​Tears are streaming down my face right now.    A simple day became rich with feeling and belief. 
 
Yesterday I spoke to a wonderful woman who invited me to create art with children facing some vulnerabilities.  I promised to journal about my process and went in search of an empty sketchbook to begin writing.
 
I found so much more than I bargained for.
 
My search took me to the basement as I looked through a number of half used sketchbooks and then found one that had just a few entries.  Entries that I thought could be removed so I could begin writing about how art got me through my tumultuous  childhood.
 
With writing & drawings on only about 7 pages, I thought this one was perfect…and I discovered it truly was perfect, once I began reading.
 
This sketchbook was my writings the day after my mom passed away nearly 3 years ago and also included a few quick sketches that expressed my feelings beyond what I could write.
 
I had such mixed feelings for my mom—I loved her and yet she had caused me a lot of pain…Probably because most of her life she was in a lot of pain.  In her later years,  she was mired in the fog of dementia and so much was left unsaid and unresolved.
 
As I read my words, some tears came.
 
And in the midst of this discovery,   glanced at the calendar and saw…today is my mother’s birthday.
 
A floodgate of tears were followed by sobs—I felt my mother’s presence. 
 
How else could I explain this discovery in such an obscure and poignant way.  I wish to share with you some of this very primal writing I did that day after my mom died. 
 
It drives me in my life and in my art.  Synchronicity abounds, if you are open to letting the gentle strokes of the universe come into you presence.  I believe gentle souls dance  among us and whisper to us in the most unexpected times in the most unexpected ways. 
 
So in the spirit of vulnerability that has become me and is in my art, several  of these pages that came to me today:

​Wishing you magic and the presence to feel when the universe is speaking to you.  And in the spirit of what I wrote in my sketch book that day, please make some beautiful music today.  Namaste.

The last few years have been bittersweet.   As an artist, I have truly discovered my voice—a richness that brings me bliss.  At the same time, I have watched my mother lose hers.

For seven years, my father faded into the darkness of dementia.  And while he struggled with the unreliability of his mind, his personality sweetened and his sense of humor grew.  Despite many moments of misery, he was verbal until his final week.  For someone who always had something to say, this was a gift.

After my dad passed away, my mom had three very good years.  She surprised me with her easy going attitude: She was passionate for Hilary Clinton’s 2008 presidential campaign.   She strongly supported gay marriage. She gave my daughters good relationship advice.  And then dementia took center stage in her 90th year.  It was cruel.

At first the dementia robbed her of her mobility—a woman who exercised daily and ate all the right foods, couldn’t coordinate her footing to support her body.  Her world shrunk.   But it wasn’t until these last months, when she truly lost her voice, that dementia did it’s greatest damage.

This week, her silence was deafening.  And painful.  Thoughts entered her awareness and yet the words came out garbled or forgotten.  .  Her eyes were pained.  Her suffering was palpable.

My daughter watched in earnest as my mom sat with her lunch.  She dipped her finger into her soup bowl and attempted to spread the soup onto a sheet of paper.   “She wants to paint, mom…” but the motor skills and strength were gone.  Even as my daughter tried to guide her hand across the paper, my mother gave up. 

For the last 18 years I have worked with people who have dementia—I am not out of my element in being with someone in her predicament, but I have never seen someone’s face so full of sadness and betrayal.  My mother--artist and political junkie--could say no more. 

I share this sad scene not to depress, but to call to action anyone who can read these words.    To shake you out of complacency-- if you find yourself there.  To honor those with dementia. 

I know I can’t reverse the ravages of what dementia has brought to my mother.  So I take from this an awareness to be sure in my daily presence I use my voice—often and with gusto.

Because what would life be without expression—without a voice: without art, music, writing, story, movement, dance, sport…

So in honor of those who have lost their voices—far too many of our parents and grandparents:  Find the loudest, boldest you.   

Make your music.  Create an echo…speak your truth.    Dance.  Kick it up.  Let it flow.  Relish in the fact that you can—because if you can, you must.

May you have lots to say and savor each moment that you do.  Namaste’