Lost. And Found.

I worked in my studio today—hands covered in paint, new splotches on the drop cloths. With a stack of blank sketch paper and a limited selection of colors, I proceeded to create more than thirty rapid-fire compositions, each one an experiment with brushstrokes, motions, and smooth sweeps of a palette knife. I spread thick globs of paint like butter on toast. I dabbed layers with a tissue as if mopping up a spill. I never stopped moving.

When I first moved to California more than twenty years ago, one of my first purchases was a nine-foot surfboard. There was a tiny surf spot within walking distance of where I lived, and I spent many mornings in a wetsuit, paddling out to the waves, by 6:00am. One of the experiences I loved most about surfing was the way I felt afterward, when I had the sensation that my entire body was sparkling. I felt simultaneously exhausted and energized, enlivened by the saltwater froth.

In this moment, after my time in the studio, I am experiencing something not quite the same, but close. I feel tired. I am full of energy. Something deep within is awake.

It has been tempting to look at the past few years and say, “I lost myself.” Between moving across country, reconciling with my dad after our estrangement, and then dealing with his almost-immediate small cell carcinoma diagnosis, my attempts at creativity were piecemeal at best. For three years the majority of my time, attention, and energy was spent showing up in other areas of my life and in ways I’d never experienced. I was letting go, calling in, and growing up in a whole new way. On some days I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. On other days I believed something else was happening—that I was becoming more of who I was meant to be all along.

I will say this: I am not who I was three years ago. That much is certain. But does that mean I was lost? That I abandoned some core part of myself when I left California, reached out to my dad, and then pushed aside so much of what was precious to me in order to spend as much time as I could with him before he died? In all of that, did I go astray from my artistic soul?

Even though it is mid-April, fat flakes of snow are falling outside my window. They are gathering in clumps along the branches of the thirty-foot pines. They will most likely be gone within 24 hours. Watching them flutter downward, they almost look mirthful—twirling and floating and letting small gusts of wind come along and swoop them in their currents. They are oblivious, these snowflakes, showing no cause for concern that they will soon be on the ground and, from there, gone.

Are these like the moments of my life, when unexpected blasts of wind sometimes come along and carry me in an entirely new direction? Is it inevitable that I lose some part of myself along the way? Or is it part of the process of moving closer toward my soul’s deepest longings? If this is true, what are the parts of me that are steadfast and immobile, so solidly anchored in my bones that it isn’t possible to leave them behind no matter what happens?

I am making art again. It started today, in a way that feels more resolute than it has in a long while. I am trying things that feel familiar and venturing into new territory. I am a scientist in my laboratory, a chef in her kitchen. I am following crumbs and peeling back layers. I am weaving together experiences from the past three years with the mysterious artistic yearnings that are starting to bubble up. Whatever this work becomes, it will tell a story. Of then. Of now. Of the mystery on the horizon.