We've all been in a place where we are lost in our work. Whether you are painting, sculpting, playing music, researching, sharing a story, deep in prayer or meditation, or working to solve a complex problem, you've been so engaged with your work that you lose track of time, you forget to eat or sleep or hold onto anxieties. All the cares of the world leave you. You find your truest self in these moments, and at the same time lose yourself. You know God. This is called Creative Flow. Now that we have brain imaging, and we can see what happens during this state of Creative Flow, We can observe a decreased activity in the prefrontal cortex and executive network. We lose our sense of time, space, and self, which makes it possible to feel the experience of the moment we are in with an intensity that is nothing short of addictive. That is the Magic of Making. Find out more at emergentcognition.com
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I have learned not to question the intuition, the subconscious drive, that dictates what will come into a painting. I've learned that it is best to just trust it, because the power of the creative process is in the ordering of the sometimes chaotic inner world. For that ordering to happen, we have to let go and listen. Visual symbols help us to integrate the human experience, the good and the bad, the whole and the broken and free us to live in the moment. This is what keeps me sane. The nest is whole. It is nurturing. It is that beautiful quality that my Grandma had that made her care about her family all her ninety-nine years... care that we were warm enough, care that we had plenty to eat, that we liked where we lived. It is the magic that makes me feel safe when I cover up with the quilt she made for me when I was a little girl. Making? Making safe and warm. Making whole.
![]() "Morning Has Broken, like the first Morning. Blackbird has Spoken, like the first Bird." The words of this sacred song have resonated with me for most of my life. This painting represents a new day, the beginning of a sacred time of creation that has been long awaited. Blackbirds are all over my sketchbook now, The window has finally opened, and the flight begun. ![]() Somehow, I learned at a very young age that through the act of creation, one can feel the presence of a God so infinitely wise and powerful that our human concerns seem inconsequential. I remember the first time this happened for me, and this painting is a commemoration of that magical, ethereal time and place. "Dear Child, May you find your wings every day, every decade, after every heartache that befalls you. There will be many. May you find a way to fly through it all." If you were lucky enough to know my grandpa, Fiddlin' Fred Price, then you knew his music.
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This picture has always been one of my favorite. This is how I remember my "Pa," fiddling in the front yard. He didn't care if he had an audience. He didn't care if he got paid or if anyone knew his name. He just had to make music. Fred Price was a man of few words, but his music was a language all its own..Through it, he showed us how to find the most extraordinary beauty in the ordinary. He taught us to value the living of life, the human connections, to value the land, and the praise for the Creator that is the making of music and art. He lived and died a poor man by society's standards, but he and all who knew him were rich beyond measure Nobody I knew had a camera back then, so if not for a professional photographer, this image wouldn't exist. In researching for the new mural, I was fortunate enough to find the name of the photographer behind it: Michael Mauney. Mr. Mauney was kind enough to talk with me about his work, which he is still very much involved in. He took this picture as part of a story for Life Magazine, He remembered the experience and remarked that Fred Price was one of his favorite subjects. Mr. Mauney was as kind as he is talented, and a true artist. You can see his work at www.michael mauney.com. . |
When I think of Makers, I think of my grandmother. She was a powerful Maker. Most things she made were transitory. She grew her family's food and put it up, She made a fire everyday in the wood cook stove and made dinner. She made sure her family ate, even if it meant she was hungry. She made clothes and made them clean. She made medicine, and made us feel better when we hurt. I remember once she pulled a bumblebee out of my hair with her bare hands. It stung us both, but in that act, she made it clear that I was sacred and loved. When you know that, nothing can hurt you. That kind of thing stays with you as long as you live. Something else she made that I still have are her quilts. When she was young, they were perfect, hand stitched, with colors carefully chosen and coordinated from the old clothes she cut into geometric patterns. But after she lost her eyesight, they were crooked and possessed a different beauty. Her quilts still hold magic. If I am having a bad day, I can wrap myself in one of them and feel the comfort of her love. No amount of money can buy that. This painting is about the making of a home, a nest, and the most important thing we can make and often the least appreciated, which is love.
It's finally time to apply a layer of varnish to the surface of some of my paintings. Oils dry really slowly, so it takes six months to a year. I love to watch the dark colors come back to life.
I went in search of a window to paint, and instead found this doorknob. It's the same house as I'll Fly Away, the house where I spent the happiest part of my childhood. I guess this little house sparrow is perched and ready to fly away, too.
I'm having so much fun with silver leaf lately. The doorknob has a layer of sterling silver under the paint, and it peeks through in places.
I'm having so much fun with silver leaf lately. The doorknob has a layer of sterling silver under the paint, and it peeks through in places.

This business of creating is a necessity. Symbol reorders our conscience. The Hummingbird is my symbol for the living of life with vitality in the face of all the pain that comes with the experience of being human. Life hurts like hell sometimes. But not all the time. The hurt is only one of a myriad of experiences we have as spiritual beings in physical form. We are so much more than the waves that batter us. We are the ocean in its entirety. We are more than the clouds. We are the whole sky. I believe in rainbows. I wish upon shooting stars, and I thank God for the storms and the lessons they bring us.
This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
~Rumi
This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
~Rumi
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