365 paintings in 365 days

1/365 Summer Rain 

And now let us welcome the New Year, full of things that have never been ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Do you still suffer from the wounds of childhood? It happened to me with painting and though I still dabbled creatively I would never call myself a painter. I'd actually do anything but paint because I did not believe I could, and if I didn't have a go I couldn't fail, now could I? But I longed to paint. (This reminds me of when I started to write fiction. Same story, just a different script.)

Then two generous artists entered my life -  Kate Forman Ortiz (who is illustrating a story I wrote) and Lucie Walker. Both speak the same language as me. I instantly connected with their bright, joyful paintings of people mostly. They celebrate humanity and all its colours. Lucie told me that I could paint. That in fact anyone can if they have the desire to do so.

And so I started. One painting at a time. The very first one was a riot of bright colours. It was one of those glorious moments when I was lost inside myself and time stood still. It was a meditation. It was a prayer. Now I paint my way to joy. I even painted my way to peace during our move to the city.  I paint and I paint and I don't care if no one else likes it. I don't care that I am self taught. And YES I am a painter. I tell people you are a writer if you write. I am a painter because I paint.

Today is New Year's day and I have started several challenges (because they motivate me), but this is the first one that I will share with you. I am going to try to paint a painting everyday - or at least 365 paintings in the 365 days we have this year. This is my first. It has been so hot here, and I realised as I painted this (like a stream of consciousness) that I was expressing my gratitude for water. As St Francis wrote in his canticle of the creatures: 'All praise be yours my Lord through Sister Water, so useful, humble, precious and pure.'

I will be posting a new painting everyday to keep me accountable. I hope to make it past this week, but for now I am taking one day (one post) at a time. Through colour may I give back to the world a little of its lost heart. - Asta x

'...in a time lacking in truth and certainty and filled with anguish and despair, no woman should be shamefaced in attempting to give back to the world, through her work, a portion of its lost heart.' - Louise Bogan. 

Like a snail I carry my one warm room with me and yet something is missing.

May you find harmony between your soul and your life...
(from John O'Donohue's prayer For Belonging)

Here is a picture of our new/old lounge room. Anyone who knows our 'warm room' will recognise it. We've taken it with us where ever we've gone - like a snail carries her home on her back. (I love snails.) It's a room where there is no need for 'any mask of pretense or image' (words borrowed from the new home blessing I shared in the last post).

I have loved reconnecting with very dear old friends, and I have even had one new friend visit, and yet I feel a little off centre. Lonely, but not alone. I can't really pin down exactly what it is, but I know that I'm not quite right. I can't paint. I'm totally blocked. I couldn't even go to church last Sunday - because I just wanted to go back to my church in the country. I could fight these feelings but I sense I just need to sit with them. Sitting shiva with my grieving self. (Sitting shiva is a Jewish custom where you sit alongside someone who is grieving, possibly in silence.)

I have never reacted quite like this before. I wonder if it is the sudden and unexpected change. It is as though, in my hasty move, part of my soul is still on its journey  here. Perhaps I just  need to wait until it catches up.

Half of my family is still in the country. One of my sons will join us in a few days. And my husband in a few weeks. I know that will help.

Meanwhile my warm room will shelter my heart. My daily practises of prayer and journal writing will ground me. Silence will still me. My family, friends and pets will sit with me. I trust that soon my soul and my life will be in alignment and harmony will be restored.

Peace be within you my friends,

Asta x

The wabi sabi bowl.

The wabi sabi bowl

Wabi sabi.... don't those words delight? Do you know what it is? I'm not sure that I do, but I do know that it is a Japanese aesthetic. It seems to mean finding beauty in wear and tear, rust, in junk, in decay, in hand made... these words are often used to describe it - imperfect, impermanent, incomplete. 


When I stumbled upon those words I just loved them. I took pleasure in saying them. I felt I'd found a concept that celebrates something that I love and have few words for. It seems a perfect match for simple living. 

 Last night I made the bowl in the photo - my wabi sabi bowl. Absolutely imperfect, impermanent and incomplete - made from free dried grass and old clothes. Something in me thrilled at its creation.

I placed it on our sparse chest of drawers, and it became an offering and a prayer.

God's Car - how we got a free family car.

 God just gave us a car. 

Here is the story -  

Last weekend I got a phone call from a dear friend, who I haven't seen for a few months. 

"How are your cars going?" she asked me straight up. Odd question, I thought. 

"Well...." and I launched into the sad tale of how I got stranded in an intersection when my 22-year-old car broke down, and how for 2 days it was left on a main street with a handwritten note on the dashboard -'Flat Battery'. It turned out to be an accurate guess - and the alternator or something. 

I told her that my husband really wanted to sell his old 6 cylinder car because it costs too much to run. That we don't want to insure or register two cars, and that we want to use the small amount of money from its sale to help one of our children with something very important. That we longed for one decent family car. 

She listened quietly and then she said this -

"We would like to give you our car." And laughed. Later she said she just knew that something had to be up with our cars. And she said, "Your kids always loved our car." The exact words they repeated to me when I told them. 

This is how it all worked out. Her dear father died and left her some money. They bought a new car - to 'see them out'. They prayed about who their car should go to. Both came up separately with the same name - 'The Landers'. And so their loved car - which has new tyres, a new number plate, 6 months registration (they did this for us) and a near new CD player, and is in top condition because my friend's husband is a mechanic and it has been kept in a garage (whew what a mouth full) - became the Lander's family car. 

Yippeee and Wahooo. 

PS - Earlier in the year I finally asked God for a newer, reliable car. I have always felt a little odd about this type of prayer - a little guilty. Though I have to admit the day my car broke down  I was wondering if the reason I didn't have a new car was because I hadn't really known what to pray for - and so I updated my prayer and said to God - "If this isn't a silly thing to ask for - could we just have a reliable family car?"  And then the phone rang.... 

Thanks my friends.

Thanks be to God!

Asta x 

The Grace Tree

Kneeling at the altar, waiting for communion, I asked God - "When did it become about 'so and so', instead of you?" Moments before I had been sitting with a very difficult visitor, our guest. Why on earth had he offered to come, when all he wanted to do was criticize? Usually I find our church a sanctuary of peace, but not that morning. I was on edge. I had lost my focus. I was getting angry.

As the chalice made its way to me I believe God gave me this picture. I drew it as soon as I got home and painted it a few days later. I am the tree. The roots symbolise being grounded in Christ. The trunk and branches are strong. Healthy, life giving fruit grows abundantly. The fruit bursts open and the most fragrant and delicate blossoms gently land on the people beneath. This is grace. Only through Christ could I extend grace to this difficult person.

I returned to my seat. Our guest continued to try to explain what was wrong with our theology to my daughter beside me. I sat with my eyes closed, still and focused while others received the Eucharist, and through Christ I extended grace prayerfully. The peace I felt was profound.