Two days ago, while leash walking our dog, he snatched a baby rabbit hunkered down alongside the path. He did it so fast, I'd have missed it if not for the piercing squeak, and tiny feet momentarily dangling from his mouth. One gulp, and bye-bye bunny. I was horrified. And I was wrong. He wasn't being a “bad” dog. He was just being a dog.
     As Homo sapiens, we like to distinguish ourselves from other animals who simply follow their instincts. That in itself is a hotly contested topic. Regardless, our imagination, ability to think abstractly, and ingenuity have tipped the evolutionary scales greatly in our favor. This rise to dominance is also our curse. We make choices under the delusion that we can separate our own well-being from that of the rest of the world. But survival of the fittest is an incomplete story. Nature is a continuum composed of a multitude of living things and interactive systems. Research is demonstrating that cooperation is a key driver in evolutionary success, What I do as an individual is inescapably about what I do to the rest of the planet. My daily actions mark my direction as surely as fossilized dinosaur tracks on long-gone shores.
     These days, when I read the news, I'm pretty sure that in spite of evolutionary success, we are the most reckless, idiotic species ever to walk the planet. Still, I believe in us. But the stories we currently tell ourselves and each other limit our vision and restrict our possibilities. Humanity is at a critical juncture–Can our ingenuity and imagination help us open up the world in new ways that bring real ecological awareness, social justice, and unity? Can we stop being so selfish and take the long view that considers balance and well-being for all?
     Please say, “Yes.”

     Is COVID-19 distancing giving you a boxed-in feeling? I have a positive suggestion–take a moment the next clear evening to take a look at the night sky. Worldwide industrial shut downs have led to drastically improved air quality and clarity so stars are looking brighter and more numerous than ever. It's heart-stirring to imagine this singular moment and our place in its vastness.
     I was a child when the first Earth Day was celebrated 50 years ago this month. I remember a tattered copy of Silent Spring on the coffee table, though it would be 12 years before I read it. Its author, Rachel Carson, became one of my heroes. I'd tell you about her, but I can't do her the justice that Maria Popova does in her Brain Pickings article, The Writing of Silent Spring: Rachel Carson and the Culture-Shifting Courage to Speak Truth to Power. I hope you'll take time to read it, and maybe even Silent Spring,  in celebration of our unique and magnificent planet Earth.
     As artist and naturalist, thoughts about my place on this planet and in this universe are undercurrent to all my work. I've recently been working on a series of paintings in honor of Rachel Carson, Silent Spring, and Earth Day. I've included several on this page. Learn more about my paintings, Sense of Wonder, Among the Beauties and Mysteries, Spring After Winter, and Spring after Winter 2.
      Thank you, Earth, and Happy Earth Day! We best remember that every day is your day, so that we may continue ours. Be well, my friends.

     While social distancing, desperately hoping to “flatten the curve” I've been craving more time in the woods and prairies and less in the studio. If you've gotten outside at all, it's hard not to notice that other species are in spring frenzy mode. Thank goodness it's March. Imagine if it were November, with holidays to be spent in isolation and many dark, cold months ahead. A small thing to be grateful for.
     A couple of mornings ago, I was wandering a half-frozen, marshy area full of artesian springs and was nearly overcome by the smell of skunk. My young dog was pretty interested until he figured out it was just skunk cabbage. Did you know skunk cabbage makes its own heat? One of the first blooms of spring, it emerges even when the ground is still frozen. Warming themselves up to 70 degrees Fahrenheit, they melt surrounding snow and soil. The stinky spadix (see below photo), or flowering body, attracts early hatching flies and carrion beetles.
​     We'd found skunk cabbage paradise. Next to a gurgling, crystalline spring.
    My small observation is that the rest of the environment is managing our human pandemic rather well, so far. Lack of air and highway traffic means air quality worldwide has seen drastic improvement. Lack of boat traffic in Venice has brought back water clarity. Not since 9/11 has science had such an opportunity to gather environmental data, and hopefully, turn it into strategies that foster resilience.
    As we celebrate the 50th anniversary of Earth Day next month in the midst of a global pandemic, it's become glaringly obvious that human existence on this planet is part of a delicate balance. "Oh, no!" moment: Just before hitting "publish" this morning, I nearly choked on my coffee when I read that the EPA "temporarily" suspended enforcement of regulations because of the virus.
     An added observation: OMG. "Never waste a crisis" taken to a whole new level of lunacy.
    Politics and corrupt economics are killing us in this very moment. Some would say that's nothing new.
     But I'm not giving up. Adversity can be the best teacher, if we're open to learning from our mistakes. It's about building on what history has shown us, guided by science, to cultivate a flexibility that is not afraid of diversity, knowledge, and expertise.
    Maybe then, next time the tiniest things in the natural world lay siege against us, we'll be armed to fight back with our strongest evolutionary weapon–our brains.
     Be well. Be smart. Get outside to enjoy the spring while maintaining proper distance. And please, VOTE.

See details of Early Light 2 and Early Light 1

     Honestly, I get all emotional walking through acres of restored prairie in late August. It's that plaintive, wistful feeling that comes from life bumping into skin bruised by grief and yet touched by grace. That longing that doesn't even know what it wants, but longs for it anyway.
      Prairie speaks to me. I like to listen.
    Cicadas buzz. Bluebirds gather. Unhappy to have her nut-burying extravaganza interrupted, a flustered squirrel is scolding my pup from the upper branches of an old oak.
     July's peak wildflower explosion of colors is over. Now yellow runs the show. Silphium and Big bluestem tower overhead, dripping cool morning dew onto my face as I brush past. Red is just beginning to touch the leaves of the sumac.
     Even though I'm not ready for summer's end, I can feel it coming. Here in this prairie, I can breathe deeply and give it a grateful and reverent goodbye.
     Only a teeny, tiny fraction of our original, native prairies remain. Once the dominant ecosystem here, isolated remnants can still be found near old cemeteries, along roadsides and railroad tracks, and on steep bluffs, where accessibility, and plowing, is difficult.
     The good news is–prairie restoration. Local, state, and federal governments, schools, businesses, and homeowners have been planting native prairie species and working to create larger prairie ecosystems. These prairies provide food and shelter for native insects, mammals, reptiles and amphibians. And the good medicine of solace and respite to humans spending time wandering and tending them.

       The summer solstice marks summer's longest day. In Wisconsin, that means 15 hours and 22 minutes of daylight this June 21st. Nordic myth has it that dew gathered on Midsummer Day, June 24th, brings youth to aching bones and aging bodies. Since ancient times, people in northern regions celebrate this time of year by enjoying the season's first strawberries. I celebrate with a breakfast of fresh-picked strawberries and a walk in the dewy wild.
     In woods and hedges, thick tangles of green hide legions of eyes, young and old. Leaves and scented blooms twine up and up, to a sky full of floating and flying things. Mingled roots burrow deeper and deeper in search of nutrients and water. Walking in the woods, lost in profusion and plenty and opulence, thought finally stops.
     Within the abundance of wild-living things, it is possible to become absorbed. Not absorbed in the sense of being mentally occupied and focused. Not communing in meditative oneness. Literally absorbed, in the sense of being drawn in, swallowed up, ingested by the wholeness of the visible and invisible world. Disappeared. A heart pumps, but it's no one's and the trees breathe–unyielding, devoted, and undaunted these longest days of summer. 

    After a long winter's wait, my homemade sauerkraut and Wisconsin-made, Swiss cheese sandwich is piled with dandelion greens and garnished with violets foraged from our lawn. Yum. Along with our violet-ish lawn, bees buzz the daffodils and scilla, robins fill their bellies with emerging earthworms, and young squirrels are practically giddy with the abundance they've discovered their first spring.
     Ground barely thawed, pesticide trucks started cruising our neighborhood a couple of weeks ago. I cringe every time I see one. It's hard to understand why people still spray so much poison in their yards. Disheartening—and stinky. Trying not to dwell on it, perhaps the most effective therapy is to thank those kind, bright folks who strive to avoid the stuff. Compliments and thanks doled out generously when dandelions are blooming go a long way.
     In other yard news: we picked up a little electric lawnmower after our old gas push mower died its final death, my peas and beets are planted, and the arugula has sprouted. Simple things bring such cheer.
     In the studio, things are buzzing too. You can see by the photo above—spring fever hit me hard. Wild painting, "Sunjoy," flew from my brain and fingers, taking me by surprise. I love its spunky, mod feel. And that our equally wild one-year-old pup was willing to sit still for a photo makes it doubly surprising! The two large paintings below are from the "Spoken" series I've been working on.
     Here's to a simple and delicious spring!

      Have you ever wondered what it means to see? Not the physical act that occurs via the optic nerve, but the seeing that, as artists, we are so keen to attain. In his classic 1972 text, Ways of Seeing,  John Berger says, "It is seeing that establishes our place in the surrounding world." He continues, "The relation between what we see and what we know is never settled." It's the "never settled" part that pretty much sums it up for me.
     Creative people achieve seeing in infinite ways. For me, it means de-cluttering the mind and unfocusing to take in the big picture- not just in the studio, but anywhere. I see by observing, futzing around, and by asking simple questions of myself and others- Why is it put together like that? What makes it work? or Why isn't it working? How is it connected to other things? Is it part of a pattern? How might it feel? How do I feel about it? Why? What is the evidence? What is my responsibility to it? What happens if I take this action? How does it change? How do I change?
     Note to self: When you're defensively certain about something, chances are good you're probably not really seeing. More questions! More experiments! Don't be afraid to mess up!
     In the studio, because I work with no fixed subject, and not from drawings or sketches, a large chunk of my time is spent looking and thinking- what's next? If you were peering in on me, you'd think, "What on earth is she doing? How long can she stand there, staring at those blobs?!" The answer is- a long time, as long as it takes. Time inevitably leads to action. For me, the action of painting an oversized canvas is physical, immediate, and energetic, while the act of creation moves like a snail.
     Seeing merges the visual with the emotional and intellectual to make something new. My own seeing improves in direct correlation to the questions I'm asking and my openness to experiment. I keep asking, processing, messing up, and making new things.

You can see "The Moon is Pink" along with some close ups here.

To see more of what's up in the studio- 
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Secure, online purchase of selected paintings, prices include shipping, is available at Saatchi Art.

     After a summer of near constant rains and unprecedented floods, the skies have finally cleared and it's glorious to see October bring vibrant, intense blue to the world overhead. In that wild blue yonder, shimmering milkweed seeds float and  fly with hope for fertile landing.
     I always feel like things change fast this month- the angle of light, the intensity of color, even the feel of the air goes from cottony-thick to crisp as the natural world prepares for dormancy here in the north. Strategies for surviving a long winter necessitate change and adjustment.
     For now, though, I think I'll just enjoy watching our 7 month old pup fly through the leaves without mention of last week's brief, white-out snow squall. Happy Fall!