I love new notebooks, fresh coats of paint and I love bridges. I let myself indulgently roll around the nostalgia of the last page of a good book, too.
The last day of a year and the first day of the next one offer all of these to me. A long time ago, I liked crossing the bridge loudly. Jumping up and down, hugging, dancing, and giving a raucous welcome to this new friend I had yet to meet. Receiving it as though it was about to become my very best companion, still full of mystery, sure to be hiding many extravagant and delightful gifts in its shiny overcoat. As a teenager, I would have an eye on the clock, from whichever party I was celebrating, to call my parents at exactly midnight. Uncharacteristically for them, they would be staying up until midnight (but not many more minutes past midnight), in bed watching the NY Big Apple fall from a tall building. There would be fancy plates on their beds, filled with smoked salmon, perfectly toasted bread, and some rich French paté. Just the two of them. They loved receiving my call and I loved making it. We wished each other all kinds of good things and then they would go to sleep while I would dance several more hours. The years passed, they moved themselves and their family to the same side of the Atlantic as the Big Apple, I grew up, and my loud New Year’s Eves started to feel less and less joyful. I felt weird about that. Eventually, I decided that feeling weird was less uncomfortable than feeling inauthentic and in 2000, as we were about to cross a big bridge, I allowed myself to sit comfortably in the middle of it while I meditated through its crossing. From then on, that’s how I have celebrated the turning of the page, eventually extending the experience to include pretty much the full last day of the year and the full first day of the new one. Quietly, often by myself and in deep celebration. Being the Capricorn that I am, on the 31st, I am compelled to tidy up all kinds of loose ends, including my closets and my finances. Getting ready to welcome a special guest, I make sure there are no dust bunnies lurking in the corners of my mind or home. Getting ready to say goodbye to an intimate companion, I make sure to acknowledge our time together, give my thanks, and harvest the lessons it brought. I often write it a Letter. Then, as the one hour in between, the magical isthmus, arrives, I settle my body somewhere beautiful, light some candles, and close my eyes, ready to slide across the bridge with light in my heart. This year, this is how it went: On the 31st, as I was getting re-acquainted with my life here having just returned from a deeply sweet week in the comfort of the United States and the love of my family, while cleaning my closets and closing my accounting books, I was very aware that the contents of my Letter were organizing themselves, creating a draft of sorts, knowing that I would get to them soon once my mind was ready. As a writer, this is a process I am familiar with and which I cherish. That time came, with a pile of giveaway clothes on the patio, a cup of steaming hot tea near me, I was prepared to sit down and commune with the harvest. What a sweet year 2023 has been. With of course, enough bitter to make the sweetness pop. As I scanned the Container of the past 12 months, I saw that they delivered me three distinct and so very beautifully intertwined Gifts: The Gift of Love The Gift of Healing The Gift of Creating These are enormous and while each one both started and completed its cycle within the year, I knew that they were also going to walk across the bridge with me, and that we would continue to dance together in a new, yet unknown, way. The three Gifts are magnificent, separately and together. Life-changing and everlasting. I know that I will carry the Essence of each one until the end of my life. In the stillness of my body, having done all the doing I wanted to do, I let the bigness in all the way. The thankfulness swam through my bloodstream and flooded my heart. Some of it overflowed out of my eyes. I think this is the first year this has happened to me at this level, this clarity, this giant wave. The more I could see The Bridge, the deeper in love I fell with this side of it. And the more I fell in love with it and its sweetness, the more I dared to let myself get close to its bitterness, too. The fear it invited, the ache, the helplessness. As someone I treasure says: the sugar and the salt. The salt stings. By the time night arrived, I was ready to cross. Because Life likes to surprise us and show us new, often better ways to do things, a friend was camping on my land, each one of us seeped in our own celebration together and separate. The last Gift of the year, this reminder that yes, privacy can dance with togetherness. Safely. A Gift I now know I needed to take with me. Candles were lit, “keep-your-dog-calm-through-the-fireworks” YouTube playlist music was wafting through the speaker, and I settled my body and mind, ready for the big little trip. I flinched each time my neighbors turned the jungle into a loud celebratory explosion, remembering that we all like to cross the bridge in our own way. Soon we were on the other side. The unknown other side. The blank page. The expanse and deep breathing. Here in the jungle, my friend and I shared tea and butter cookies, and friendship ease. Throughout the day, she napped in her tent and I wrote on the patio, both of our pups going back and forth. Nature all around whispering its own welcome. Love. Healing. Creating. The salt, too. Life has been a big ride, lately.
A heady mix of bliss, pain, healing, unleashed joyful creativity and heartbreak, mine and others. As the last few days of the years are unrolling themselves like some bright red carpet, I am feeling some exhaustion and also much gratitude. I am raw. I cry easily. I smile for no apparent reason, especially riding my quad through the rivers and into town. Last week’s art show/community event/beautiful gathering is still making ripples in my mind. Seeing the fifty-four portraits of The People of the Village all in one place, a very special place, one of the very first places I visited here almost 4 years ago, was huge for me. The models, their families, their friends, and all of their smiles were more than I had hoped for as I spent the summer painting. Maybe at some point later I will be able to be more eloquent about it but for now every time I try to use words, they just don’t sound right. More like a photocopy with the ink running low. Faded. Now many of the paintings have new homes and I am cleaning up, finishing a special commission, managing the orders of prints, and getting ready to make a ten-day jump over the border to spend Christmas and my birthday with my family. Yesterday, as much as I wanted to be with them on Christmas morning (I have never spent Christmas without at least one of my kids since they were born), it all felt like a lot of work, and I second-guessed the trip. Should I just stay here and rest? After months of a series of (super successful) medical procedures, sweating pretty much 24 hours a day, maneuvering the tricky path of my human heart, and being on the other side of the exhibit, I felt as though I needed to let my emotions catch up, I felt fragile. Talking with a friend last night, I shared my feelings with her. To make a point about the idea of just staying put, I explained that no matter what, I would be back in the US six weeks later, as a baby girl would be making her arrival. Didn’t it make more sense to wait? For sure she would agree with me and see “the sense.” But instead, she turned her blue eyes towards me and said: “That’s a massive assumption.” A massive assumption. What’s a massive assumption? I WILL be going to the States to meet this baby. There’s no doubt about that. We have talked about it for months. Then, probably because she was saying nothing at all, in that special space that just waits for us to get it - I got it. My friend has recently spent months undergoing treatment for a life-threatening illness. She has done so with a blend of characteristic strength and grace and in the process, she has gotten really close to this topic, the topic of Massive Assumptions. Without her having to explain it, I understood that yes, for me to say to her that I WOULD be going back in six weeks, was indeed a Massive Assumption. In fact a series of them. The Assumption that I would be alive in six weeks, as a start. “Your family is gathering next week. Go.” is what I think she said. And that was that. Since last night, I have been rolling the two words around in my mind. Massive. Assumption. They go together so well when it comes to explaining an illusion we often choose to believe, whether from fear or arrogance. Maybe simply from ignorance. Sometimes the more softly something is delivered, the more deeply it goes in. This went in. So, I will be on a plane next week. Flying across the border towards my family. May your holidays be soaked with love and glazed with gratitude. Many years ago, I was invited to attend a Landmark Education weekend seminar.
There is some controversy about the course, most of which I wasn’t much aware of before I said yes to going. This happens a lot. I’m glad I went and a decade and a half later, there are at least two pieces of the intense weekend that have stayed with me. One of them is the concept of Strong Suits. In a super tiny nutshell here are a few points about Strong Suits: - They are traits we like about ourselves and traits for which we have been rewarded, praised, paid, loved … you get the idea - and also this tells you why we like them so much. A loopy kind of thing. - They develop early on, in phases, out of some psychological pain. Often a desire to belong. Or to be safe. Or both. We then use these Strong Suits to get through life, and the more we use them, the better we get at them, the more rewards we get from them - and the more they become our comfort zone. - At some point, we will usually fall out of balance with how we dance with our Strong Suits, and as Ulysses Maclaren says: “It could be that the best things you like about yourself are the biggest things holding you back.” Tricky, right? Ok, I think that’s enough info about the general idea of Strong Suits for me to move on to what I want to share here. Since my teenage years, I have been attached to the Strong Suit of Hospitality. I now know clearly where it comes from and how it served me then. Sharing what I had was my offering to my peers, my way of saying: “See, I am not that different from you, here, take what I have.” It worked: my home became the place to have the best Saturday night parties and I was accepted for that. Being accepted is a big deal when you are thirteen. The years passed and not surprisingly I grew into an adult who could live in a phone booth and always find a way to squeeze in a bed or a meal for someone else. Nothing wrong with that, it often led to beautiful times and it would have been hard to see the dysfunction in my wide-open, unbridled, joyful Hospitality. In fact when Airbnb became an option, running three listings in my small cottage added to the validation that YES, I could even get paid to scratch this old itch. How wonderful! Months after starting, I earned the badge of Super Host. Of course. I had guests at home, I ran a Community Happiness Center and I hosted Retreats. Scratch, scratch, scratch that Hostess itch. Man, it felt good. And really, in many ways, it WAS good, really deeply good. Then came The Change. Between the pandemic and me starting to see some not-so-sweet consequences of my open-door policy and my “Here! Have it! If it’s mine it, I’ll share” ways, I answered the call of stepping out of my regular life. Away from where I had history and where it was so easy for me to cater to my Strong Suits, I would surely be safe from them. On January 1, 2021, my pup and I moved to a tiny one-room cabin close to the beach in a village in Mexico. Just the two of us. That Christmas, seven of us and our adopted Mexican kitten were piled in my cabin, happily sharing hammocks and taking turns at the camping stove. Ha! My family, my loves. I was deliriously happy. Because you see, the Strong Suits are not the problem. The out-of-balance is the problem. The lack of discernment is the problem. Being an uncurable Hostess is wonderful and it can lead to delicious times WHEN we know who and where and how we want to host. When we choose. When we don’t default. The months passed and I started to process of creating a beautiful small home in the country. Just a few minutes from the bustle of the village, at the foot of the jungle. I drew the house on a napkin and nine months later we moved into it. But not before making an adjustment to the original plan: a guest house. I needed a guest house. Nothing fancy, just a sweet little room to always be available to whoever needed a bed. My Hostess smiled and nodded at that decision. She was pleased. Then, as the tiny guest house was being built, while I was in the US selling my beloved cottage, The Whisperings began. “You have to paint,” it said. “I paint,” I said back a little too quickly. “You have to have a place to paint, a studio. It’s time,” it said. “I see,” I said back. Because I did see. So I grabbed another napkin and drew how I was going to use this small outbuilding to satisfy both My Hostess and My Artist, whose voice I had recognized. I could do it. There would be a bed in the room, for The Hostess, which would turn into a couch when The Artist wanted a turn. A nice couch on which to nap between creations. The work table would turn into a desk for guests when The Hostess was in charge and I would get nice big totes to store the art supplies. I did it. Twelve hours after the stucco walls were dried, in December 2022, my first guests arrived. Beloved guests, they inaugurated the space and quickly after they left, more friends and family arrived. And arrived, and arrived. And it was sweet and it was great and I knew that at some point, my paints and brushes would come out of their totes. I had sort of forgotten how the space could turn into a studio, but I had my napkin and I trust napkin drawings. The Artist was tapping her foot a little bit but she knew The Hostess had been the boss for so long that she needed to be cool about it all. Thinking back now I think she knew exactly how this was going to turn out. June came and I knew the heat was going to keep visitors away for a few months and that I could let The Artist have at it for the summer. Before I left for a quick trip to the States, I pushed the bed against the wall, opened the totes, and arranged the paints. I filled the shelves with my yummy art stuff and got on the plane knowing I would come home and paint … something. Days after I returned, a dear family needed a place to stay. Two of them, three kids, two dogs - one of the dogs Chamo whom I had handed to them six months before - were going to move in and we would figure out the rest later. We didn’t know for how long but we could do it. I moved the art supplies into my bedroom, told The Artist to please be a little more patient and that we were going to figure it out. The Hostess was needed right now. They all piled onto couches, the hammock, the bed in what was once again the guest house and my oh my The Hostess was happy! Too classy to be outwardly rude to The Artist, she just smiled her best smile. Truly, it was a super special time. Two days later my friends found a place in town and that’s when The Artist made her big move. And has not stopped since. First, not content with pushing the bed against the wall, she had us move it into the main house. There was no waiting allowed. My friend is about half my size and the two of us somehow carried the bed into the living room before she left. The first time I walked into the space without the bed in it, I felt a little dizzy. Once the paints came out again, I wasn’t sure whether I was out of my mind excited or scared as heck. But it was late June. No one comes to visit in the summer. I could just do this for a few months, keep The Artist happy, and see what happened next. That’s when my nephew called and told me he and his love were coming to visit. Oh, it’s so silly. The Hostess and The Artist began a staring contest. I reached for my Morning Pages as for a lifeline. I was so uncomfortable. Of course, they could sleep on the same bed they had slept on before which was now in the living room. “It would be just as comfortable,” said The Artist. “But how terribly selfish of you,” said The Hostess. Selfish… ufff - she used the big guns with that one. Back to the Morning Pages. Lots of them. The Artist won. The kids were fine. They left their stuff all over the living room, slept like rocks and I occasionally walked into … THE STUDIO and looked around. It was not modular. It was not half this and half that. It was A STUDIO. A small, lovely art studio. My art studio. Whew. Then, after my family left, The Artist took a deep breath, exhaled, and with that exhale launched me into a project that I am still in awe about. She led me from place to place, person to person, pink to rose to burnt amber, and well, magic happened. It was as though she had been waiting decades to be allowed to come out and play, to be loved, to be respected. And now that she had a home, now that she didn’t ever remember that for so long she didn’t, she was going to hold my hands and we were going to go places. Next month, just a few short months after the big standoff, I am HOSTING (!) my first show in town. 52 portraits of some of the people who make this village so special. A work of Celebration, Art, Love, and Community. What happens next, I am not sure but I bet it’s going to be good. I reflect on Ulysses Maclaren’s words: “It could be that the best things you like about yourself are the biggest things holding you back.” My Hostess is a thing I love about me AND she had been holding me back. I still love her and she and I are never going to be apart. But from now on, it’s just going to be different. Because it’s The Artist’s turn to play. This life … See all the paintings here: |
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