Duck Tonglen

Mr. & Mrs. Mallard are back from their winter vacation. This year though, the Mrs. came home with an injured leg. She hobbles along, trying to walk, falling over again and again as the injured leg collapses under her weight. It's heart-wrenching to watch her awkwardly dragging herself along the ground eating the seeds that have fallen from the feeder. Mr. Mallard hovers around her with a sweet, worried vigilance. He leaves her side only to chase off aggressive suitors trying to win the affections of his life-long mate. I've gone into worry-hyper-drive. How will she survive? How will she lead her ducklings to water? And so for almost two weeks my husband and I have fed them, watching with cheering hearts and wonder as she made her way.

Some of you may not of heard of Tonglen. I guess you could describe it as a cheering heart. It's a Buddhist meditation practice also known as "sending and receiving" that focuses on the breath and awakening compassion. Simply put, we breath in the suffering we see around us, and breath out our own peace, joy, well-being to those who are suffering. As a meditation practice we do this consciously, with vivid awareness. We all have a natural capacity for this cheering heart that stirs whenever we encounter pain and suffering. Given a chance, the inner alchemy of Tonglen practice can profoundly affect our lives.

Imagine applying Tonglen to your painting practice. How many dimensions could be affected? Are you one of those painters who is filled with fear and self criticism? With Tonglen we breath in fear and self criticism felt the world over by artists just like yourself. And then we exhale, sending joy, peace and confidence to them. We take in all of their suffering, and we send out all of the happiness we can imagine to the artists of the world. It may sound a bit cock-eyed. Trust the inner alchemy. See what happens when you sit down to paint.

These past two days have me dancing with excitement— Mrs. Mallard can walk again! She can stand on both legs without falling. There is new strength in her gait. And there's an inner renewal for me as well— to remember to exhale...

Preparing The Ground

Spring is here and she certainly takes her own sweet time! I am restless with anticipation to dig around in the garden beds, clearing away debris so new plants can sprout and flourish. It's much the same in the art studio— too much debris cluttering the space impedes the growth of new work. Between paintings I clean brushes in soap and warm water, sponge off my palette, sort and file reference materials and plan the next composition.

I especially like the process of preparing watercolor paper for painting. It has taken on an almost sacred dimension in my painting process. These silent preparations are the ground of new work and like tender sprouting buds in the garden, I handle the paper with gratitude, a certain reverence and attention. I soak the paper in luke warm water for ten to twenty minutes. While the paper is soaking I wash and dry a good sized table to work on. Ding! I like to use a timer because it also reminds me to wake up, breath and be here. I stretch the paper on clean gator board moving quickly around the edges to the rhythmic clack of a stapler. And then I just let the paper be. It rests, horizontally flat, drying and shrinking taut against the stapled edge. A clean slate. Blissfully clear of concept, it's white expanse is full of potential. This is our life. This is the space between breaths.

As artists we must find a way to calm the neurotic chatter of the mind so that our artistic vision can break through. Something as simple as a few moments of stillness can reconnect body and mind. Handling tools with attention and care leaves no room for chatter to cloud expression on the paper or canvas.

Painting Season

This is painting season— January, February and March. The light is superb. There are no leaves on the trees to filter sunlight and it bounces off the snow creating unimaginable blazing crystal clear light! Even overcast days are bright. I paint dawn to dusk, pushing myself not to waste a minute of this light. The series I'm working on includes some detailed images that require all of the focus and concentration I can muster. I begin with a tracing of the larger areas and as I paint along, I refine the drawing, reworking it and adding more details as the painting progresses.

I feel a change brewing in my work. Maybe it's just the child rebelling against the required concentration. But the inner rumblings are growing more insistent. We'll see.

I'm disappointed that my fledgling painting group petered out over the holidays. But I'm also secretly delighted because now there are no interruptions to my painting season. Students wander aimlessly from class to class and teacher to teacher like sleep walkers drugged by a culture that demands we continually look for completion outside of ourselves. There are not enough classes, teachers or art supplies to ever assuage the emptiness everyone searches so hard to fill.

My recommendation: Everyday, for maybe ten or twenty minutes— no, let's make that 5 minutes— simply sit still and breathe. Be vividly aware of the breath filling and leaving your body. As that awareness grows, it will become your most valuable painting tool. No one can give that to you. It's a do-it-yourself-project. A bazillion art classes can't compare. Next, pick up that brush and paint. It's just like breathing.