...and so it begins

'Twas the night before Christmas…not even remotely. Though, I will be up before dawn in nervous anticipation like a small child and I do get a couple presents tomorrow. The first is to have the waiting over and the second is to get the cancer out of my body. I suppose that's close enough.

I'm trying to decide how I feel. I've bounced up and down between calm acceptance and fear over the past few days. Sometimes multiple times a day. My fear is centered not around the actual mastectomy, but the general anesthesia, we don't always get along. I'll be having a long discussion with the anesthesiologist prior to surgery and hoping they can mitigate the negative effects it has on me. Lack of control, I'm sure, is playing a huge part in my emotional swings. It's not easy for me to let go and hope for the best without my hands on the reins. Right now I'm back to calm acceptance. I'm just ready for it to be over.

Earlier today I went to the hospital for the lymphoscintigraphy which consisted of shots of a radioactive tracer that felt like wasp stings then imaging to track the tracer to the first lymph node. This is what they will remove and test to confirm that the cancer has not spread. I had a special 'navigator' with me, a breast cancer survivor herself, to hold my hand during the procedure and and who will also see me before the actual surgery. 

"Autumn Glow" -Waving grasses and colors that calm me-

This is going to sound wrong, but when I checked my messages on Friday and had a call from one of the other support navigators asking me to call back, I actually got angry. Let me try to explain. I am not that worried about the whole breast cancer diagnosis (though the thought of surgery itself does scare me). At least with cancer you have a firm diagnosis and course of action, and most importantly, a possibility of a cure. Especially if caught early. There are distinct steps to take. There is an end to treatment. I have received informational books (more like novels in some cases), offers of local support groups and now a special support navigator. 

All I could think was where was all this support when I was searching for what was wrong with me years ago, when I was lying in the hospital often alone, dying. Even after. I had to seek out others like me. Scavenge for information. No one handed me books on how to deal with my diagnosis or or even a clue where to search for answers. Thank you internet. I joked with my infusion center 'navigator' when she handed me the first 'book' I was to receive that I've been going there for treatment for years and apparently it took getting cancer before I mattered. I WAS joking at the time, but with each offer of help, it's rubbed it in a bit more. I am truly thankful that breast cancer gets the support from the medical community that it does, but I still identify with the Zebra herd–the misunderstood, the chronic, the incurable. People relate to breast cancer. They know someone who is a survivor. People don't relate to hypogammaglobulemia or the fact that it doesn't get better. We are also survivors. Every single day for the rest of our lives.

So tomorrow morning will come. I will be at the hospital before day break and this new medical journey will begin in conjunction with the conditions that already exist and I will continue to survive. That seems to be my superpower. Survival. Can't wait to see what battle the Fates have lined up next.

Convertible Therapy

"Old Friends"
Water-Soluble Oils on Board
10.5" x 8" SOLD

I can imagine that oncoming traffic either laughed or thought I was insane when I suddenly threw both my hands up into the air above the windshield header. It was still a little hot, but I needed a top down day. I've owned convertibles nearly continuously from the age of 17. The love affair started with a bright blue MGB, moved to a Triumph TR-6 followed by a string of Mazda Miatas. The Miata that never left is a bright blue race package '94 model with factory white racing stripes and roll bar. I call her Shelbie. Like me, she is aging and not always gracefully. Our bodies getting used up, breaking down, turning against us. Earlier this year I sent her to a Miata specialty shop in Dallas for a heart transplant…an attempt to prolong our days together. Her engine was rebuilt and it gave her new life securing our relationship for at least a little longer. I wasn't about to give up on her.

Early in our time together we were driving down the Expressway when a car pulled up alongside. I heard a beautiful male British voice say, "Excuse me." I turned to look. A handsome young man about my own age very politely inquired (and perhaps everything just sounds more polite in a British accent), "Would you mind showing us your tits. It doesn't matter that they are small." I sped off. Not quick-witted enough to formulate a reply. We were redeemed a few year later. I was loading groceries when I saw a man hang himself out the passenger window (up to his waist), of a passing car, spread his arms wide and call out to me, "Will you marry me?" I laughed out loud. Shelbie always turned heads. 

Nineteen years have passed and neither one of us gets quite the attention we used to. I don't like to think that I am vain. I've never worn make-up, keep my hair quite long, but simple, dress nice, but not trendy, but to be honest, I guess I am to a degree. I've been dealt another blow. Breast cancer. Now I'm facing another surgery; a full mastectomy of the right side followed by radiation while still dealing with my immune deficiency and autoimmune conditions. The thought of losing something that is in no way critical to the functionality of my body is tougher to swallow than I thought. Even if they are small, I've gotten quite used to the way they look on my body. After a few days of sulking, "why me's" and "dammit, don't I get to be happy EVER in this life," I turned to my husband and said I had made a decision. "I refuse to have breast cancer." He responded with, "Good. I agree. Let's go with that." Then I burst out laughing. That wasn't quite the response I expected, but apparently was the one I needed. It was the beginning of acceptance.

I was driving home from work. Radio playing "Roam" by the B-52s. Top down. I realized I wasn't thinking about the cancer. I felt at peace. Felt happy. I was still here and determined to remain no matter how many times my body tries to kill me. I'm not giving up on me. This very moment is mine. My hands flew into the air.

Why You Should Mammogram Your Peaches

Unfortunately, I didn't have any paintings of peaches.
"Between the Lines" seemed the best alternate.
5"x7" Acrylic on Masonite

Thursday night I made peach cobbler. 

It may not sound like an achievement worthy of a blog post, but that's kinda the point. I love peaches and thankfully they happen to be one of two fruits (excluding tomatoes) that don't try to kill me when I eat them. In addition, I have Celiac disease, am lactose intolerant and soy allergic and haven't had peach cobbler in years because of it. I was determined to make a version that I not only 'could' eat, but would 'want' to eat. Convinced this was impossible, I hadn't made a single attempt before now. I guess having the hope of someday eating a good cobbler was better than facing possible failure and crushing the hope altogether. Watching co-workers consume copious quantities of peach cobbler that seemed to be breeding on its own at the office (it's peach harvest time in Texas), I became determine not to miss out. 

In the meantime, my brain wandered back to a new medical issue. I was waiting on the results of a biopsy and trying not to worry. Something that I'm very good at…worrying. I'd been having testing done on my heart to make sure that the tachycardia was still the same benign issue. I'd worn a Holter monitor and had a stress test done. I'd also scheduled a mammogram telling them they would want to do an ultrasound as well, but noooooo. When I got there we only did the screening mammogram and the radiologist couldn't get to it until later and they would let me know if I needed to come back. Of course a few days later I got a call back, but was unable to schedule it right away since I was still setting up heart-related appointments at the time.

Eventually, my brain went back to the task at hand. Pretty quickly I found a recipe for the filling that had none of the offending ingredients and I'd recently taken to substituting gluten-free shortbread cookie dough for any recipe that called for a crust. I cocked my head and scrunched up my nose; this seemed far too easy. I mixed up the filling. The aroma was so wonderful I grabbed the bowl, ran into the living room and shoved it under my husband's nose wanting confirmation that this was pure heaven and he agreed…and he's not even a peach fan. I poured it into a pie pan and covered the top with the shortbread dough and plopped it in the oven.

Both the Holter monitor and the stress test showed nothing new on the heart front. This was good news. I had also finally gotten to the second mammogram and ultrasound. This time the radiologist looked at the digital files while I was still there. Unfortunately, something was not right. New calcifications in really dense tissue were present. It likely wasn't anything to worry about, I was told, but to be safe, she strongly recommended it be biopsied. She laid out the case for biopsy carefully, not realizing she had me from the first sentence and the word 'suspicious' specifically. I was scheduled for a few days later. I was not too panicked at this point. A little alarmed, though, understandably.

The timer went off and my parrot, Toby, pointed it out in his personal nonsense language though I'm sure it makes sense to him. He always talks when it goes off. I checked the cobbler. It was bubbling over the sides and parts of the crust were not yet done. I was worried about burning the filling so I removed the pan and placed it on the stove to cool. It still smelled incredible. I let it cool for as long as I could stand. I grabbed a bowl and spoon and a generous helping of cobbler. I sat down in my chair anticipating greatness, but also little afraid that the smell was deceiving me. Would this be pure joy or soul-crushing disappointment? I know. It's just cobbler, but at that very moment it seemed to matter a lot more to me than maybe it should have.

Nervousness about the biopsy procedure was setting in. I hadn't had this particular test before. I have had a bone marrow biopsy and this sounded similar and was most likely the source of my anxiety. This is not a test that affords any kind of dignity. Not that I have any left. When you've been poked, prodded and handled enough on just about every part of your body you get to a point where you think you could just strip in front of anyone and not think twice about it. At least I have. 

The appointment started with an obviously rehearsed speech from a younger nurse on what to expect during the procedure and afterward. I finally had to stop her before I burst out laughing. Her inflection on specific phrases and exaggerated facial expressions made me think of bad overacting in a middle school play and laughing would likely be seen and an odd reaction at best and offensive at worst. She was compelled to finish her speech, though and I just bit my tongue. Next, the procedure room…if I imagine myself standing back and watching, the scene would be reminiscent of some medieval torture chamber. Let me paint a picture for you and let's use 'peach' as a euphemism for the offending right breast which is the source of the suspiciousness. You walk in to a small room and immediately before you is an exam table with a hole in the middle of it. You are asked to lay on your stomach and place the peach through the hole. You didn't see that coming did you? The procedure is done from beneath you. You see nothing. Padding has been placed around part of the hole to make things more comfortable…uh huh… Additional padding is placed under your head and feet to help as well…not so much. Suddenly you feel the peach being pulled and seemingly randomly moved around for an eternity. Finally, it is relayed to you that the peach isn't fitting far enough down the hole for compression. They compress the peach for X-rays and to hold it firmly in position for the actual procedure. Really? The peach may be on the lower end of average, but my God, what do they do with smaller ones. 

All padding is removed. You are asked to bend the right arm out at a weird angle and roll slightly onto your right side rather than stomach and bend your left leg up. I didn't know I needed to practice yoga for this. On second thought, Twister may have been better preparation. The hope was to get the peach lower. More tugging, maneuvering and compressing. Finally, we are in position. I am told to NOT MOVE again, at all, through the rest of the procedure. Do I need to remind you of the current contorted nature of my body and that I have a bad disc in my neck? They X-ray the peach before beginning to find the exact spot to place the hollow biopsy needle. Lidocaine time. The lidocaine injections were the worst part of the entire procedure. It hurt like hell, rather ironic for a substance whose purpose is to mitigate pain, and I had to not move, at all. I was being constantly reminded of this or they would have to retarget the area for biopsy. I was facing a wall that was about 18 inches in front of me with a colorful abstract painting on it. I didn't like it, but tried to concentrate on figuring out the artistic technique to distract myself. A nurse would periodically pop up in front of it and attempt to be comforting. She was genuine, but I wasn't very receptive. I had tears running down my face and was shaking. I was afraid my shaking was going to be an issue, it was a form of 'moving' after all and asked for a moment to calm down. Denied! "The faster the better," said the doctor. Three stabs with the needle which felt odd, but didn't really hurt and it was over. They told Ed, who was waiting in the original exam room, that I did well. I told him I was giant wuss which was much more accurate and I was handed a coffee cup filled with jelly beans like child's lollipop for a shot as a parting gift…and I can't even eat them.

What I could eat was this cobbler. I stared at it a moment and dug in. It tasted EXACTLY like peach cobbler. I exclaimed, "this tastes exactly like peach cobbler!" with a big smile on my face. Ed cracked up. Then got serious for a moment. "When most people say it's the little things that matter, they don't really mean it, but you do. It makes me happy and at the same time I really feel it here" and he thumps his fist over his heart. I felt a big awwww in my heart at that sentiment. Maybe it was okay that the outcome of the peach cobbler experiment mattered so much to me. I really felt joy in its success. There can be so much pain, physical and emotional with any illness whether chronic or not. Finding the little joys in everyday life is what is going to make that life worth living.

I still had biopsy results hanging over my head. Would this be pure joy or soul-crushing disappointment? All the text above was written before I had results. The anxiety of not knowing very much real. I have them now and the answer, like most of life, is in shades of grey. Yes, I have breast cancer. A more unusual form known as tubular carcinoma. Guess I can't break away from being a zebra. In this case though, rare works in my favor. It's slow growing, considered less aggressive and by comparing to previous films that show no sign of it, we likely caught it very early. Is it still scary? Yes, of course, but I'm mostly okay with it. Just another hurdle to overcome. Keep moving forward I repeat to myself. Forward…

…and please remember, I am not a frou-frou, girly-girl and if you send me anything PINK, I shall hunt you down...

Life Lessons

In the past, I would have been sad or frustrated that I couldn't hear a good third of the dialog, but instead I found myself enjoying the play immensely. It helped that Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew" was familiar to me. I found myself concentrating on the actors' body movements and facial expressions. The 'choreography' you might say. My lack of hearing enabled me to see the play on another level that probably wouldn't have been quite so conscious otherwise. 

I was enjoying the company as well. My husband and I haven't spent enough time 'dating' lately. I've been consumed with solo show preparation, painting in general and a particularly bad autoimmune flare. I was reminded that I thoroughly enjoy his company and that spending quality time together is so important in keeping a relationship on track. So is an appreciation of the little things. Enjoying a good meal that he cooked and his sense of humor is more important than that he left the kitchen a mess. Not taking the things he does for granted. Actually saying thank you rather than just thinking it. I know he doesn't expect that, but I do appreciate him and he won't know if I don't tell him. Assume nothing.

I'm writing this while at the cancer infusion center and watching a couple in their 50's. She's the one in the chair hooked up to the IV. He hovers, extremely attentive. Trying to anticipate any need she may have. Trying to mitigate any discomfort. He can't stay still. I see concern on his face with a touch of fear perhaps. He loves her and being proactive helps hide the fear. It allows him to feel like he has some impact in a situation for which neither have much control. Disease puts much in perspective. 

Perspective gained through time and experience. I think the harsher the experience the more it shapes you, but how is up to you entirely. I've met people who turned bitter; who can't see past their own personal pain and fear, very much like Katherine in the beginning of the play. Stuck in quicksand and sinking so slowly that they don't recognize the danger. I feel sorry for them. You can lament what is lost to you whether it's opportunity, a person or your health, but clinging to anger is no way to experience life. Anger without resolution is a living death. At some point you have to realize that this life is not fair. Random, really crappy things happen. Some people are burdened more than others. You can look back and learn. You HAVE to look back to learn, but always move forward in the end. Hopefully you can recognize what holds true importance before you face the loss of it. The trick is to remember it when the danger has passed.

In the end, Katherine finds love and respect and so have I. It's good to remind myself periodically of its true place in my life and not let day-to-day issues diminish it. I am able to see the important things on a different level, because I know what it is like to have them ripped away. I've found my joy. May you find yours.


Painting:
"From a Distance"
Sedona, Arizona
Acrylic on Board
11.25" x 8.875"

This seemed appropriate. Looking at something from afar gives you a different view of of it whether it's an object, landscape or aspects of your own life.

View more work at RebeccaZook.com
facebook.com/RebeccaZookFineArtPaintings

Road Blocks

Vacations mean different things to different people. Some crave pure relaxation, some excitement. I think Ed and I were looking for a combination and over the course of the week we also learned a bit more about ourselves.  

We just got back from the mountains of North Carolina. It was actually a delayed honeymoon (married in December). I rented us a cabin in the woods with a full kitchen since eating out is almost impossible for me due to food allergies, and overall, staying in a home is much more sanitary than a hotel room when you have a primary immune deficiency. Plus we are both introverts and this certainly catered to a need for exclusion. 

Photo of me Ed took at one of the many waterfalls we photographed.

My husband loves to hike and has many stories of previous adventures. I had stressed to him from the beginning of our relationship that due to lung damage from CVID and other issues caused by my various autoimmune diseases, I was limited in what I could do. In our day-to-day lives back in relatively flat Texas I get physically tired at times, but really, the diseases don't slow me down that much. In the mountains hiking uphill was another story completely. I was shocked at the difficulty I was having. Shocked at my inability to catch my breath and at times having to stop every few steps. Ten years ago I could have sprinted through the forest like a deer and not thought twice about the thinner air or steepness of the trail. I didn't realize the full extent of the damage done. I was emotionally crushed, but tried to fight back the feelings.  

Ed had his own issues to deal with. Our plans were thwarted at every turn. Rainy Monday, activities closed for the off-season and a landslide had taken out the only road that ran completely through the National Park. In addition we had the the scary, single-lane curvy road with sheer drops that we were told was open and instead ended in a locked gate and one road closure was blamed on "Sequestration." We are still laughing about that last one. Old friends have accused Ed of carefully planning every second when it came to activities and that one little hitch would throw him into chaos and he himself admits to reacting badly to sudden changes. Our entire trip was last minute changes. 

We had a long list of waterfalls in the surrounding area that we wanted to see. Ed was encouraging as I trudged up the steep trails and steps, but his words made me feel like a 5-year old. "You can do it!" and "We can go as slow as you need." What I shouldn't need is anyone to have to prod me along with words. I'd start to get annoyed, but I knew he was only trying to help. At one point Ed looked over at me and said, "You don't look tired. You look sad." I told him what I was feeling. I was sad. Sad for everything I'd lost. Discouraged. Angry. I wanted to just sit down in the middle of the trail and cry. My pride was the only thing preventing it, barely. 

But you know what? As torturous as it was at times, I never turned back. I never gave up. I reached the top of every waterfall we hiked to. I saw amazing beauty; half frozen streams, an owl, deer and wild turkeys. We took over 2,000 photos in the course of a week and some will end up as paintings. It didn't matter that it took me 10 times longer than it should have. I didn't give up and I'm very proud of that. Ed in turn learned that he is more adaptable than he thought. The last minute changes led us on adventures we would have otherwise missed and he had no problem making adjustments on the fly. Overall it was probably less stressful not having a firm plan. We did what we wanted when we wanted and didn't need to keep constant track of the time.  

We toned it down on our last full day there. I was only up for 2 small waterfall hikes, but I don't regret any of the pain and frustration. It's just made me more determined to increase my activity level. Road blocks, whether figurative or literal, don't have to be dead ends. We were both able to create detours to get around them and keep moving forward.

"Winter is Coming"

KER-THUNK!

…thunk…

It's the other shoe. 

Somewhere in the back of my mind I have a lingering fear. Some might call it silly or irrational, but to me it's based on real world experience. I have a good life. I have had some very bad things happen in it, but I've always dealt with the given situation, moved on and been happy again. I've developed faith in myself. What I've also developed is a little paranoia. When I am happy, REALLY happy, and things are going great a little part of me starts poking a finger at my brain, "Hey…hey…things are going a…little…too...well. Something is gonna screw it up." I can slap the thoughts back, but never quiet them completely. 

Let's do a short year in review…

I've had some great projects at work this year that were creative and challenging. They involved design, photography and writing. I won some awards with my fine art paintings as well as sold a few. I was honored to be asked to create a painting to be auctioned for a great cause. Made progress on renovating the rest of the house. It's the holiday season! I find myself just staring at the Christmas tree, decorated mantle, roaring fire, cats and dogs sprawled out on the furniture and floor and now with Ed, my house feels like a home again…full of love and we were married on December 21st! I think this sounds pretty darn good. 

"Winter is coming." 

I've been watching "Game of Thrones" and THAT is a great line. Foreboding…that vague feeling that something lies just out of reach. You can only see glimpses of it in your peripheral vision. Something…bad. So when my infusions didn't seem to be making me feel quite as good as usual, the finger got more persistent. When the stomach issues got a bit worse than usual, I started asking for tests. I get regular CBC bloodwork with every infusion and all have been normal, but additional bloodwork also turned up nothing. My primary doctor was ready to kick me back to the hematologist, which didn't make sense to me. My symptoms wouldn't really be in his realm of expertise, so I asked for imaging studies. I suspected an ovarian cyst and made a good argument for it. Actually my argument was that since the few symptoms that exist for Ovarian Cancer mimic the normal digestive issues I already have, that it would be best to definitively rule out the possibility of cancer. I wasn't even worried at this point; the rational side of me anyway. I just wanted to confirm that a cyst is all it was. I just wanted to quiet that damn nagging finger. Ultrasound approved.

I was right. I have a large ovarian cyst. 

The finger was also right. The cyst wasn't the real problem. The tumor is.

I find this out the day after my birthday. Same day I had the test, but it's also 3:00pm the afternoon before Thanksgiving. The ONLY information I received is that I have a "rather large" uterine tumor. I see the email arrive with "Test Results" as the subject as I am sitting on a kitchen stool in front of the stove perusing the internet for a good green bean recipe to cook. I need more information. I don't do well without detailed information and everyone and everything is closing down until Monday. Ed does his best to quiet my fears, but I'm a worst case scenario kind of planner. I am compelled to gather as much medical information as I can even in the absence of knowing for sure what we are dealing with, but the phrasing "rather large" isn't terribly comforting. 

I began alternating between cooking for Thanksgiving and reading about fibroids and their treatment. Baked corn and hormonal therapy. Cornbread dressing and wait-and-see. Mashed potatoes and surgery. Monday finally arrives. I call my doctor's office at the infusion center to get a recommendation for a good gynecologist. The first place I call won't see me until March. MARCH! I'm having distressing symptoms NOW! I have vacation plans I can't cancel in March and was hoping to be treated and recovered by then. I leave a message at the second one on the list and they never call me back. I'm on my own now. I find another clinic in Ft. Worth with a satellite office in Granbury. Two of the doctors had good patient reviews online. One of the two had quite a few. People complained about the office staff, but said this doctor was worth the bother. I called and got an appointment for just a few days out. I also got a copy of the radiologist's report. My tumor is about the size of a small pear and attached to the outside of the uterus pressing against other organs and it was probably the reason most of my work pants and jeans had become uncomfortable to wear. Thank goodness for black yoga pants!

I get the standard medical information forms to fill out. List your surgeries, medications, illnesses, etc. Sigh, I'm going to have to explain my primary immune deficiency to yet another doctor. Most are unfamiliar with it. To my surprise, she has another patient with CVID. No explanation needed. I have a little more confidence now. We are going for surgery. Remove the uterus and keep the ovaries. Stable hormones should help prevent my body from going into an autoimmune tailspin. These types of muscle tissue tumors are 99% benign and removing the entire uterus prevents a recurrence, which is common. The surgery can also be done laparoscopically, so no large abdominal incision and faster healing. It's scheduled for later in January. As long as I can sit at my drawing table and paint during recovery, I'll be okay. I'll go crazy just sitting around and doing nothing for more than a day. New dog, Archie, may be getting a lot of clicker training lessons as well.  

It's still surgery and I'm a little scared, but this should be a cakewalk compared to what I've already been through. The timing with my infusion schedule is perfect. I get fresh, raring to go antibodies the day after surgery. I literally leave the surgery center and go straight to the infusion clinic. I'm hoping if I do have moderate pain or nausea from the anaesthesia, I can get some really nice IV meds at the clinic and I'll be monitored by the nursing staff there for most of the day. Very reassuring for me. 

The scenario could be a lot worse. This is a relatively minor blip that I can use to my advantage and hopefully get a couple paintings completed. Wish me a fast recovery.

I'm hoping it's more like the other slipper that fell down than a steel-toed shoe.

The Painting:

"Long Creek Winter"

Acrylic on Board

12" x 12"

Available for purchase

Eyes Wide Open

I have a lot on my mind. Life and death. Sickness and health. Want versus need. Chaos and balance. 

Several weeks ago at the infusion center a man walked up to me and said, "You don't know me, but Dr. Mandell suggested I should come find you." We hadn't met, but I did know him. I also knew that statistically, he should be dead. We had more things in common than having the same hematologist–the same man that we both credit for saving our lives. He also works in the motorcycle industry and is one of the few people to have said, oh I know Tucker Rocky, when I explained where I worked. Usually, I get a blank stare and am asked to repeat myself…"Tucker-what? Huh?" A few years ago, early in my treatments, I spotted an article or flyer, I don't remember which, on the bulletin board in the snack area at The Center for Cancer and Blood Disorders. This man was about to begin a motorcycle ride across the country. A diagnosis of impending death seems to have one of two effects on people. They either curl up in a ball and cease to function, an even earlier death, or they are spurred into doing the things they always wanted to, but probably never would have because there was always "still time." I liked his page on Facebook so I could follow along on the journey. He told me he did this ride for himself and to bring some awareness to his disease, Multiple Myeloma. With treatment, the survival rate is 3 to 4 years. He's passing 8 now (this is unheard of) and shows no signs of coming out of remission thanks to a stem cell transplant. He volunteers his time to council patients and their families or to just lend an ear as someone who has run through the gamut of emotions associated with a diagnosis that doesn't offer much hope. He is hope. Doing what he can for others, not just living for himself, knowing that the odds of long-term survival are not in his favor. Each day precious. I admire this.

I'm sitting at my drawing table and Ed remarks that I don't look like I'm enjoying myself. Is something wrong? It's not a simple yes or no answer. I don't know about other artists, but for me, painting is intense and it's tiring…mentally, and I love it…normally. 

Right now I'm frustrated. I haven't had time to paint on a regular basis and keep having to stop and start and stop and start a painting that I began months ago. I have virtual folder full of photographs of landscapes that I want to draw inspiration from for my 'grasses' series. It can be a little disheartening to see all the photos and realize what little I have accomplished. I want to have an entire show of nothing but grass-themed paintings. Life is interfering with my wants. The limits of Time weighing heavily. Like my new friend, I have come to view Time as limited. I wish it was tangible. I wish I could gather up armfuls of Time and squirrel them away for future use. Put Time in a bottle as the song goes. 

At least that's what I thought the main conflict was, but I'm realizing that it's also something deeper. Something more internally motivated. The daily routines and necessities of life are always going to battle for my attention and draw energy away from painting. This is not new. I have a day job. Thankfully one that I love that fuels my creativity, but can leave me mentally exhausted by the end of the work day and at times requires lots of overtime depending on the project at hand. My illnesses wax and wane in repetitive 3-week cycles corresponding to my treatment schedule and can leave me physically exhausted. Then there are life choices that I've made…tending my flower garden which brings me a different kind of creative joy and peace, the plethora of pets that I love dearly, and of course, Ed, who opened my heart again after loss. I want to pay time and attention to each one; each thing that I love. Finding balance is not easy. Again, this is not new. Why was I apparently making disgruntled faces as I painted? What is different, changed?

I had to define painting in my mind as not just a want, but a need. I've wondered at times if it's just a selfish pursuit on my part. If I stopped, I could spend more time with other things, the animals, the other people in my life. The last few months have told me that I would be miserable without my painting. Perhaps it is still selfish, but I need it to be happy. 

"Spring Blanket" is the piece that has been sporadically occupying my time. Just when I thought I was nearing completion, I found myself painting out entire flowers that suddenly became distracting and adding in more round puffs of seed heads. Bits of flower petals from the distractors left deliberately to peek through. I significantly darkened up the lower left side to tie in with the trees in the background. I found the seed heads echoed the colors in the background branches. I added sky blues into sections of the grasses. Layering in more and more color, but subtly, so it didn't compete with the vibrant reds of the blanket flowers. My brain was picking apart the design and trying to improve it. It just took me a while to realize it consciously. At first, all I knew was that I wasn't happy with the piece and consequently wasn't happy with me. 

I'm trying to seek a balance between the impressionism that I love and maintaining the realism I'm known for. I want my work to be…richer…good a word as any and I'm not where I want to be yet, but I believe I'm headed in a good direction. I no longer think twice about painting something out that I spent quite a bit of time on. I'm more ruthless in my editing. More critical. 

I want to keep growing. I NEED to keep growing and yet I also need to recognize life's current restrictions and limits. Some of you will say that the only limits are what you impose on yourself. The only limit is the sky itself. To me that's a nice fairy tale. Something you tell children until they hit the brick wall that is the real world. At that point, you either stand there paralyzed, figure a way to walk around it or blow the thing up (or a combination thereof). Some of us carry burdens that make it harder to move forward, but not impossible. In that sense, I guess I'm not as jaded as I sound. Some limits are insurmountable, though. Some we have no control over and must come to terms with that and not let them ruin our happiness.

So where does that leave me, the realist? Still spinning plates. Still seeking balance. Still fighting that damn painting. I don't have all the answers and am kinda glad that I don't. Life would be pretty boring if I did.

Note: I generally post in-progress photos of my paintings on my personal Facebook account. 

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