside the window.

Feel your breath slip

into your nose

and fill your chest.

Remember what they

say:

you are not a

human doing.

You are a

HUMAN

BEING.

In this moment

just be calm

and observe.

Taking the Plunge, Submitting Paintings to an Art Show

Not long ago, I decided to do a very large painting (3 x 5 feet) for my dear friend Nancy S., who refuses to take a cent to care for my dog, Poco. (Her dog Burt and Poco are great pals.)

I had a fabulous time doing this painting, knowing that there was a person waiting for the end product. (Other paintings can be seen here.)

It was exciting to hang the painting over my friend's sofa. It was wonderful to discover that you can see the painting as you walk up her driveway. It was delightful to hear Nancy say how much she is enjoying the painting.

That partly explains, I think, why I decided to take the plunge and submit three paintings to a juried art show sponsored by the Housatonic Valley Arts League here in Great Barrington, MA.

I chose two large canvases, and a small collaged painting. When it was time to drive the art over to the show location, it was raining torrents. I mean serious rain. We -- my husband and I -- wrapped the paintings in a sheet and then in a moving blanket.

After depositing the canvases, I felt happy. I wasn't expecting to get accepted, but I was glad that I was putting my art out into the world. Finally. After 16 years painting, I am now starting to think about how I might show and sell my work.

Today I got word that the judges chose two of the paintings to appear in the show. The first is called "Westerly," and it is three by four feet.

The second, smaller painting, is called "Patience." It reminds me of the work of Abstract Expressionist Clyfford Still, whose paintings appear in a Denver museum devoted exclusively to his work.

I can't imagine that the pieces will sell. But to me, today, it's enough to know that the paintings will hang for a month in town.

The organizers asked for a bio, and this is what I submitted:

I came to painting via my first novel, Dreaming Maples.  The story features several women who are passionate about their art. I spent a lot of time doing research for the book at the Clark Art Museum.  The novel is set in part in North Adams, MA, not far from the Clark. And the climactic scene in the book takes place at the Clark, beneath Renoir's "Blonde Bather."

The way I write fiction, I see every scene before I can write it. Many people say that when they read my books they feel as though they are watching a movie. So as I wrote, what I kept seeing were paintings. My journals from that period are filled with drawings and small paintings.

Two months after the book was published, in 2002, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease (lymphoma.) The chemo was ruthless. I could barely function. I wrote poetry to get me through. But I also started to wander around the house in a chemo-induced fog, cutting out pieces of paper and making colorful collages.

One week, when I was headed to Sloan Kettering, a dear friend who had an art store handed me a fistful of colored pencils and a small art pad. She picked a Black-eyed Susan growing outside the door and she told me that I should draw while waiting for my chemo at Sloan.  I did. It helped so much. Art cured and healed my soul just as the chemo and radiation healed my body.

At some point during that summer of chemo, I painted my first large canvas. I remember standing beside our pond, surrounded by the green lush of summer. My painting: a hillside of fir trees against a beautiful blue sky.  The painting was OK, but I quickly realized that I didn't have much talent as a realistic painter. So I started throwing paint on the canvas, the way Jackson Pollock used to. (My paintings have been compared to those of Joan Mitchell.)

I continued to paint outdoors beside the pond. Whenever a painting wasn't working, I would simply hose it down and start again. Over and over and over, I tried to let the PAINT AND THE DESIGN HAVE THEIR SAY.  My goal always was to just STAY OUT OF THE WAY!

That was 2002. I have been throwing acrylic paint on canvas for 16 years. What have I learned? That painting is alive. More alive than writing. AS VIBRANT AS DIVINE LIGHT! 

You write a story or a novel, and it is made of paper (or it's an ebook.) One sits on a bookshelf and the other resides in your iPad.  Paintings on the other hand are lively and pulsing. The colors heat up your soul. When you are done, you can hang them, store them in the basement or give them to your kids and friends. I think of people who have my paintings and I smile at every one. 

Sister Mysteries: a MeToo# Movement Story

The MeToo# movement is thriving and it’s here to stay. The days when women sat back and suffered in silence while they were being systematically abused and violated and demeaned are over.

It’s still a bit of a mystery to me – and I’m sure to others – why exactly the movement caught fire when it did. Feminism isn’t new. Nor is sexual abuse.

Maybe we have to thank Trump. His blatant sexism, his disgusting comments and his morally-corrupt attitude toward women sent millions of women (and men) into a tailspin.  The resistance movement was born literally the day after the 2017 inauguration when so many Americans marched across the U.S.  protesting the election.

The momentum continues as more and more women are running for elected office, at every level. More and more women are talking about feminism and the power that women have to excel in every part of society.

So maybe there really is no mystery there.

Where there remains a mystery, for me, however, is how it is that I am finally publishing my novel Sister Mysteries right in the midst of this swell of feminist activism. How is it that this book will appear in a matter of weeks, as people are thinking and talking (and talking) about women’s power? 

The nun at the center of my novel endures extreme sexual abuse. The man responsible is her own cousin, but for reasons I won’t spell out here, she is the one who ends up in prison because of his elaborate lies about her.

I started writing this book way back in 1995, as I was finishing up my doctorate in English at SUNY Albany. My area of concentration? Feminist Narrative Strategies. I wrote my first novel as a feminist story. Sister Mysteries appeared about this time as well.

I’ve got no good explanation why after 23 years, I finally managed to finish the book that I never thought I would finish. Why this year? I can’t attribute it to Trump. Or can I? Who knows what lurks in the subconscious mind?

All I know is that the novel offers one more rather elaborate story about sexual harassment. About women being objectified, vilified and violated. Physically hurt and psychologically destroyed by men in California in 1883. (I first wrote the word “destoryed.” There is that too!)

Stay tuned. The book is due in mid-July.

Morning Moment

Now comes

this moment

when pink

petunias

the color of

cotton candy 

tremble

the wind is

cool against

my shoulders

birds gurgle back

and forth the

sun glows on

the sea of

yellow and

white flowers

in the meadow

the blue of

the sky is so

clear so hard

to describe

the moment

is too full 

words always

fall short 

just close your eyes

open them and

breathe.

The Poem That Accompanies "Sister Mysteries"

Several years ago I came across a poem that reminded me of the story I was trying to write in my novel, Sister Mysteries -

which will be published in a matter of weeks. When I tried to research where the poem first appeared, in order to get permission to use it in the book, I found out, sadly, that the author, Judith Ortiz Cofer (who was my age), had passed away in December of 2016. I called her publisher, the University of Georgia Press, but they couldn't tell me if the poem was in one of the books they had published for her.

On a whim, I did a Google search to see if I could locate her husband, John Cofer. I found his address in Georgia and wrote to him. He was most gracious -- and still heartbroken over the death of his beloved wife.

Mr. Cofer, who handles Ms. Ortiz Cofer's  literary estate, gave me permission to use the poem, and I present  it here. She did in 144 words what it took me about 95,000 in the book.

By Judith Ortiz Cofer

A sloe-eyed dark woman shadows me.

In the mornings she sings

Spanish love songs in a high

falsetto filling my shower stall

with echoes.

She is by my side

in front of the mirror as I slip

into my tailored skirt and she

into her red cotton dress.

She shakes out her black mane as I

run a comb through my close-cropped cap.

Her mouth is like a red bull’s eye

daring me.

Everywhere I go I must

make room for her: she crowds me

in elevators where others wonder

at all the space I need.

At night her weight tips my bed, and

it is her wild dreams that run rampant

through my head exhausting me. Her heartbeats,

like dozens of spiders carrying the poison

of her restlessness over the small

distance that separates us,

drag their countless legs

over my bare flesh.