On Retirement

Retirement is wonderful! I recommend for everybody. I abruptly retired from a stressful job as a speech-language pathologist in public schools because we were ordered to return to in-person schooling when vaccines weren’t available. I was 62 years old at the time and had asthma. Although I planned to work until 65 years of age, it seemed silly to risk death just as I was reaching retirement age. I had no idea of what I would do next.

At first I just enjoyed laying in bed, sometimes until noon, idly reading and journaling in a notebook. Then I realized I wanted to learn how to write better. I enrolled in a Masters program for Creative Writing at Towson University. It was fabulous! Not only did I improve my writing, but I found a community of writers. I was intellectually stimulated and met new friends. Many of them are younger than me with different perspectives and wisdom.

After graduating I continue to write poetry and short stories. I’m a journalist for the Peninsula Post, a local newspaper. I also draw cartoons, paint, and play guitar. It is amazing to have tons of time to create and socialize. I have energy for exercising and cooking healthy meals. Along with the time when I was raising my sons, retirement is the best period of my life.

Watching Birds In Spring

During this time of chaos and turmoil, I find peace in the rough bark of trees, the dancing scurry of squirrels, the opera of birds, the sun on my face, the canvas of dark night and sparkling stars.

Tense Terror and Inspiration!

Imagination and fantasy is how we recreate the world. If you dream it, it can happen!

Sometimes I need to be silly…

Muse

Cat Inspiration

I’ve been drawing my cat Nekko at least once daily for a month now. Why? She’s cute (of course! She’s a cat!) and I enjoy drawing people and things that I love. She is definitely people I love and of course, she’s cute. (Did I mention Nekko is my cat?) Here’s the latest of her sleeping on the Bmore Art magazine I was trying to read.

Community and Creative Process

I have lived in artistic communities since early adulthood. I love the energy, feel it even when I am alone in my room. There is affirmation of the value of creating within an art community. There is knowledge that process is important. The energy in a community where people participate in the creative process helps generate ideas, even as we disagree about the relative value of specific pieces or particular forms of art.
Art for me has been a means of keeping an even keel in a crazy world.
Often when I create, whether a poem, a painting or a song, I don’t fully understand the symbols and juxtapositions of ideas until much later. Art is not a way to recreate reality, but distorts reality in order to fully portray it, like a curved glass will focus the sun’s rays on a single point, and result in a fire.

photo of Baltimore rapper Wealth making a music video in Savage, Maryland.

Someone Else Wrote It

Recently, I opened a notebook from a few months ago and found lovely drawings and stories that I didn’t remember doing. I had intended to write on the leftover blank pages but started viewing the work. It felt like I was looking at someone else’s work.

I often put aside writings or paintings for at least a month or more after finishing them, before editing them or making the final touches. When I come back to the work, I have enough perspective to edit words severely, add an extra line of paint, or eliminate a too busy portion. Sometimes I just note what I liked and what I didn’t like about the piece, tuck the piece away, and use that information to inform future work. Then, I move on. I figure that good work will emerge about 1 out of 10 times, if I’m lucky that day. This doesn’t bother me. My artwork is done for my own entertainment, catharsis, and meditation. The final product is merely a by-product of the process. But occasionally, when I look back, there is a lovely sensation of satisfaction of having done something well.

Backyard Sunday

I lay flat in my small, urban yard and heard the cheering fans at Camden Stadium, the young urbanites at the bar at the end of the block, and the occasional radio rolling by in a car. I sank my body into the slate footstones, trying to unfurl the tightness stored in large quantities, imagining the Earth’s warm core seeping into me. Listened. The chorus of birds sang to their young, caught in the interstices of the cacophony of the city. The new leaves and pink and white buds on the crab apple tree were splayed with sunshine. I sat up and dipped my brush into amber, sapphire and emerald watercolors. The paper was fresh and white.

Buddy, my black and white cat, meowed to come join me and I opened the door. He settled comfortably under the tree, hoping the birds wouldn’t notice him. Suddenly, Buddy decided it was his chance to jump into the neighbors yard and try to find that orange tabby that lives somewhere in the alley. Yikes! Buddy is a rescue, with no claws and two teeth. The tabby outweighs him by at least 10 pounds. The orange tabby probably eats rats bigger than my cat. I ran out the gate, captured Buddy, and threw him back inside. He was indignant, but saved from his own intentions, as we all need to be at times. I went back and completed my painting. It was a glorious Sunday.