The painful feeling arising from the consciousness of something dishonorable, improper, ridiculous, etc., done by oneself or another:
He was overcome with shame.

Some people in this country who share my skin color have gotten used to a system that gives them power at the expense of others. They’ve gotten so used to it they think it’s normal and right.

There have been times when my whiteness has made me self conscious. For a while, I was the only white person that attended my church in Africa. I’d look down every once in a while and feel like covering my hands.

Over the past couple of months, my brother and I have been discovering our family tree. I know who I am now, and I can be comfortable in my skin. My white skin. I come from Nordic stock. This is what we look like. It’s not an indication of value or character. It shouldn’t give me privilege. The color of my daughter’s skin should not make her apprehensive when she leaves her house.

Please don’t judge me by the color of my skin, just as I will not judge you by the color of yours. Let’s see our diversity and celebrate it. Let’s look deeper and see that humans are one race.

We are all family.

So much unresolved heartache has been passed down either through genetics or learned behavior.

Feelings of guilt, terror, the emptiness that clings after the untimely death of a loved one, or just being overwhelmed, get shared with the generations that come after you.

Feelings influence our actions and attitudes.

We unintentionally teach our behaviors to our children.

I have often felt the weight of some unnamed burden. Perhaps it has been handed down to me because an ancestor didn’t know what to do with it.

I’m accustomed to these familial artifacts. They are inwrought like vestigial limbs.

There are gifts hidden in the baggage as well. They can be hard to recognize because they are so often mislabeled.

Maybe we, the current incarnation of this slowly flowing biomass of shared DNA, can contribute a change in our generation.

This painting has been hanging out in my studio for a while. It watches me work on pottery, and from time to time, I have a little conversation with it. I wash clay off my hands to paint, and then I wash paint off my hands to work in clay again. I go back and forth, the way I do in the brush strokes.

Sometimes I struggle with a painting, but the struggle doesn’t happen on the canvas. It happens in my head. I try and try to fix something. There’s an urgency and I get frustrated. Sometimes I put the canvas aside after fighting with it. On another day, I pick it up again and the solution flows out effortlessly. Other times, I pave over the entire thing with paint. I use a big brush or a palette knife. In those cases, I guess I was just building up my texture.

There are colors in my paintings that you can’t see. Time at the easel is not wasted, even if I obliterate something I’ve worked on.

I’ve learned something.

The mistakes are still in there, as they are in life. They are part of the process, so be kind to yourself. Don’t expect to be perfect. Take time to assess the situation. Maybe the answer will come when you quit trying so hard.

There’s a song on my iPod that says All my mistakes have become masterpieces.

Everything will be fine in the end. If it’s not fine, then we’re not at the end yet.

I think most people want the same basic things in life… comfort, a sense of well being, peace on earth. They will go to great lengths to achieve these, and the avenues to achieving them are varied.

Part of this comfort is a sense of belonging… to a family, perhaps a political group or religious organization.

The reasons are often subconscious, and so the avenue can become the objective itself. This is not good. Devoting yourself wholeheartedly to an organization is inviting corruption, and so the effect can be the opposite of the need it was intended to meet.

It leads to abuse of power and alienation of those not in your particular group.

When the metaphor you’ve adopted sees itself as truth, it no longer meets the need for which it was intended.

I think the elaborate myths behind such organizations are just that… fictional stories that have evolved from sweet picture books to horror. When your accepted leaders dictate your beliefs, you no longer think for yourself. You become a pawn in their game.

This is not a road to peace on earth.

I got started as an artist by being born. Without that, I don’t feel I could have accomplished much at all. It wasn’t something I wanted, it was just who I was.

I’m not sure whether training has influenced what I am doing now. The lessons that influence me the most have nothing to do with art supplies or technique. They are about self awareness, connections and learning my place in the universe.

I get so absorbed in what I am doing creatively that the act of creating is enough in itself. I like it when people like what I’ve done, because we get a chance to connect and share our stories. I love what I do, but I’m not so personally connected to the piece as to be offended or hurt if someone doesn’t like it. It was my slow exhalation, and it felt good. I’ve taken another fresh breath since then.

I don’t censor myself for fear of offending someone else.

I do consider my audience when I write or make art. Sometimes people need to be offended. Some people will be offended no matter what. That is none of my business.

It is not my intention to shock or disturb people. Some things might be comfortable for me but uncomfortable for them. I think an honest dialogue can be the most helpful thing. We could differ without needing to persuade each other. We could respect each other without disrespecting ourselves, and go on our way richer than we were before. Seeds can be planted when we least expect it, and grow when we most need it.

When my daughter was 6 years old, she was obsessed with the rings on the playground.

She would swing from ring to ring until her hands were raw and sore. Still, she would want to go back.

She swung through the pain.

I’ve been having muscle aches and back pain that I attribute to throwing pottery. Still, that’s what I think about when I wake up in the middle of the night. I get out of bed early to see how the pots are drying from the day before. I trim them and then climb back in bed.

Yesterday I didn’t do anything with clay because my low back hurt so badly.