Today, let me do the reading for you. Take the next five minutes, (6 actually) and listen to my newest book, “A door in the forest,” and know for certain that you are not alone.

Available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Richard Diebenkorn is not a household name.  Not like Matisse or Picasso.  I have probably heard or seen his name once or twice in the last twenty years, and I live in this world.  Yesterday I watched a short video on the exhibit in which he was paired with Matisse.  Their collective artistic styles melded so beautifully together.  And it was like seeing him again, for the first time. It made me smile. Just a few hours later I was reading in a new book, “We Run the Tides.”  A young person is attending a party at a friend’s house – he asks where the bathroom is and the mother says, “turn left at the Diebenkorn. ” He has no idea what that is – that it is even a painting – but I do, and it makes me smile.  Two Diebenkorns in one day.  

Some may call it chance, or coincidence… I don’t know what it is really – but I like it when it happens.  It feels to me like a nod from the universe, a wink from an angel… just to let you know that hey, I see you, you’re on the right path.  Sometimes, when you’re driving a long distance, and you know you’re on the right freeway, but after a few miles a small green sign on the side of the road confirms your route – it feels comforting – it feels like that.  

Maybe we don’t always see the signs, the green ones or the colorful Diebenkorns, but I think once we start seeing them, it gets easier. I’m not sure they happen more frequently, we just become more open to them, more open to seeing what we need to see.  And when we can do that, find the good, oh how much better the days, the miles in between can be.  Today, take a look around, and if the universe, or that wayward angel gives you a nod, or a wink, be sure to give one back!  

 “Love, if you see me, I am a painter.

Brush in one hand and heart in the other,

I awaken to the orange and yellow genesis of a morning sky,

crawl through the green of afternoon growth,

and long for the blue of an evening embrace, 

to cover the red of the beat that carries me.

Love, if you read me, I am a poet.

Pen in one hand and heart in the other,

I climb phrases like mountains,

stumbling over syllables,

slowed by my own syn-tax,

I pause to gather the words with no strings attached.

Love, if you feel me, I am a sculptor.

Clay in one hand and heart in the other,

I press together, and form and bruise,

and mold, and build,

and heat, and crack…

waiting, resting on an open shelf.

Love, if you hear me, I am a singer.

music in one hand and heart in the other,

I hum the sheets of strength,

the sounds of compassion,

stretch for the notes of peace,

as the conductor calls for courage.”

Love, if you do see me, how will I know you?

How do I recognize love as it passes,

leaving not a path, but an imprint,

as it keeps changing shape….

Love keeps changing shape.

Love changes shape,

and color, 

and meaning,

and size,

and voice.

Love is always changing, and moving,

visiting places I’ve never seen, and waiting…

resting with patience,

feeding with forgiveness,

and holding with an ever evolving shape.

How do I see you, when you are red, yellow, black, white and blue?

Sometimes you are big and gentle, and carry those who dare think they are carrying you.

And then you fit perfectly into that tiny little space, that nothing else could fill.

So where are you now? How do I recognize you?

You keep changing shape…

How do I see what’s right in front of me…

Unless… unless, that is you…all you…

You are red, yellow, black, white and blue.

You are tall, and lie humble, and roll cracked, and sing ringing in my ears.

Love, that is you that keeps changing shape.

You, Love, selflessly and graciously, keep changing shape

for painter and poet, for sculptor and singer,

for life’s traveler, looking for love’s west.

With heart in heart, and outstretched hands,

when I feel what I cannot touch,

when I believe what I cannot see,

then love, whatever the shape, 

maybe when we meet, I will know you.”

When my nephew was three, or four, he had not yet subscribed to the social pressures of carrying a tune. He knew he loved music. He knew he loved his grandmother, my mother. He didn’t know that her piano teacher told her she was wasting her parents’ money, and that she grew up, without the confidence of a voice. But she had one. And within the unjudging paneled walls of her apartment on Jefferson Street, he would turn up the radio, and shout with all of his joy-filled heart, “Sing, Mamma! Sing!”

So I sing. Am I good at it? If you mean do I love it, do I do it often?… then yes. If it is judged by some other standard, then, I guess, I don’t know. But why would it be judged? I’m singing. It’s like if you asked me, are you good at breathing? I sing. I sing, I sing, and I sing. I think, I hope, I want to sing because I’m grateful. I’m so grateful that I get to sing. That I get to sing alone. That I get to sing with others. That I get to hear it. That I get to feel the joy in my heart, my throat, and then in the trees. Joy is nothing to be judged. Just enjoyed. I think if I questioned it, I would just suck the life right out of it. I sing. I live. I love. I hope I can just be grateful for these things – these amazing experiences. I hope you can too. Because it’s all pretty amazing. Look around. Just look. Just listen. This is not a bad day. This is life. This is joy. Just sing.

When my mother was a teenager, she went to the Lakeside Ballroom in Glenwood, Minnesota. The golden, smooth, wooden dance floor looked out on Lake Minnewaska. Big bands would play. Tommy Dorsey. Jimmy Dorsey. Stars would come to this small, but elegant ballroom, and she would dance. In front of real, accomplished musicians, this farm girl would put on her dancing shoes, not high, but fast. She was a tall girl from Minnesota. And when she danced, she went to each place, every place, every place those musicians had played before – New York, New Orleans, Memphis, Chicago, she was there. In every glided step, she was there. She was strong. She was beautiful and she belonged.

She would need that muscle memory. When her future husband would one day look at her and say, “I could kill you and it wouldn’t bother me a bit…” – she would use that muscle memory, that strong calved muscle memory of a pretty girl, with dreams of pretty things.

It was just yesterday when she felt the breezes from Lakeside Ballroom, dreamed of Frank Sinatra, gave her heart, smelled the youth of her children, broke her heart, and trusted her heart again. It was just today when the wind brushed her skirt, she hoped and twirled like a little girl.

When they told her she had cancer, she would use that muscle memory. Every day she would work her way again through the crowd of insecurities, fear, and step onto that dance floor. She was still a tall girl from Minnesota. A pretty girl who dreamed of pretty things. Don’t ever mess with the girl who knows how to twirl.

Is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo? The song played us into breakfast this morning, and led us back to our Tennessee excursion.

I have always been attracted to cities with a personality. The obvious ones, Paris, New York – now they have big personalities. But they come in all shapes and sizes.

We visited Chattanooga a couple of years ago. Of course we took pictures by the train while singing the song, but then the city surprised us. Wifi everywhere. This little city, is not just backed by just a catchy tune, it is supported by city-wide wifi. Chattanooga offers free public wifi service. Wifi everywhere. In the car, on the side of the road. Free wifi for a song – sorry – I had to say it. Genius!

The world is full of surprises – adventures. That’s what we go on. Not vacations, but adventures. What can we discover?

One of the biggest personalities we have ever experienced is New Orleans. This city is filled with music and food, as are many, so what sets it apart? I heard once, that you are only as deep as what’s carved into you. And this city has been carved. Neither wars, nor hurricanes could bring this magical place to its knees. It has risen again and again with a spirit that gets into your soul, deeply. It’s not just survival. Survival exists, triumph, now that’s alive! Triumph is a parade of music that marches down streets, and raises voices off balconies and sings, oh yeah!!!

I guess I’m drawn to the same type of people. People with personalities. People with personalities so big that they stick in your head like a Chattanooga choo choo. People who have not just survived, but overcome! People who have taken scraps and dared to build lives! I want to celebrate with all of them.

I want to create the same adventure in my life. So what is adventure? Learning, growing, surprising, listening, seeing, chancing, trying, creating. Seeing what’s there and giving thanks. Seeing what isn’t there and reaching for it.

Helen Keller said, “Life is a daring adventure, or nothing at all.” I want to live. The music has already started, get aboard, let today’s adventure begin!

“You gotta know the rules before you can break the rules.”  Miles Davis

David Hockney, born in 1937, recently united with Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890). Separated by time and space, they were united by a shared fascination with nature. The work of David Hockney and Vincent van Gogh can now be seen side-by-side in Hockney – Van Gogh: The Joy of Nature.

This exhibition examines their profound love of nature through brilliant color and the capacity to see the world with fresh eyes. The Joy of Nature reveals Van Gogh’s unmistakable influence on Hockney in a selection of carefully selected landscape paintings and drawings.

The Joy of Nature brings together nearly 50 of Hockney’s vibrant works—ranging from intimate sketchbook studies to monumental paintings, as well as his experimental videos and iPad drawings—with 10 carefully chosen original paintings and drawings by Van Gogh.

Hockney has earned the right to experiment with colors, to draw on the ipad because he has studied. Studied the greats – the greatest painters, the greatest artistic creations sprouting from the ground.

Too many artists, people in general, want to skip the work. Go straight to the ipad, straight to the pay-off, the instant gratification. But we have to do the work. 

When the Swiss chef, Daniel Humm, came to conquer New York city, his restaurant was reviewed as good, very “Rolling Stones,” but, the critic continued, she wished it was a little more “Miles Davis.” Humm took this very seriously. He researched Miles Davis and began to love not only the music, but his philosophy. He hung signs for inspiration throughout the restaurant. 

Cool.

Endless Reinvention.

Inspired.

Forward moving.

Fresh.

Collaborative.

Spontaneous.

Vibrant.

Adventurous.

Light.

Innovative.

Eleven Madison Park.

Daring to learn. To become. Humm took Eleven Madison Park to the top, voted the number one restaurant, not just in New York City, but in the world.

I know the sense of urgency you have to get there, I feel it, we all do. We want to feel only the joy, the rewards of our passion. But the work must be done. Again and again. So I paint daily and sketch and draw and write and read. I learn about Van Gogh and Hockney. And all of the colors in between I learn and I try and I repeat.

The German word for passion is “leidenschaft.” Loosely translated it means to suffer, or endure. The work must be done. And the rewards, just as the passion, oh, the rewards! — they are in the doing!

Do the work. Become. It’s in our nature. It’s where we find our joy.

They say timing is everything. I don’t know that it’s everything, but it does play a big part. Take friendship. People come in and out of your life. The friend I needed in fourth grade, (Cindy Lanigan) to help me survive my first sleep-over (or survive my not-completing my first sleep-over), was not the same as the friend (Colleen Abrahamson) to whom I told secrets to on the volleyball bus, or the same friend I trusted to make me laugh in the darkest times (Lisa Widmark). And none of these are, of course, the same as the way-beyond-lifelong-soulmate friend (my mom).

I think there are a million shapes in a heart, each needing to be filled. And we are so lucky (or blessed) (or very smart to recognize) when someone comes along to fill that space. And whatever time we are given, is a gift, a perfect gift. Perfection knows no time constraints. It lasts a day, it lasts forever.

There are many friends I don’t see anymore. So many reasons can separate us. And even though the time may no longer be filled together, the spaces in my heart remain complete. For this, I am eternally grateful. For all my best friends, my childhood friends, my college friends, and grown-up friends, my work friends, my art friends, my related friends, my new friends… This book is for you!

Friend.

I really like who I am with you…
I hope that doesn’t sound bad to say…
I mean it more as a compliment to you, more of a “thank you” really.
You free me to be this person who laughs and
cries and feels and enjoys and loves.
What a relief to be myself,
without performing, or worrying…
just being and becoming who I am…
That’s some gift…
I hope I’m returning it…
because you know what,
I really like who you are with me.
You – in a world filled with so many people,
living so many lives – it’s you.
It’s amazing that your one life can mean so much to mine.
It’s wonderful how much your life matters.
It matters to me if you’re excited or scared, or looking for something.
Out of all the billions of faces, I see you.
I feel your strength, and it helps me feel my own.
I hear a laugh in a crowd,
and I smile, because I know it came from you,
and it makes me feel special to recognize the joy
that comes from your one life.
Out of all the countless drummers,
I hear you. What a beautiful noise.
And yet, we can say nothing, and know exactly what the other means.
We’ve seen each other through beginnings and ends.
You are a constant in this impermanent place.
Thank you for all of it…
the sounds
and the peace
and the fun
and the calm
and the strength.
Thank you for making car rides shorter.
Thank you for being the person I go to when I need to start the conversation,
“OK, but don’t tell anybody…” and I know you won’t.
And thank you for entrusting me with the same.
Thank you for your ever willing hands,
that are just there to help me,
and not trying to fix me.
Thank you for nodding, when even I know I’m not making any sense.
And thanks for telling me about that thing dragging from my shoe.
Thanks for abiding by the unwritten rule that only one of us can freak out
at a time…and for allowing me the extra turns.
Thank you for the inside jokes
and for laughing at my repeats.
Thank you for knowing things –
with no exhausting explanations needed.
Thanks for being around on Tuesdays,
and not just special occasions.
You’re really good at all the little things,
and that’s a pretty big deal!
Thank you for giving me a part of you, and bringing to life a part of me.
I think that’s what a true friend does,
not only gives you a part of themselves,
but gives you more of yourself –
lets you be yourself.
I know you’re thinking, “anyone could have done it,”
and you’re right, everyone can,
just not everyone does…
But you did, you do…
And for this, my friend,
I make you a promise,
when the daring others look at me,
really look at me, on one of my best days,
they will see you…and they will know,
I am only better for having such a friend.
It makes a difference, you know,
the goodness created between friends.
It grows and it travels, between and beyond.
Some might say, “All of this goes without saying, doesn’t it?”
Maybe it does, but I don’t want to take that chance.
Every day, you need to know how special you are to this world,
and thankfully, to me!
Not to be all dramatic…
We’ll talk tomorrow about nothing and everything.
But before we get deep into conversation
about how cool it is to be like us,
I wanted to tell you that
it’s great to be your friend.

The first thing she said when she saw this painting was, “Where do you think I can buy that blouse?”

My mother has always loved fashion. It didn’t come from her mother, or father.  She was the first born girl (but please don’t ever introduce her as the oldest, she will have to say, “but the prettiest”) so it wasn’t handed down from siblings. They certainly weren’t a wealthy family. And the farm kids didn’t get to run to town to go shopping. Anyway, there was no mall. 

But it was inside of her. Always. Maybe we don’t choose what will save us, but we choose to be saved. And she was. Always. A gloomy day, a broken heart, could forever be brightened at the mall. Lifted. Lightened. Colored. And eventually healed. 

She gave me a small plaque when I was a little girl. A stained board. A little girl in a pink dress in front of a store window. It read, “Buy while the heart still swells with youth.”

In her 80’s now… or should I say nearly 80… (The back story to that is, she would always say, she was “nearly” that age, even well past — for example, driving to Chicago, she was at the wheel, and a little nervous to merge, and in her defense claimed, “Well, I’m nearly 60…” — 67 at the time.  :))  I digress.  Today, nearly 80, she still knows what can brighten her day, lighten her load, and keep her young. She is still that little girl in front of the window, dreaming, young, hopeful…her heart, swelling with youth, and she is saved.