The Things That Right Us

And what has always been my medicine.

It’s been raining a lot here in the Bay Area.

Storms, atmospheric rivers, king tides, flooding—the kind of rain that feels dramatic and a little relentless.

And because I’m afraid to drive in the rain, especially when it’s dark, I’ve been hunkered down more than usual. My shared art studio (relatively close to my house) has become a kind of sanctuary on these wet days. A place to land.

I find myself painting simple things lately - my friend’s dog, a gift for Christmas. A butterfly drifting in the clouds.

Nothing ambitious. Nothing strategic. Just… quiet images.

I remember when I was in my early twenties, when I began painting in earnest. I didn’t have language for it then, but I know now why I was so devoted to it: it was the only time I wasn’t afraid.

When I was painting, everything felt okay. I felt okay. I didn’t need anything from anyone. The present moment was the only place I wanted to be.

These days, painting can feel like a luxury. An indulgence. Something I squeeze in if I’m lucky. But I remember an exercise I did at a workshop decades ago—imagining we had 20 years to live, then 10, then 5, then 1… and finally, just one day.

When I pictured having only a day left, one of the things I wanted to do was paint.

That has stayed with me.

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I’m not entirely sure why I’m telling you this today. Maybe it’s because I’ve been feeling a little blue. Maybe because the world feels cruel. Maybe because I’ve been holding my breath.

When I feel untethered, or tender, or scared by the weather—inside or out—that’s where I go. To the things that steady me. The things that right me internally. The things that help me remember who I am when I’m not bracing.

Maybe this is just a reminder—to myself, and maybe to you too—to do the things that feel medicinal. The things that restore us quietly, without fanfare. The things that make it possible to keep going.