I began my day just after 5:00 a.m., arising to walk in the still cool darkness, when mostly it's just me, Danny and the sound of birds. I enjoy the rhythm of walking, the feeling of blood pulsing through my body, my deepened breathing, my cells tingling with oxygen.
Two miles later, and breakfast under my belt, I sit at the dining room table, my pen and notebook replacing my cereal bowl and mug of tea. Sitting quietly, I am mesmerized by the ceiling fan's reflection in the glass on a painting, the sporadic splash of tires on the rain-washed street, a damp, peachy smell of pre-airconditioned summer and the sensation of itching from an insect bite on the inside of my arm. When I am still, the details of being alive at this place, in this time, reward me with rich abundance.
In my studio I employ this same balance of motion and stillness. The act of painting is often as natural as walking. I find a rhythm and let my subconcious mind breath and pulse life into my creation. Then I sit still, observing my work in progress, the way my colors combine, forms and lines intersect, and what needs to be changed. When the work is complete, I am overcome with pleasure, an oxygenated fullness of being, grateful to be alive.