…and this isn’t some greenwashing bulls*%t. There’s the concrete way in which this is true, and the more metaphysical. Here’s the concrete: my art sales support me, and I support the planet. My activism currently consists of hosting eco-grief support gatherings and being part of the native plants movement (which both supports biodiversity and helps slow climate change), and more is coming. In conversation with others my wheels are turning on how I can most effectively become more of an agent for change. Buying my art lets me do that. It’s how I pay for my life.

We see things we know are white as… white. It’s one of those things about the brain creating shortcuts. I know the white houses on the street are white, and I see them as white houses. But when you go to paint them…

That’s when you realize that white is never really white.

I’m starting an eco-grief practice and support group this winter. Well, that’s what I’m calling it for now. I’m not totally sure what it will be called, ultimately. But the point of it is that if you’re paying any attention to what’s going on in our atmosphere and our natural world, you’re likely to be upset about it. I am. For a long time I was so upset I couldn’t do anything. Except, like, try to reduce my personal carbon footprint. Which we all know can feel dishearteningly futile.

“You can’t chase two rabbits.”

The proverb is attributed to various sources, most commonly the Chinese. I know it’s true, because I don’t chase two rabbits. I chase, like, ten, and it’s terribly confusing. In school, all the way through my bachelor’s degree at a liberal arts college, it was okay and even praiseworthy to have many pursuits, because they were all ultimately rolled into one: success in school. As long as art, theater, activism, reading fiction, reading nonfiction, language learning, dance, art history, and playing musical instruments were done for academic credit or in the service of being a “well-rounded person, ” it was great.

I signed up for an expensive course that promised it would teach me how to make money selling my art. The gist of the method was to discover one’s “mission” and convey it to people along with emotional stories that would create a genuine human connection. “Make ‘em cry and watch ‘em buy,” our guru snickered.

I did the whole mission-discovery process of narrating to a recorder my most joyful and most painful memories, then listening back and having my higher self tell me the lesson I was meant to learn from each. Then She (my higher self) listened to all the stories and all the lessons in one big emotional orgy and told me the lesson I was meant to have learned from All of It. This grand lesson, transcribed word-for-word, was then to be my Mission.

We should expect and embrace imperfection. It’s a lesson I’ve learned from printmaking. When I started making block prints ten years ago I strived for pristine images whose quality met or exceed the vision in my head. Obviously, frustration and suffering followed. Gradually I learned that the random, unpredictable marks and variations that appear in each print are part of their beauty, and I plan for them to emerge. It seems so obvious now, but it wasn’t back then. Lines from carving marks are inherent to the medium, and little boo-boos can be okay, too—they send the message : a human made this, not a robot or a cyborg. And that human isn’t perfect.