The Man Who Loved Cats and Jazz Music

On November 29, 2020, a beautiful soul left this world. His name was Amos Roe, and he was my high school piano teacher. He was also my mentor and friend.

It’s been almost 20 years now since my twin sister and I had our first piano lesson with Amos, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

Amos lived near North Freedom, Wisconsin, in an old weather-beaten white house set deep in the woods. He had several barns and a windmill, and a small pond that he liked to ice skate on in the winter. Parked in front of the garage was a small blue car with a bumper sticker that said in all caps, “KILL YOUR TELEVISION.” The long gravel driveway plummeted down so steeply that I always wondered if our car would make it back out. Whenever we arrived for our lessons, a warm light would be on in the kitchen, and smoke puffed cheerfully from the chimney of the wood-burning stove. You would walk in through the kitchen first, perhaps the tidiest room in the house. Then you would take a left and immediately get swallowed up by the music room. One might describe it as “obsessive genius meets hoarder.” In this room were two Steinway baby grands positioned back to back—one for everyday playing, the other he was fixing to sell someday. He said the pianos were worth more than his house. The room might have been spacious were it not for these two pianos, and the countless shelves and file cabinets crammed tight with tapes and CDs, sheet music and books. He had run out of shelf space long ago, so the overflow went into independent stacks of books and files, packed from floor to ceiling. He consumed music in a way I’d never witnessed before. When he wasn’t teaching, he was listening to NPR and had the entire weekly radio schedule memorized. He had every episode of Garrison Keiller’s “Prairie Home Companion” on tape. From the moment we met he was asking, “Have you learned… “ and would name some classical piece, or “have you heard the recording by… (insert Glenn Gould or Barenboim or some other classical artist), and Emily and I looked at each other in amazement. His wealth of knowledge was unmatched.

When we asked him his musical background, he replied, “I’m pretty much entirely self-taught.” Once upon a time he had been a classical guitar player, but when he discovered that the guitar has technical limits (which he had reached), he switched to the piano and quickly became obsessed. He loved to teach. His star student was a boy named Kyle, who once performed for the queen of Sweden. Even though Amos only taught classical piano, he immersed himself in jazz music for his own enjoyment and personal development. As 16-year-old kids, Emily and I knew nothing about jazz, but Amos would put a record on and play it over his booming, high-tech sound system, and patiently explain to us how jazz musicians improv and communicate with each other during a performance. It was all so fascinating.

In that cluttered, magical music room, you would sit down at the piano for your lesson and begin, or in our case, we’d take turns. While one had her lesson, the other would wait in the living room, which had a couch and more bookshelves filled with volumes of Amos’s many other interests, including animal encyclopedias, books on U.S. presidents, and Gary Larson’s “The Far Side.” Emily and I were both allergic to cats, but Amos owned two of them (“Jazz” and “Louie”) and they were constantly trying to win our affection by crawling into our laps or sidling up next to us on the couch.

Amos was tall and thin, with a mop of thick black hair that he kept trimmed in a straight line across his forehead, a look which only enhanced the youthful glint in his eye. At our first piano lesson, he was immediately able to tell the differences between Emily and me, which was a nice surprise (sometimes our “identical twinness” still stumped even the closest of family friends).

He was extremely intelligent, but also kind and insightful. He quickly developed a special relationship with Emily and myself, knowing that even though we were twins, we each had our own unique personalities and gifts. So he related differently to each of us. Emily took her piano studies very seriously (and was therefore always the superior player!); I was less motivated and found that sometimes, our philosophical conversations about other things like art, politics, and current events, were more interesting to me than learning a new chord progression or scale. Still, I was often hard on myself. Amos had very high standards and never failed to challenge me, using whatever tactics he could. Sometimes he would secretly record my playing during a lesson. As soon as he flipped the switch on the stereo system I knew what he’d done and I’d exclaim, “You DIDN’T!” With a huge grin on his face, he would retort, “I did.” And then he would make me listen to the recording, mistakes and all. But it wasn’t to mock or correct me. “You can always correct the mistakes. I just wanted you to hear how good this sounds.”

During high school, my sister Emily composed a lot of her own music. At our very first piano recital with Amos, he surprised her by having a musician friend of his (who happened to play for the Madison Symphony Orchestra) perform one of Emily’s pieces on the harp. He was full of these kinds of thoughtful and wonderful surprises. And his sense of humor was unmatched. I still don’t know how he put up with two obnoxious teenage girls. We often talked back, got emotional, or were just plain irrational, and he handled it with humor and grace. He called us “Maniac #1” and “Maniac #2.” Sometimes our frustration with him was justified. He had more than a few quirks. He talked to his cats and believed that they talked to him too. He couldn’t stand the sound of fingernails clicking on the piano keys, so if our nails got too long he would whip out the trimmers and cut them himself.

If I had a question about my lessons, I would sometimes send him an email and he would respond with a long, well thought out response. For example, here are some of his (many) opinions on various recordings of Debussy, who was my favorite composer at the time:

“Philippe Entremont playing Debussy? I think I have a tape of him wielding his butcher knife on this composer, but it would be too painful to listen to it again to refresh my memory. Unless I’ve totally lost it, he is an infamous example of a “modern” (back in the 60’s or whatever) school of playing French music with a detached dry tone. That was the “heartless” feeling you mentioned concerning the First Arabesque. (The parallel would be to Americans earlier in this century who imported priceless antique oriental rugs and then paid to have the rich colors bleached out). Entremont has absolutely nothing to do with the way Debussy conceived of his music, and this is especially inexcusable because A) there is first hand writing which documents how Debussy wanted his music to be played and B) even more important, the fundamental character and sensual beauty of the music is so completely ruined by this approach. Debussy’s music is the musical embodiment of Impressionism (albeit with a strong classical backbone) –washes of color, not Czerny-like exercises, and he suggested that the pianist approach the keys as magnets which pull the fingers down. (To get the effect he wanted, he also played his music with the lid down). The pianist who is in a class by himself when it comes to Debussy playing is Walter Geisiking. Totally amazing control of color through his pedaling and touch – someone actually wrote a full length book on the pedaling he uses in playing Debussy. He was a pre-WWII pianist, so the clarity of the recordings are not what they are today, but I’m sure they’ve all been reissued on CD. Anna, some listening to Entremont and check out Geisiking!” – Amos Roe, from an email on May 15, 2002

These emails became more like friendly conversation and I saved many of them, because they were wonderful insights into his thought process and personality. He would also bombard me with questions and make me justify everything I said in great detail. You couldn’t get away with anything around him... He would either demand an answer to his “why?” or tease relentlessly. When I shared the good news that I had gotten my driver’s license, he said, “Wonderful! But if you didn’t get a perfect score, I need to know why so that I can warn my neighbors.”

For someone who related so well to young people, he often surprised me with his cluelessness. “Ok, answer a question I have had for several years,” he said one time. “What the heck does LOL mean?!”

When I was applying for a summer student ambassador program, which would land me a 3-week trip to Europe, I asked Amos to write a recommendation letter. He said, "I'd love to! I promise I won't tell them about your jail time."

In one of my emails I was brazen enough to ask him his age (broaching the topic since it was my 17th birthday that day). To me he seemed eternally youthful. “How old am I?” he responded. “Are we talking in spirit, wisdom, knowledge, body, what? Ok…you guess and I will tell you next email. If you are right, I will give you some sweet tarts. Did you know that sweet tarts are my currency? I would have offered you and Emily these in lieu of $ for cleaning my house, but somehow I didn’t think that either of you would go for this. My student Kyle, on the other hand, has a price for everything as calculated in sweet tarts. Tonight I gave him one for every 3 moth eggs he found in the carpet (he was especially pleased when I said he could boil them in the water on the wood stove). A little later, he yelled in from the other room that his brother owed him some sweet tarts for making mistakes in his playing. This was during the time when he wasn’t trying to strangle me or hit me with the wooden mallet. Hmmm… is this how most piano students treat their teacher? I know that some parents think I’m nuts when it comes to how I teach… good thing they only know a fraction of the truth!” – Amos Roe, January 29, 2002

We stayed in touch for many years. Amos came to my wedding, and we continued to exchange emails every now and then. Although I did not pursue music professionally and went into an art career instead, he was always incredibly supportive of my endeavors. The last time I saw him was several years ago. He had married a wonderful woman named Cherity, and she had a son whom Amos adored. He had left the bachelor pad in the country and moved to the city with his new family. He was happy and healthy, the youthful glint still in his eye. His mop of black hair was turning grey but otherwise he had not aged one bit. It seems appropriate that he would go so suddenly, and not suffer a long, drawn out ending. With Amos, most things were black or white, like the keys on the piano... there was no in-between. Hot or cold, good or bad, right or wrong. He was a force. He was a great man and a great teacher, and he was my friend. May his legacy will never be forgotten.

For more on Amos, see also this beautifully written obituary by one of his former students, Clay Disney: https://memorials.fosterfuneralhomes.com/Roe-Amos/4441309/

Anna, Amos Roe, and Emily (circa 2002)

At our senior piano recital, spring 2003. I SOOOOOO wish we'd gotten a photo with our beloved teacher but as usual, he was bustling around making sure everything was perfect and never held still even for a second. :-) 

Madonna and Child Painting on Copper

"Candle of JOY" - 12x12" - oil on Artefex copper panel

Luke 2:19 “But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.”

Hello again, world... it's been a while. I have lots to write about, but for now I want to share a special painting of mine that is currently being auctioned off to raise funds for the Illuminated Messiah Bible, an outreach project by Tim Gagnon at Gagnon Atelier. Tim has interviewed me for his Modern Masters podcast a couple of times (here and here), and he is doing some really amazing things with his art and his ministry. So when he asked me if I'd be willing to participate in a fundraiser, to help get this brand new Bible printed and into the hands of lots of people around the world, I said YES!

The painting is one of four pieces created by myself and artists Michelle Dunaway, Joyful Enriquez, and Frank Ordaz, showcasing one of the four weekly themes of Advent. You can bid on these paintings for the chance to own the ORIGINAL by visiting the Gagnon Atelier Facebook page here.

Or, you can buy a limited edition giclee of my piece on my website here.  

As an artist whose journey into motherhood vastly transformed both me and my art, it seemed natural that I should choose “Mary the Mother of Jesus – the Candle of Joy” as the theme for my painting. Before becoming a mother, I couldn’t have comprehended what it meant for Mary to “keep these things, and ponder them in her heart.” But conceiving, growing, bearing, and nurturing a child awakens you to an entirely different kind of love, one so deep and so true that you want to hold on to it with every inch of your being and never let it go. Now I understand.

When I began this painting, I thought, “This will be easy. I’ll just use some pictures of myself and my son.” I had a specific reference photo in mind. There is dramatic sunlight on my son, sprawled out asleep on my lap, and I am gazing down lovingly at him.

However, as I began work on my painting, I found that God had other plans for it. Nothing seemed to be working. It was as though He was saying, “This is not about you. Leave yourself (literally) out of this. Let me guide the process.”

I went back to the drawing board. I sanded down the work I had done on the copper panel already, and the remnants of myself served as a base for me to start again.

I found some old reference photos from a special time long ago, before I was a mother, when a dear friend of mine had just had her first son. I had been commissioned to paint a breastfeeding mother, and my friend graciously agreed to model for me. That was the first time I realized that the idyllic scenes of Mother Mary, looking flawless and refreshed as she holds the Baby Jesus, are just not real. Motherhood is messy, exhausting, and hard especially where you’re brand new at it (and especially if you’ve just given birth in a stable)! Mary had never done this before; she would have had the same struggles that any new mother has: trying to interpret her infant’s cries, hunching over while she learns how to nurse him, tired eyes from the sleepless nights. And yet… the love, supernatural strength, and sudden knowing that are gifted a woman when she becomes a mother—would have been just as real as the hardships.

My painting of the Madonna and Child became a slight homage to the past in the sense that Mary wears her traditional blue, which symbolizes purity, and the Christ Child exudes an angelic glow. But the work also shows the reality of motherhood. She is in wonder of her Son’s face, but also a bit apprehensive. She cradles His head with the gentlest of hands, yet hunches just a bit because this is all so new to her. Her dress is loose and flowing to make room for Him to nurse whenever He needs to. It is relatable. And the joy and the sorrow are so intertwined that they are almost indistinguishable. We’ll never know the exact thoughts that Mary kept hidden so deep in her heart. But I suspect that many of us have an idea.

Painting Peonies with Anna Rose Bain (Trailer)

Quarantine and the Stages of Grief

After two months in quarantine, which I’ve experienced by going through pretty much all the stages of grief, you could say I’ve finally arrived at acceptance.

Trying to make good use of the time: My daughter sat for me a couple of times, although I did end up having to finish this from a photo. I filmed my process and will be making a new instructional video on painting children!

Let's face it--the world is a very different place than it was just a couple months ago. We all experienced the initial shock: over the daily and nearly instantaneous shutdown of businesses, schools, and life as we know it. We went through denial: over the seriousness of the virus or its affect on the healthcare system and the economy. Most of us felt some anger: over the loss of our usual routine, hangout spots, conveniences, etc. - and for many of us, especially small business owners, the loss of income or our jobs. I was frustrated to suddenly become a "homeschool mom," a role I never wanted. I also felt so much anger over the constant political rants and arguments on social media that I started limiting my screen time on Facebook to five minutes per day (so far I’m not regretting that decision).

Then there's depression: anyone else experience this? I'm definitely an introvert, but didn't realize how much I depended on being around other people to help me stay sane! Now I spend all day every day with two children under the age of six. I see other artists kicking butt and keeping their momentum going by teaching online classes and continuing to make sales, but my life as an artist feels like it's come to a screeching halt. I've had no motivation, no desire to smile or laugh. For weeks, Zoom meetings just made me sadder. All of my spring art events were cancelled, and with no outlets to display or promote my work besides the already over-saturated internet, my income has fallen flat.  The Portrait Society of America conference would have been earlier this month, and I was really looking forward to it! It would have been my break from home life, and my chance to shine in an area of life I’m passionate about. 

I might also add “guilt” to this list (as opposed to bargaining, though there’s probably been some of that too), since in my head I know that I’m still living an incredibly comfortable and blessed life. I still have food in my fridge, toilet paper in the bathroom, a roof over my head, a big back yard for the kids, a comfortable bed, running water, electricity, and internet. My family and I are healthy. My struggles pale in comparison to those of many others, nonetheless, my struggles are real. I’ve seen an internet post going around stating that we are all struggling, but we are NOT all in the same boat. That is true.

It is possible to have a myriad of strange emotions and reactions over this. After all, it’s history in the making, and it’s hard to say whether or not life will ever be the same. And I, like everyone else, am concerned about a lot of things, like the loss of my rights and the widening political divide in our country - while still being concerned about the spread of the virus. Believe me, my family and I have taken it seriously, to the point where we haven’t even seen my twin sister or her kids. I begrudgingly wear my mask to the grocery store, and sanitize everything that comes into our home.

So... what does acceptance look like? Even though quarantine life with little children is HARD, there are still many sweet moments in my day that perhaps I would have overlooked or missed in my busy life before quarantine. My daughter's literacy has really taken off and it is absolutely magical watching a child learn how to read! My busy 20-month-old too--though still not talking (I must confess, I really enjoy his incoherent jibber jabber), is a "book-pusher" and relaxes his whole body onto mine when I read him a book on my lap. My daughter loves to paint and "write" stories. I'm amazed at her ability to get lost in her imagination as she figures out her own ways to cope with being separated from society. We are all spending a lot more time outside. Cece and I started planting our vegetable garden and she has spent hours "rescuing" and relocating earth worms, which she considers to be very "cute."  I've had many sweet conversations with family and friends over the phone or computer that may not have happened otherwise. Perhaps the biggest lesson from all of this is that I'm learning that I was starting to depend on the wrong things to bring me happiness or satisfaction, and quarantine has forced me to hit the reset button so that I can continue working on my heart and character.

I am still painting whenever I can and finishing up commissions and other projects that have sat in my studio for over a year and a half. If now is not the time to do this, then when?? I've started some paintings just for me and my soul. Instead of focusing on what would have been, I’m going to try and see how I can serve, live, and love fully, now. I know, I know—I’m sort of late to the game. I had to overcome all the hurdles in my head and heart before I could get to this point. My place, is right here. In the present moment, in my home, with my two little children who are becoming less little before my very eyes. I’m writing this post to remind myself to stop always striving. To lay it on the altar and let it be. Daily I have to relinquish control and allow myself to be FREE – not free in the sense that I can go anywhere I want without a mask, or be closer than six feet to someone else, or work out at a physical gym, etc. But free from anger, anxiety, the bondage of depression, or scarcity.  Once those things no longer have control over me, then I’ll be able to handle quarantine for many more weeks, months, years even if need be, because I'll be focusing on what actually matters, and that is today.

More art to follow, but in the mean time, if you can relate to this post, leave a comment! I'd love to encourage you that everything you're going through and feeling is valid, and that we will get through this together.

Portrait Fundamentals with Anna Rose Bain (Trailer)

How Coronavirus is Affecting Artists

Yesterday I went to the grocery store. I had been dreading it all week. I knew the toilet paper would be long gone (thankfully, my Amazon shipment came a week ago, before the panic started). But I wasn't prepared to walk in and find that there were no eggs, no dairy products, no meat, no peanut butter (sorry, Everett... your P&J's will have to wait), no sweet potatoes, no bread, and barely any bottled water. The cold and flu aisle was stripped bare, as was the diaper aisle and most of the canned goods. I found most of what I needed, but as I stood in the checkout line, which wrapped all the way around to the back of the store, I felt like telling all the hard-working employees, "Thank you for your service." They had to do something they weren't necessarily trained or obligated to do, which was to manage all the customers' fears and concerns while continuing to be positive and friendly.

I am watching with sadness as people practice "social distancing", whether it be at the grocery store, work, or the gym. Many people are simply opting to stay home and practice living as hermits. Hermit life is usually fine by me... as an artist, you learn to be comfortable with spending long hours by yourself. But in times like these, you realize just how much we as humans need to be social. We are not meant to be alone, and this COVID-19 is a threat not just to our physical health but to our mental wellness and our societal need for companionship.

Here in Colorado, all major (and minor) events -- from concerts and basketball games, to small church gatherings and parties... have been cancelled. Worldwide and especially in big cities, museums are closed. Exhibition openings cancelled. Conferences, workshops, gatherings of any kind... cancelled or postponed until who knows when.

My favorite event of the year, the Portrait Society of America conference (which I referenced in my last post), was also postponed until August. It was a necessary call in light of everything that's been going on, but I know that I for one am very disappointed, and I can't even imagine what a difficult and heartbreaking decision it was for the event's organizers, who put so much heart and soul and hard work into planning this event every single year.

All of my art events are in the spring. It's an important time of year for many of us artists, as we paint for deadlines in January/February, then display and sell our work at various exhibitions and events around the country in April and May.  This is a huge investment for artists, because not only are we focusing months of our time and energy into these paintings, but we are also spending a lot of money on expensive, high quality frames to display our work in the best possible light. We love to paint, but we also love nothing more than to see our work purchased by collectors and carried off to new homes where our creative offspring will be treasured.

A newly framed 35x16" painting
that will *hopefully* be heading to the California Art Club
gold medal exhibition at the end of April

For these events to all be suddenly shut down is catastrophic for artists. I learned yesterday that the Colorado ballet cancelled all of their events, and the dancers--people born and trained to PERFORM - are devastated.  They already have to work incredibly hard for the little income they earn as artists, and now they are out of work for the next couple of months.

What I'm trying to say is... as this situation escalates, we must all do our part to keep the world turning. Yes, it's important to be aware of the virus as a very real threat, but we must also be aware of those who are going to suffer as a result of this global shutdown.

What can be done? As an artist, I'll continue hiring models, purchasing frames from my small business frame builders, and supporting the art materials manufacturers.  And we can still be viewing and buying art online. Perhaps we can provide more options to ensure the collector is 100% satisfied with their purchase. We know it's a risk to buy original art online, but if a collector gets a 2-week "trial" period to see if the piece of art works in their home, or they can return it free of charge -- that might be a good incentive to collect more art without fear of disappointment.

Finally, I will continue to make instructional videos. I've been making about one a month for the art streaming platform, MadeforArtists.net. This month I produced a video showing how I problem solve while painting a self portrait from a mirror, and in April, I will have a brand new portrait demonstration available. So if you are hoping to learn more about oil painting, now might be the perfect time!

Subscribe here: https://madeforartists.net/register?promo_code=7I4ZXH

If you must stay at home, enrich your life with art. Now more than ever, we need this in our lives. Stay healthy and safe, but surround yourself with beauty, every chance you get. 

Child of Spring - FINALIST in the 22nd Annual Portrait Society International Competition!

"Child of Spring"
24x12"
oil on linen
2020 Finalist in the
Portrait Society of America
International Competition

I got the call last week. Having been a member of the Portrait Society for some time now (10 years, I think?), you eventually learn that you're either going to get a phone call or an email, and what you really want is the phone call! This is my third time being accepted as a finalist, but it feels monumental for me. This year, after battling a lot of depression and stress (see my last post, oh... and did I mention that last year we bought a house? and moved? With a 5-year-old and an infant?!), I had major doubts as to whether or not I would be accepted. Two of the pieces I entered were paintings that I had labored over for months, and the third was one that I felt like I rushed to finish in time for the competition deadline. So, when I got the call that "Child of Spring" had been chosen, I was stunned and humbled, and SO, so thankful! Guys, you will almost never see me do a happy dance. BUT... I performed an epic happy dance in my kitchen. And Cecelia stared at me over her cereal bowl and asked what was going on.

I decided to write about this because I want to share about the difference between this year's accepted piece and my first-ever finalist painting from back in 2016, called "A Fleeting Moment" (shown below with Cecelia, the model). 

"A Fleeting Moment" was only 8 inches by 6 inches, and was painted in about 3 hours, all in one sitting. My then 2 1/2-year-old daughter was the subject of the painting, and I remember feeling like each brush stroke just fell into place, effortlessly, as though I was channeling some divine Creativity and it had nothing to do with me. Ask any artist, whether novice or professional - they will tell you that these moments DO exist, but they are very rare, even for the best of the best. 

Fast forward two years to spring of 2018 when I started "Child of Spring". I was pregnant with my second child, already as uncomfortable as could be, and feeling like my brain was being consumed PacMan style by the little boy growing inside me. I couldn't focus on my work or make any kind of articulate expressions, whether with words or with paint. This, to me, was the single-most frustrating thing about pregnancy, winning out over heartburn and the 567 daily trips to the bathroom. It was frustrating because it felt like I--an Achiever--was being robbed of what I'm normally pretty good at.

Here are a few shots from the early stages of the painting.

It was when I got to this point (above)--where the portrait was pretty much locked in, but it was time to start focusing on the blossoms--that I "quit." I didn't know if I was going to finish it, because my excitement for the original concept and block-in fell flat. I set the painting aside and focused on other projects for several months.

After my son was born (August 2018), I picked up the painting again and worked on it some more. I thought that maybe it would be finished in time for the 2019 Portrait Society competition, but once again I became discouraged, and didn't enter it. 

The deadline came and went, but I was distracted with the excruciatingly stressful, exciting and all-consuming process of buying a home and moving (Feb-March of 2019).

Almost finished... but, mushy.

Above: It sat in this state for months on end. I had called it "finished" (even signed it in the upper righthand corner), but never posted it publicly. I knew deep down that it wasn't good enough yet. The flowers felt flat and "mushy" to me, showing how indecisive I was in my paint handling. The portrait felt strong, but I wasn't crazy about some of the light shapes on the dress, or the shapes of the branches in the background. I would set the painting on my easel, look at it, and then put it back into storage because my brain was too muddled to solve all the problems that remained.

Almost a year after our move, I finally pulled out the painting again, and finished it, thanks to the advice of several artist friends, and my own renewed sense of vigor. I strengthened the shapes overall by creating more contrast and more interesting edge dynamics, and by repainting several areas altogether. Every inch of the painting was reassessed to see whether or not it was worth leaving or reworking. I realized that the time away was not wasted. I had learned things that could be applied to this painting now--skills that were not yet mature enough a year or two before.

So my encouragement to you, fellow artists, is to not get discouraged! It's okay to let a painting sit and breathe for months or years on end. You might come back to it with just the right solution if you can just be patient with yourself and the process. And don't get sucked into thinking that the only successful paintings are the ones that you whip out in three hours after being possessed by the Divine Creativity! If that happens to you, great. But more often than not, you just have to be willing to put in the work. Happy painting, friends!

The finished painting

Through the Valley of Death -- and Back

This is an art blog. It’s also a blog about personal experience, parenting, and life. Once in a while, my posts are more about life than they are about art, but I think the two are inseparable. So… warning: this is going to be long and very personal but hopefully, if you are going through something similar it will inspire you to take action. 

In the past month, I’ve learned a lot about stress. I learned about a thing called “adrenal fatigue”, about the importance of completing a “stress cycle”, and that it’s not “just stress”, but a physiological condition that if left unchecked, can actually kill you. I learned that in order for a hug to release oxytocin and dopamine (which alleviate stress), the hug has to be heart to heart and ideally last 20 seconds.

“What could you possibly be stressed about?”, you might ask. “You always look happy and calm and in control of your life.” I mean, yeah—I curate my image on social media. I don’t show you pictures of me with tears running down my face or with yogurt smeared all over my clothes, or groaning in frustration as my toddler squirms during a diaper change like he’s possessed. Kids can be stressful. Mine are 5 and 18 months… they’re still very little and very needy. But what else? Painting deadlines? Keeping up with the new house? Family tension? Over-committing to things? Crossfit? Unmet needs??

Maybe it’s all of above. Either way, since at least November–probably longer—I haven’t been myself. There was this feeling of never being fully awake or alert: a brain fog. No matter how much I cleaned up my nutrition, or how much sleep I got, or how I tailored my workouts, I couldn’t find energy for even the most menial tasks. The new house, already a mess (because, you know, THE TODDLER), succumbed to total disarray. My studio time, already dismal, became less and less as I couldn’t muster the energy to sit down at my easel and start painting. I had blood tests done. The doctor said I was “perfectly healthy” and that I was probably “just stressed.” My skin was breaking out like crazy; I had infections and rashes that wouldn’t go away. I was depressed, and no fun to be around. I had anxiety over seemingly everything, big or small. I couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep. People were asking me in January, what my goals were for the New Year. And I couldn’t give them a straight answer, because the reality was, I just wanted to feel better. 

So I paid a long-overdue visit to my therapist. “Am I ever going to feel like myself?” I asked. “I don’t even remember what the ‘real me’ was like before this relentless exhaustion set in.” 

“First of all,” she said, “It’s totally normal for mothers of kids your age to feel burnt out. Everyone will tell you that this is the hardest time. Secondly… it sounds like you have adrenal fatigue.” I had never heard of adrenal fatigue before. It happens as a result of ongoing, long-term stress, caused by things like trauma, PTSD, or hello—motherhood. “With repetitive stress, the adrenal glands can stay ‘turned on,’ putting out adrenaline and cortisol on a rather constant basis” (quoting my mom here since she was so succinct in her description of it). But since the “real” doctors kept telling me I was fine, when I clearly wasn’t, I was open to other ideas. 

My therapist referred me to a naturopathic doctor, and I ended up testing off the charts for adrenal fatigue. He sent me home with some natural meds, and I experienced my first-ever session of acupuncture. When I arrived home, the “edge” was completely gone. I was able to be patient and kind with my kids, and not flip out over the little things anymore. It was finally a step in the right direction. 

To help with my healing, I decided to go on a solo getaway. My husband fully supported this and stayed home with the kids so I could have my adventure.

I spent 4 days/3 nights off the grid in Death Valley National Park, and it was absolutely amazing.

Mosaic Canyon

This trip wasn’t really about painting. It was about being under zero pressure to perform, conform, or please. It was about not being needed by anyone for just a few days. About being silent and alone – which, as an introvert, I need regularly and haven’t been getting! It was also about losing track of time, so that for once I would be out from under its control. I was free to go to bed when I wanted, wake up when I wanted, explore to my heart’s content, and hike all the most dangerous and least kid-friendly places you can imagine!

Jeep Wrangler. Love this vehicle!

I had a lot of ideas about what I wanted to do, but I spent most of the time driving around, hiking, and breathing in God’s creation, while listening to audio books and music that fed my soul and affirmed my need for healing. I slept 10-12 hours every night! I did a little bit of painting too.

Salt Creek

My first painting using my brand new Fly on the Wall easel, made by Prolific Painter.
Colors for this piece: Alizarin crimson, Chinese Orange (Sennelier), Yellow Ochre (Michael Harding), Mentler Mustard (Rembrandt), Tit. White, Ultramarine, Cerulean blue (Sennelier), Ivory Black (Gamblin)

"Salt Creek" - 8x8" - oil on panel

"Zabriskie Point Diagonals," 8x10. Painted in about an hour and a half, mid-afternoon. 

"Zabriskie Point Diagonals" - 8x10" - oil on linen panel

Painting an alluvial fan in midday light, 12x9" oil on panel

My favorite excursion was the 8-mile round trip hike to Panamint Dunes. These dunes were special because you have to really work to get to them. The gravel road that leads to the “trailhead” isn’t marked and requires a high clearance vehicle. So that automatically weeded out a huge number of tourists and ensured that this would be a more exclusive, quiet experience.

My rented Jeep Wrangler handled the rough, pothole-ridden road well, and to be honest, I kind of enjoyed it (like, a lot. Now I want a Jeep for Christmas…). I think in another life, I would have lived in a van or gone camping all the time. A life, perhaps, that didn’t require me to be always close to civilization and schools and pediatricians’ offices. And while I will never regret having children, this trip (and past hiking trips for that matter) has made me long even more for the independence I can’t have when I’m caring for my young ones. I’ve always said that Elsa is my “spirit” Disney princess. She is fiercely independent, and seeks after adventure and solitude. Something calls her “into the unknown,” and I relate strongly to that feeling. Of course, I wouldn’t really know about Elsa if I didn’t have a 5-year-old daughter who is obsessed with “Frozen…”

But I digress.

It took about an hour and half to walk the four miles out to the dunes. There was a kind of spellbinding rhythm to it. You could see the towering sand from miles away, and the trail didn’t need to be marked. All you had to do was walk a straight line through the desert.

Virgin sand

My tracks from there and back

When I got to the dunes, I met a group of four young men and women who had backpacked out there and were camping out for several nights. They were very friendly and we enjoyed some deep conversation as we sat at the top of the highest dune. I found out that they were aspiring artists (filmmakers) from LA. They were all very charming and I enjoyed their company for quite some time. After they left, I hung out at the top for a while longer, trying to hang on to every sensory experience: the 360-degree view for miles, the warmth of the sun, the sound of the breeze, the feel of the sand on my bare legs and feet. It was magical.

A couple of things that were brought to the forefront of my mind during my wanderings:

I was reminded about my purpose. One of the points in the book I was listening to (“Burnout” by Emily and Amelia Nagoski) was that people need meaning in their lives in order to make it through stressful situations. If you don’t have purpose or meaning, it can be easy to stop trying, or default to giving up.

Here’s where I find my meaning:

In my art

In my kids

In love and serving others (my husband, kids, others)

In learning new things

In honoring my Creator with my thoughts, words and deeds

What gets in the way? According to the “Burnout” book it’s “Human giver syndrome”: the false, contagious belief that women have a moral obligation to be pretty, happy, calm, generous, and attentive to the needs of others. Hmm… I might be infected with a touch of that. Anyone else relate? But I also think that turning inward and focusing only on yourself, can be just as damaging. More on that in a minute.

I was given a new perspective: There’s a place in Death Valley where you can stand overlooking a cliff over 5000 feet above sea level—straight down to the lowest point in North America, at 282 feet below sea level. That kind of view makes you feel small, and sometimes, that’s a good thing, because if I’m small, then my problems are too. Death Valley, and the Panamint Dunes especially, brought everything literally and figuratively into PERSPECTIVE. That was the word of the trip. The young people I met at the dunes were incredibly optimistic and wise. I heard one of them say, “Today should always be the best day you’ve ever had.” Such a positive outlook! From what he told me, one of them had met with trauma and came out on the other side a better person. Now he’s making a film about it. Wow. PERSPECTIVE. My stress, my issues, my frustrations… they should not be robbing me of my joy, optimism, or sanity. I should be dealing with those stressors a little bit at a time each day, while acknowledging that they serve a purpose.

Dante's View

A little painting at Mesquite Dunes

That person out there had the right idea

I also realized that I’ve been so stuck inside my own head that I have not been open to giving or receiving love. I’ve treated it like a commodity rather than what it actually is: a wellspring that never runs dry. Stress, fatigue, and depression left me retreating constantly inward instead of reaching out to the world and people around me. I hadn’t been open to interactions—such as the one at the dunes, or even simple acts of affection to and from my loved ones – because of stress. That is obviously a sign that I wasn’t okay! But now, I feel like I’m seeing that stress from the objective viewpoint at the top of a pyramid of sand. That stress is smaller than me, it’s smaller than my Lord, and together, we can take it on! We can also, as the authors suggest, “Close the stress cycle.” This trip is a start to that. Finally, some clarity! And I can start forming a game plan for “closing the stress cycle” each and every day.

This trip boosted my confidence. It was a good reminder that yes, I can do a thing. I am a grown-a$$ woman who is very capable, strong, smart, and able to go out on her own and thrive. I felt like I had been released from captivity.

Coming back home from a trip like this makes me a better mom and a better wife… and hopefully a better painter too. Already I feel a weight off my shoulders. I feel refreshed, calm, and ready to tackle the challenges life has for me. Thanks for reading, and I hope if you are going through something similar (ahem, I’m mostly talking to you, moms!) that you take some time for yourself. It’s not selfish – it’s necessary.

Onward.

Saltwater flats

Zabriskie Point

All the little people

View of the Panamint Dunes and Amargosa range from where I was staying, about 15 miles west

An artist at Artist's Palette along Artist's Drive :-)