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I haven’t journaled in a while. I’ve been struggling with an incredibly painful lower back—too painful to even paint. However, I’ve managed to putter around in the studio and start another painting on paper. Working on paper allows me to avoid standing, which aggravates my bones. Yes, bones—my focus at this time. They are the foundation of my flesh. After a "brief" doctor’s visit this week—a visit lasting less than five minutes—I was told, in a matter-of-fact British accent:"

Nothing here is intended to instruct or persuade.

If everything in life were to fall away - if circumstances narrowed as we see so often around us today. if space became small and i found myself living in a simple room with the most basic needs, well i would still place my easel upright near the light. As i think about this, possibly there would be a stove, a chair and a bed tucked in a corner, but i would cherish this small space as long as i had materials to work.

My bone blog today addresses the voice that arrives with the work It questions adjusts measures what's being created

There is a particular kind of life that unfolds in the margins of life. Stealing slivers of time to paint. I wish it was the grand , uninterrupted stretch of studio hours one imagines in ones youth, rather i cannot offer the sunlit narrative of the "artist at work". Instead, stitched together from fragments' of time, i gather moments between boiling the kettle, the making of beds, the tending of home, garden, a husband and a homestay student which all insist on daily care. A

Creative work has its own flavor of time-Subdued, deep and contemplative. It does not respond well to urgency. It begs immersion, silence and asks for patience.

Today, Sunday, my Bone Blog is about one of those rare, fresh crisp clean days. The light was so generous, the air offered the promise of an early spring. I slept in, being a Sunday and was surprised when my eyes opened slowly to the light in my room. Sundays i prepare a generous brunch for the family and we all converge at the dining table well rested at 11.30am, and today with the sun we were all cheerfuly enjoyed our family favorite, fluffy french toast soaked in Canadian

It reminds me that art doesn’t always function as a statement. Sometimes it functions as a witness.

During these times, it can feel almost absurd to return to the studio. Nothing will be fixed by paint. No decision will be resolved by clay. No uncertainty will dissolve because a brush is lifted. And yet — the call remains.

Art does not solve what is broken. It does not offer answers. But it can hold space.

Solitude for me on days like this are not loneliness. It is a form of listening.