You might think that our creative impulses are just little slivers of ourselves. A little detail that gets shrugged off and just kind of sits there, separate from the artist.

I think they are more like portals. The action pulls something out of our stream of consciousness, but it is not alone. A lot more tends to come out with that gesture.

I don’t always recognize the theme at first glance, but it is there, like the tip of the iceberg. The closer I look at it, the more I begin to see.

I am not talking just about masterpieces. It applies to quick sketches, too. Especially the quick sketches, in fact. The ones that had no time to be contrived. The unintentional line that results in a shape I could not achieve by force.

I hold the moving pen, but I don’t manipulate the line. It swims out in its final form.

Lately I’ve been doing a lot of quick drawings. Ten to fifteen second drawings. They’re fun to make, and often fun to look at.

I follow the path that leads me to my next big thing, and it can lead to something bigger than me.

I think I’ve written about this before, but I don’t want a manicured lawn. I don’t want a carpet of green, free of weeds. I don’t want anything so precious, contrived and high maintenance!

I planted pine trees about 24 years ago, and then put up a wooden fence. The trees grew, and I put in a bonfire pit. The trees kept growing, and began to shade out the grass. They’ve been dropping pine cones into the yard, and the squirrels have been dispersing the leftover material.

My dream for my yard is to have my own private forest, complete with forest floor, right here in town. The kind of ground that recalls camping trips.

When I was a very little kid, we went camping somewhere (probably near Detroit), and I found myself alone on a path. I wasn’t afraid of being lost, because I could follow the path. What I was afraid of was dinosaurs. As I got a little older, I realized I didn’t need to be afraid of dinosaurs, and that’s about the time I started to worry about wolverines.

Yesterday, one of the kids wanted to rake. I had to convince him that I don’t want my forest floor raked up. What? Put it in a pile? Then what? Get rid of all that organic material that will become soil?

I don’t have many deciduous trees, so I don’t get many leaves. If I did, I would want them to stay right there on the ground.

He had a valid question.

“Why do we have a rake?”

Those years that Flash was alone in his spaceship, I was lonely, too.

The teenagers that were part of the first Flash Meridian episodes grew up and moved away, and Flash was alone to introspect on his journey.

Even my daughter, who was three when the adventures began, grew up and left.

The pictures changed, and then all but disappeared. I thought the writing was getting better, but I missed the magic of companionship… of collaboration, and of multimedia.

Like the whales that had ceased to fly, the story of Flash Meridian had grown sluggish and laborious to write. More and more time passed between episodes. When I published the book, I thought maybe that was it. Maybe the story was just over.

Flash and I were looking for a home, not realizing that we were already there.

I did not want to be an empty nester. The greatest joy of my life was raising my kids, and so, in my late fifties, I decided to try to adopt again.

Now the kids are teenagers, and they want to be part of the saga of Flash Meridian.

They are developing their own costumes, and posing for photos so that I can send them into space.

Before I started writing the story, I had bought a vintage flight suit on eBay, and started taking pictures with it. I called myself “Rocket Boy” but they were just pictures with nowhere to go.

Last week, the kids woke me up by sneaking into my bedroom and attacking me early one morning, wearing masks. I took pictures of them, and those masks became the start of their Flash Meridian costumes and characters. I love it when creative details grow into something bigger and sort of take on a life of their own.

I’ve gone back to way I created the images twenty years ago, and now these pictures and their experiences help to inspire the story.

I think a mindful life can be the ultimate sit com, the wackiest sci fi story, and even a real life romantic comedy.

…and speaking of returning to the way I used to do things, I’ve been drawing a lot on paper with a pen. Quick doodles, like I used to do in Junior High and High School.

With no expectation, I just grip the moving pen and see what comes out.

What am I doing for self care?

I know there are times when I need to put my own oxygen mask on before assisting others. I usually run a hot bath and just relax for an hour.

This evening, my son went to the gym by himself because he needed to do that… alone.

Self care doesn’t always mean relaxing in the tub or on the couch. I also practice self care by completing projects. Even taking on projects that require skills I do not yet possess.

Kids are demanding, messy, and loud at times, but they are not an interruption to my life. They are my purpose.

They are my self care.

I think we all find ourselves floundering at times, or at least we feel like we are. A couple of years ago, that’s how I was feeling while I was doing an artist-in-residence at a gallery. I decided to use that feeling and paint flounders.
I started thinking that I’d like to make a life-size flounder that could lay on my bed. I bought the material, but it’s taken me a couple of years to attempt making it.

I don’t know how to sew realistic looking flounders, so this is how it turned out.