In the fall of 1974, a month after I turned seven, our family moved from a suburban neighborhood of Milwaukee to a house my parents had built on three wooded acres near the southern unit of the Kettle Moraine Forest.
Growing up somewhat isolated, remote and without today’s modern conveniences of the internet, social media, and cell phones, my two younger siblings and I learned how to entertain ourselves.
Mostly we played outside on our property.
We made mounds and ramps with snow for our sleds.
We chased each other through the woods on the trails my dad had carved out.
We challenged each other to see who could climb closest to the top of a pine tree. Then near the top we used our body weight to sway the tree back and forth, making large arcs. One time my brother accidentally sling-shotted himself, landing mostly unharmed on a shallow bed of soft pine needles on the forest floor.
But I also had fun playing outside by myself.
In a raincoat and boots, protected by a child-sized umbrella, bending my knees and resting on my heels, I tried to blend into my wet surroundings.
Silent and still, I watched and listened, mesmerized by the drops of rain. The umbrella, the leaves, the grass, the puddles, the rocks and pebbles, and little me — we all experienced the same spring rain, as if Nature didn’t notice I was a human child hidden in her midst.
She treated me the same as all the plants and minerals around me.
Sometimes I climbed to the top of a pine tree by myself.
Quiet and motionless, I noticed things differently at that elevation: the sun felt brighter and warmer, the sky seemed bluer, the clouds felt softer, and the birds and insects sang louder.
The breeze, gently rocked both me and the tree top, as if there were no difference between a girl and the sticky bark.
I could bury most of my body in a pile of autumn leaves, but my brother or sister made the pile thicker or covered my face if I asked them. I rested silently on the cool ground, carefully listening to the crisp leaves settling around me.
Was I a girl or a mound of orange, brown and crimson leaves?
After chasing each other on paths we made in the snow, my siblings and I collapsed, exhausted, but with enough energy to make snow angels. Flat on my back, looking up at the sky, I tried to figure out where above me the snowflakes started, where they were made. As the snowflakes kissed my face, they instantly melted.
The snow blanketed me like it did everything else, including and accepting me unconditionally.
As a child, my imagination also came in handy at school. I entertained family and teachers with the stories I wrote and illustrated. In eight grade I was asked to read one of my illustrated stories to the first graders.
I imagined becoming a children’s book author and illustrator. Unfortunately, my creativity lay dormant for many years after grade school as I didn’t have the right opportunities in high school and college to nurture it.
Although I majored in English, studying classic texts and authors, it wasn’t until after I graduated from the University of Wisconsin-Madison that I acquired some watercolors, acrylic paints, and a book on drawing. My creativity was renewed.
While my three daughters were young, I pursued art and writing classes, mostly through community education and The Loft literary center in Minneapolis. Inspired by all the books I read to my kids and the stories I wrote about the sweet and silly things they said and did, once again I envisioned myself as a children’s book writer and illustrator.
However, just as I was about to commit myself to furthering my skills through more professional training, my life took a major side detour: I spent the next decade immersed in the philosophy, spirituality and indigenous medicine of ancient India.
Around my fiftieth birthday, I realized it was time to get back on the artistic path and improve my skills.
Knowing that someday I would retire from a job or career — but I would never retire from writing and painting — I felt I needed a proper art foundation to ensure the longevity of my creative path. Thus, I enrolled in an MFA for painting at an art school.
My paintings remind me of my childhood sensory experiences in Nature. As an introvert and highly sensitive person, I portray a visceral intimacy of feeling connected to the people, the objects and the environment of my surroundings.
The intent of my art and writing is to help others slow down and become more mindful of Nature and their own everyday experiences, both the mundane and the esoteric.
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