Old Stomping Grounds

I made my trip to California to visit Dave's mom and sisters. They weren't physically able to be at Dave's service, so I was glad we could be together.  

I stayed with our good friends, Andy and Sandy. Their Craftsman-style home is on a beautiful street at the base of the Whittier foothills. For our first four years of marriage, we lived not too far from them in a cute little bungalow we rented. Dave and I would regularly walk up the hill to hang out with them on Friday nights and eat the plate-sized brownies Sandy served. (Sandy is still a feeder. I came home with a few extra pounds incidentally.) 

Being with Andy and Sandy was therapy. Their guest room has French doors looking out onto the historic homes on their street. I did a painting of bougainvillea that drape over many of the homes' front entrances. 

Except for a few days of rain, the weather was perfect--typical sunny California. As I walked around our old stomping ground in uptown Whittier, I was flooded with memories and tears. I missed Dave so much. One day, no doubt, the memories will bring a sweet ache, not the stabbing pain in my heart I have now. One day.

It's different now

It was a bad day on Tuesday. I had to file taxes owed on my art sales for last year. With accounting for each sale, I was reminded of every painting I did while Dave was alive. It brought a fresh torrent of tears, and I ugly cried for much of the rest of the day. Ugh. 

Everything is different now with Dave being gone. I intentionally avoid the routine we developed because it hurts too much. I don't buy the same groceries. Normally frugal, I now spend money like a drunken sailor. I go to bed late and sleep in. I get out of the house as much as I possibly can, saying yes to every social activity. I no longer paint in my art rom and am now only very tentatively painting at Watercolor Wednesdays with my previous students.

Even how I paint is different. A student once asked me if I ever just doodled. I realized I didn't. I always painted with a purpose. I never considered myself particularly imaginative or creative. I painted using reference photos. If the painting evoked a special meaning or emotion, it was purely accidental. I just painted what I saw in the photo and the watercolor did the rest.

I pick up my brush again today to paint with the watercolor group. It's not so much about painting as it is to be among friends. We paint, we tell stories and laugh, and often times I cry. I am not using reference photos, and I am not concerned about the outcome. Maybe the emotions coming out in the paintings aren't accidental at all.