A moment in time.

Welcome to my first blog post. I'm writing this while staring outside our Santa Monica apartment window. Unshowered and uncertain.

Creating through uncertainty on a Malibu Beach. February 2025. Photo by Ryan Atenhan, edited by me.

My daughter, husband, doggo, and I moved out west unexpectedly in January 2025. January 7, to be exact. It was my birthday, and all celebrations ceased when we saw the flames of the Palisades fires. Our apartment was a half block away from an evacuation zone for several days. For several days, I watched the black smoke fill our windows as we tentatively packed and unpacked our most precious belongings. When we ventured out, we were in masks and wading through the crowds of displaced people. Ash was snowing from the perfectly blue sky.

While the threats eventually ceased, the aftershocks remained, and we had no choice but to continue. My husband started his new job; my daughter finally enrolled in school. Percy and I were left on the couch, wondering what to do.

In these moments, I always give myself an out. You don't have to write those grants. You don't have to do the show. For the first time in your adult life, you can sit here and not work (for now).

I have opted out of work and projects in the past. Funds dry up, or all the extra money is rerouted to doctors, prescriptions, and therapists. I'm grateful for my deep sensitivity, as my body will force its hand before my mind accepts an untenable situation.

But this moment in time is different. When I sat down to write the grants, to storyboard the show, I felt regulated, purposeful. I didn't reach for the ibuprofen or clutch my guts in writhing pain. (What's all this medical stuff I speak of? That's for another post.) But know that I handle my pain through creating art.

The art I create isn't solitary; it's community-driven and collaborative. It's my portal from isolation to connection. Creating my latest show, Syncretism, kept me focused on problems I could solve, people I could support, and an opportunity to get outside my house and engage with those who inspire me most: my fellow artists.

Storyboards, music edits, copywriting, Zoom records, studio rentals, choreography software, garage rehearsals, tornadoes, floods, flying across the country, driving hundreds of miles, two performances, and Syncretism is over. Grant one is awarded, and now I sit and await the news of the second. The post-show blues are sliding me back into uncertainty. I hear this so much from my fellow artists that this must be a necessary element of the circle of creation.

Art provides a certain path in an uncertain time. But the path is temporary and fleeting, and perhaps it always will be, so how can we make peace with the uncertainty period of the cycle? Is that even the correct word? What words would come to mind if I allowed myself to sit quietly, close my eyes, and connect with the birdsong outside my window? Community, Yoga, nature, food, sleep, teaching, reflecting, writing, film, laughter, research, play....

Winter. That's the word. It turns out, I am not uncertain, I am in Winter. There are no leaves on the tree, but there are buds. Wait for the weather to turn, and those buds will bloom.