People often ask me the why of what I do, and I’ve finally found the words to explain—painting lets me communicate when words fail. When I need painting inspiration I simply go into the yard and spend a few minutes communing with my colorful, petaled friends. The flowers are my paint.
A swath of royal purple corduroy is finally put to use in a homemade quilt 46 years in the making. My mom would love that her great-granddaughter is enjoying the sewing she started long ago.
Gene Medaris (1929-2019) My father passed away yesterday, after a long journey through the shadows of dementia. He was my
Why had I waited so long to get extra care for Dad? Two reasons: foolish pride and a foolish vow.
We'd made it home for Christmas. Now it was time for the long road back, and I wasn't sure I was ready to start caregiving again.
I’m realizing it wasn’t fame and notoriety that I craved over the years, it was having influence. And as I age, I’m realizing influence comes in many forms. I’m still afraid of being forgotten. But I’m going to begin cutting back on work in small steps.
Why, oh why, is it so hard for us to give ourselves permission to paint?