Over the years, lots of wise people have tried to help me understand that making art is a process. That love is a process. That friendship is a process. That parenting is a process. That learning is a process. That life is a process.

 

I think I’m finally starting to get it. Maybe that’s because grief is also a process, one that is constant and all-consuming and is where I find myself now. Grief, as it turns out, is pretty good at showing me the meaning and importance of process.

 

It comes from Old French proces, which means “a journey” and from Latin processus, which means “a going forward.” My favorite dictionary definition is “dealing with something emotional and making sense of it.”

 

Hello grief.

 

While I’m something of a free spirit who likes adventure and taking chances, there’s no denying I’m a quintessential Virgo (I make lists, I organize my sock drawer, I alphabetize the spice cabinet, I need to be productive) and a typical photographer (I pay attention to detail, I thrive on projects, I admit to being somewhat anal). Too often, while making something I'll deem complete or even “perfect,” I don’t pay attention to what it took to get there. The bumps, the curves, the handwringing, the tears, the compromises, the failures, the resolutions, the small victories, even the obvious and simple joys of the journey. I tend to skip over those parts in favor of organizing the most efficient path towards success. Towards neat and tidy. I can see now that the parts I often choose to ignore or reject are those that can ultimately lead to the most important lessons of all. According to Google it was Emerson who said: it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.

 

During the past 116 days since Eddie died, I’ve had to process a lot of stuff: the funeral and memorial service, the empty side of the bed, dinners for one, managing finances, being a single parent to Charlie-dog, traveling solo, talking out loud to someone who never responds, stepping into a closet full of clothes and shoes that aren’t being worn anymore, being by myself, living by myself (for the very first time).

 

But mostly, I’m having to process who I am now.  Where I am now. Not getting hung up on who I’ll be next. Or where I’ll be next.

 

Being here, in this moment, without thinking ahead.

 

The challenge of this journey seems to be about meeting myself anew each day. Making sense of getting out of bed, putting one foot in front of the other, joining the world. Stuff that was so easy before. Stuff I took for granted. Stuff I can’t control so well now. Stuff I’m not very good at some days.

 

Since Eddie died my life has been far from neat and tidy.

 

I can think of few better ways for me to grapple with that than through creative expression. A few weeks ago I enrolled in an online abstract painting class taught by Santa Fe artist Julie Schumer. This was a stretch for me because: a) I’m not really a painter and b) when I have painted it’s not been in an abstract style. I knew immediately, when Julie said to get started by simply making marks on the canvas, I was in the right place. Intuitive drawing/painting involves surrendering to the process, letting it take you wherever your heart and gut and instincts want to go. Using your head is discouraged. Once you get the hang of it, using your intuition instead of your brain lets you tap into energy, aliveness and emotions. Imagine me, a Virgo photographer, letting go of expectations and the drive to create a masterpiece. I’m only a few weeks into the class, but that’s exactly what’s happening, and it feels good.

 

This practice seems to align nicely with the process of grief. Make a mess (sobbing openly at the bank because the password to my online statement isn’t working); paint over something I don’t like (listening to music instead of the news); make slashes on the canvas (punching the pillow); close my eyes while schmearing paint around (meditating); pretend I’m Jackson Pollack (feeling empowered after reading the manual and assembling my new turntable); getting rid of expectations (feeling ok about not feeling ok); not knowing what’s coming next (letting go); not knowing exactly when a piece is finished (freefalling).

 

I don’t know if either of these paintings is complete, but I thought I’d share the process of getting them to where they are now. It involved lots of good things: changing my mind, starting again, forgiving myself, not thinking, expressing both good and bad feelings, allowing myself to make a mess, trying new things and accepting where I am.

 

Being here, in this moment, without thinking ahead.

 

Like I said, hello grief. But also, hello abstract painting.



My Blog

process

1/27/2025


Over the years, lots of wise people have tried to help me understand that making art is a process. That love is a process. That friendship is a process. That parenting is a process. That learning is a process. That life is a process.

 

I think I’m finally starting to get it. Maybe that’s because grief is also a process, one that is constant and all-consuming and is where I find myself now. Grief, as it turns out, is pretty good at showing me the meaning and importance of process.

 

It comes from Old French proces, which means “a journey” and from Latin processus, which means “a going forward.” My favorite dictionary definition is “dealing with something emotional and making sense of it.”

 

Hello grief.

 

While I’m something of a free spirit who likes adventure and taking chances, there’s no denying I’m a quintessential Virgo (I make lists, I organize my sock drawer, I alphabetize the spice cabinet, I need to be productive) and a typical photographer (I pay attention to detail, I thrive on projects, I admit to being somewhat anal). Too often, while making something I'll deem complete or even “perfect,” I don’t pay attention to what it took to get there. The bumps, the curves, the handwringing, the tears, the compromises, the failures, the resolutions, the small victories, even the obvious and simple joys of the journey. I tend to skip over those parts in favor of organizing the most efficient path towards success. Towards neat and tidy. I can see now that the parts I often choose to ignore or reject are those that can ultimately lead to the most important lessons of all. According to Google it was Emerson who said: it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.

 

During the past 116 days since Eddie died, I’ve had to process a lot of stuff: the funeral and memorial service, the empty side of the bed, dinners for one, managing finances, being a single parent to Charlie-dog, traveling solo, talking out loud to someone who never responds, stepping into a closet full of clothes and shoes that aren’t being worn anymore, being by myself, living by myself (for the very first time).

 

But mostly, I’m having to process who I am now.  Where I am now. Not getting hung up on who I’ll be next. Or where I’ll be next.

 

Being here, in this moment, without thinking ahead.

 

The challenge of this journey seems to be about meeting myself anew each day. Making sense of getting out of bed, putting one foot in front of the other, joining the world. Stuff that was so easy before. Stuff I took for granted. Stuff I can’t control so well now. Stuff I’m not very good at some days.

 

Since Eddie died my life has been far from neat and tidy.

 

I can think of few better ways for me to grapple with that than through creative expression. A few weeks ago I enrolled in an online abstract painting class taught by Santa Fe artist Julie Schumer. This was a stretch for me because: a) I’m not really a painter and b) when I have painted it’s not been in an abstract style. I knew immediately, when Julie said to get started by simply making marks on the canvas, I was in the right place. Intuitive drawing/painting involves surrendering to the process, letting it take you wherever your heart and gut and instincts want to go. Using your head is discouraged. Once you get the hang of it, using your intuition instead of your brain lets you tap into energy, aliveness and emotions. Imagine me, a Virgo photographer, letting go of expectations and the drive to create a masterpiece. I’m only a few weeks into the class, but that’s exactly what’s happening, and it feels good.

 

This practice seems to align nicely with the process of grief. Make a mess (sobbing openly at the bank because the password to my online statement isn’t working); paint over something I don’t like (listening to music instead of the news); make slashes on the canvas (punching the pillow); close my eyes while schmearing paint around (meditating); pretend I’m Jackson Pollack (feeling empowered after reading the manual and assembling my new turntable); getting rid of expectations (feeling ok about not feeling ok); not knowing what’s coming next (letting go); not knowing exactly when a piece is finished (freefalling).

 

I don’t know if either of these paintings is complete, but I thought I’d share the process of getting them to where they are now. It involved lots of good things: changing my mind, starting again, forgiving myself, not thinking, expressing both good and bad feelings, allowing myself to make a mess, trying new things and accepting where I am.

 

Being here, in this moment, without thinking ahead.

 

Like I said, hello grief. But also, hello abstract painting.