Stinson Beach Reflections, November 2006

Written three years ago. Writing allows us to revisit our past and consider the changes that have occurred. When I wrote this I would never have imagined I would be living in Austin, Texas pursuing a PhD. What a journey life is!
I dedicate this post to the loving memory of Lee Franklin.


This past week I have lived in a small apartment in Stinson Beach, a coastal village 40 minutes drive north of San Francisco. Although not far in distance, Stinson is a universe away. Similar to my Greek island life, everything I need is within walking distance, the grocery, cafes, and most important the beach is minutes from my door. There is a post office, library, gallery, small bookstore, and several restaurants to choose from. When the spirit moves me I drive through the West Marin countryside to feel the colors and be soothed by the rolling hills draped in autumn red, gold, green, and my favorite – yellow. I think a lot and keep my mouth shut though I do talk to myself. I came here out of the usual desperation to break free of my daily grind so I might find enough peace and inspiration to paint and write, to live life in a natural rhythm, to reflect and be moved by the natural beauty that surrounds me.

This has been an experiment of sorts, being so close to home. It was a practical response to a compelling situation. I was closing up inside, despairing, and not able to feel my creative self. The light was out again, smothered by commuting on I-80, work, too much noise and too little thought. Or should I say a lack of space or time to think. Life at the usual pace simply does not allow for reflection. I am not able to flip a switch when I come home to creative mode, regardless of the hours in front of me. As a result the feelings, thoughts, colors, words, ideas that form a ticker tape across my brain remain in constant motion. I become passive, stare at a TV screen or computer screen and become increasingly “tired”. Come the time change in October, the blankness descends upon me with a thud. Up early, then early to bed and what have I to show for myself after living on the planet an entire day? Nonetheless, there remains a nagging voice inside that begs to be heard, “You are wasting inside, and your gifts along with it!”

It might be a mark of weakness, lack of discipline, or whatever character flaw that could be attributed to a faltering of will and perseverance to rise above and do “my work” regardless of the obstacles. Or perhaps it is my age and a sense of resignation, along with a fear that the best days have come and gone old girl. I am just stubborn and rebellious enough to refuse to accept the latter. Some days I feel an entire universe is about to explode inside me, and I vow to respond to the profound urge to make something of myself as an artist and writer. That nagging voice again, and the unspoken truth that I was meant to confront blank white paper with color and thread words together in this lifetime, not wait for another. I have to make stuff, in that process all the pieces come together for me, when life makes some degree of sense. There is no other way for me to define rapture.

As an artist I rely heavily on contrast; the contrast of light, color, texture, distance and perspective. Contrast sharpens the focus, lifts the picture off the page into another dimension. Actually, contrast is a tool of the trade and art would be flat without it. Off the page contrast is another thing, provoking the disparity between sadness and joy, beauty and horror, right and wrong, and so on. Contrast takes on many forms in my daily life. Every morning I read about Iraq in the New York Times and hear of the mounting casualties on CNN and NPR as I commute to work. What strikes me most as the day progresses is how little the war seems to do with most Americans, or the ones I come into contact with on a daily basis. I sit at my desk or cross the street and say to myself, “We are at war, do not forget we are at war and thousands of people are being killed and wounded everyday. Get angry, do something!” The most I seem to do is remind myself a few times a day and leave it at that. Some days I initiate a discussion and try to remind someone else, rant and rave a bit and then go back to the task at hand. I often wonder who else is reminding themselves everyday that people are being killed because we elected a grandiose liar and the whole thing has spiraled out of control and we are too engrossed in our lives that on the whole might be going well enough so that we can pretty much tune it out other than to politely agree on how awful it is.

Although I have made a point of ridding myself of anger that has held me down, I think anger is sometimes the only appropriate response. Particularly when people are being killed for no good reason other than so a small number of rich people can become even richer from someone else’s misery. However, anger is not well received. Shouldn’t we be angry, and honest about this anger so justified? Can you imagine if someone asks how you are and you say, “Well, I am pissed off about the war in Iraq and Bush and how he is destroying this country and compromised our place in the world and that’s all I want to talk about, forget the pleasantries.” I basically cussed out a Bush supporter in a movie theater whose arrogant and snide remarks about “other people’s kids can fight the war”, not his college attending child. And I felt I let him off easy. What has become of us if we cease to have a line that cannot be crossed? Was that not what the civil rights movement, the anti-war movement and the feminist movement was about? Being mad as hell and not taking it anymore, insisting on change - now. Making light of “other people’s kids” who do not have the options my kids or his kids have is worthy of anger and public humiliation, to say the least. I am grateful the mid-term election reflected a national disapproval of the war, now let’s see if this unfixable mess can somehow be unfixed enough to stop more innocents from being killed and wounded.

I have been accused of being “too serious” most of my life. I marched against the Vietnam War and for civil rights when most of my peers were discovering lipstick. I think I have great humor and capacity for joy. Though I would not agree that I am “too serious”, I am however dead serious when I comes to certain things. Raising black kids requires a degree of seriousness, and the ability to confront those who might cause harm to my children, individuals and institutions alike. Being a parent is not for the faint at heart, it is a gut wrenching experience in the best of circumstances that humbles even the most confident and accomplished (or it should). Being a white/Jewish mother of a black male and female comes with its own set of challenges. I had to learn to see the world as it viewed my kids and not to shrink from discomfort, mine or other people’s. I have been the only white person in the gym during my son’s games for years, the one to speak up when racist remarks were made, refusing to accept the “color blind” theory about biracial kids, or kids in general. Backing down was not an option, and I had to teach by example. Most important, I could not bullshit my kids about racism or they would be road kill, or worse, I would loose my credibility with them.

There are a million stories and examples from parenting black kids that illustrate the contrast between being black and white in America. I know the Pinole Police Chief well and when he hears my voice on the other end of the phone he knows it is not a courtesy call. Walking behind my kids, I see the looks, particularly with my son, the feared black male. There is a discomfort that deflates when they open their mouth and speak “proper” English, or refer to their travels and education, and then the real trump card, having a white mother. It is so subtle, yet transparent. The underlying message is my kids are different, not like regular black people, perhaps because they are biracial and I am their mother. I know the statistics but my kids are not a number. And yet the fact that they defy the numbers is no consolation to us; it is our rallying cry. Being at UC Hastings College of Law is an achievement only if you make it possible for someone else to get there. A broadcast/media internship with the Warriors is an achievement only if you hook up someone when you leave as someone did for you. My children have been raised with high expectations to fully develop their human potential for more than their own purposes. And to never be comfortable while black kids are caught in an achievement gap, incarcerated disproportionately, and being killed by guns and a cycle of poverty.

My week in Stinson Beach has been the ultimate contrast from daily life in Pinole. I arrived feeling like a layer of film on a glass. A crisis at work prevented me from arriving in early afternoon. As Stinson came into view on Highway 1, the sun was descending and ribbons of electric pink and purple streaked the sky. The air was unseasonably warm. The village was quiet, typical for a Wednesday evening in November. I unpacked my bags and art supplies, spreading newspaper on the floor to catch falling pieces of oil pastels. I ate dinner at one of the three restaurants with my book. It was the beginning of less words coming out of my mouth and my inner dialog. The most constant sound has been the crashing of waves that is audible from my apartment. I leave the sliding door to the terrace open at night so I can drift off to sleep with the sea as my lullaby. I inhale the salt air from the sea and the fragrance of the woods. At night I walk under a canopy of stars and hear the crunching of leaves and twigs underfoot. I have no reason to be mindful of time since I eat when I am hungry and sleep when I am tired.

I begin each day with a long walk on the beach. I have forsaken jogging and my iPod, preferring to slow things down and listen to the sea and chattering birds. Stinson is a long stretch of beach, and I usually spend 1-2 hours walking. I walked in a drizzle the first day, and from then on it has been mostly sunny and warm. My pace is my pace, sometimes slow and deliberate, sometimes intense and deep depending on what I am doing. I study colors; close my eyes to feel rather than see, allowing emotions to surface that have been long buried. I delight in the autumn colors, the vibrant yellows, reds, gold, and deep rich hues of green. The texture of the rolling hills resembles bolts of velvet fabric tossed across the landscape. I cry, laugh aloud, talk to myself. I read papers and think about what I have read while drinking a latte on my terrace where the sea is in full view. I watch cable news, Dancing With the Stars Results pulling for Emmett Smith (he won!), and my Thursday lineup of Grey’s Anatomy and ER. And I have painted, hours of glorious painting.

I reconnected with an artist friend in Bolinas. I could not recall why our friendship lapsed years ago. I knocked on her door and walked in and we began or banter as if we last saw each other days and not years ago. Jackie invited me to an opening at the Bolinas Museum, their annual “mini” show. There were some excellent pieces in the show, several I would have liked to tuck in my purse. What struck me being with Jackie, and at the opening, was how far away from my art and others who make art I have become. I tend to be reclusive in my work and shy away from the “art scene”. Years of exhibiting soured me to the system; however, it has not always been an attribute to isolate myself. I thought of my younger self and the work I once did that was more provocative and interesting, definitely a commentary on my life and the world as I interpreted it. What had the years done to me? Marred my spirit and creativity? I painted on 30 ft, scrolls and old windows and doors with poetry scrawled on windowpanes. My divorce, my parenting angst, my relationship missteps, the Gulf War, pessimism and optimism and awe of nature were all there. By staying aloof of myself I had compromised my art. When did I stop using my work as a commentary and why? I certainly have worthy experiences, strong feelings and an awareness that could be channeled into my work rather than feeling like a plugged toilet. Playing it safe and lazy was not yielding satisfying results.

I had begun painting the day before I went with Jackie to the exhibition. Krystal and Jonathan came to visit Friday with Pepsi. I reserved them a dog room downstairs so I would not have to share my space or put away my paints. Pepsi would try and eat them and anything else lying around. Krystal came up to my room and saw the first two paintings on the extra bed. She was so impressed with them and I was anything but. You can have one if you want I told her as if I was offering her a drink of tap water. I thought nothing of the pieces other than they had opened the gate to painting after another long dry spell since Copenhagen. I stuck with it; however, and I hit my stride enough to feel a union and harmony that happens when I am deep in my work. It is not only a matter of laziness; the process requires time and a mental space that is conducive to creating. For me, anyway. I need encounters with trees sporting yellow leaves in the woods, quiet that allows one to hear the stream under a small wooden bridge, and ample time to reflect and grapple with articulating the huge quantity of thoughts and feeling that mount inside. Not being in perpetual motion helps.

My time here was not without ruptures to the solitude. Pepsi had a blast on the beach, a bit too much of a blast, and she got ill drinking salt water and sneaking tastes along the shore. It was too much of a good thing I guess, she was so much fun on the beach we stayed for two hours. Before she left it was clear she was not feeling well and I asked Jonathan to take her to the vet. Rena emailed me since there is no Sprint cell reception and told me she was vomiting on the way home. I was scrounging for change to use the pay phone and have the kids call me back. The vet decided to keep her overnight for observation and to get some fluids in her. Rena had us on three-way and Jonathan was crying at having to leave her. She put the vet on three-way so I could ask questions. I fretted throughout my evening with Jackie. I thought about how much I love that pup, and how devastated we would be as a family if something happened to her. I opened myself up to the dilemma of loving and caring when I got her against my better judgment. Pepsi has turned out to give me far more than she has taken. Like another child, she requires care and attention; however, she brings a smile to my face each time I walk through the door. I could play with her for hours and I hate to leave her when I go to work. I tell her I love her a million times a day. I knew I would wake early and head back to Pinole early to check on her and talk to the vet. With no resentment I did just that.

We visited her at the clinic Sunday morning. She was perky and had kept down the small amounts of food they had fed her. She was given liquids but they wanted to keep her for a few more hours. I wept when we got in the car. This was the life I had chosen, one that included other people and now a puppy who ranked right up there with my kids. Even on the island I have mitigated situations from afar, worried to a point of distress, and until the crisis subsided I was no good to myself, or others. Thankfully I have had friends to lean my head on, reassure me and wipe my tears. Being close makes it harder and easier; I can go home and then leave again once I have a peace of mind though the obvious downside is going home at all. I have a reoccurring dream when I am in Europe that I have to return home for some reason and then I am in a frenzy trying to get myself back on the plane to complete my time away, adamant about going back regardless of the cost. I always wake up wondering where I am and breath a sigh of relief when I realize it is just the dream again and I am still in Europe. No dream book required to interpret the meaning of that dream. I have chosen to be accessible one way or the other to my family, to email personal statement revisions from a Greek island, to console my crying child on the phone thousands of miles away, to listen to their fears and gripes, and celebrate their successes whether I am in Copenhagen or at work in Oakland.

I though about love as I drove back from Pinole. It grips your heart and will not let go. When a child is in pain or danger, the adrenaline starts to flow and the daunting possibility that there is no limit to what I would do to protect my children, even cross the law, is scary to say the least. I have one absolute rule to the world; don’t fuck with my kids, and by the look on my face and tone in my voice; most people know I mean it. I have parted ways with my family over this rule; ceased communication with my own mother so there is no reason to doubt my sincerity. Fortunately, I have not had to test my limits on that rule though I have had to step up and put my on boxing gloves on more than one occasion.

What also occupied my mind as I drove through the woods was Lee Franklin and the news I received that morning that he had passed. Lee is a friend of my son’s from Berkeley High, a stand out kid who played sports and did well in school. His trademark smile was the highlight of more than one person’s day. Lee was raised by Pops, his grandfather, whose presence at games was a given. Lee was also battling leukemia. Lee went to Arizona State, and that was the last I heard until Jonathan came home form school one afternoon last spring and told me Lee was in one of his classes. He had gotten sick again and had to leave Arizona, and was now at SF State in the broadcast department, on the mend again. Towards the end of the semester Jonathan said Lee was not attending class anymore. I ran into good friends of Lee and they said he was at Alta Bates Hospital. Jonathan and I visited Lee there, and again when he was moved to Childrens Hospital. He had so many visitors it was impossible to see him on weekends. The last time I saw him was a few weeks ago, we sat at the nurses station chatting. He was sitting in a wheel chair after a walk and eating gummy bears. He looked so well, the signature smile appearing every now and then. I thought for sure this kid is going to defy all the odds and make it. Jonathan saw him a few days later and agreed. The last time Jonathan went to visit Lee he was sleeping, and then mid term exams arrived.

I received a phone call from Rena and an email from Karen Perkins that he had passed. I walked into Jonathan’s room to tell him and we both cried, out of sadness as well as admiration for this young man who fought harder than anyone could expect with a courage and heart that touched all of us who were privileged enough to be in his presence. I though about Pops and how devoted he was to Lee, how much he loved him. The kind of love that puts you into someone else’s body and feel their pain, that makes you want to own it so you can relieve that person of the burden, take the bullet for them. That love is the gripping kind. It is not subject to whim or romance, good times or bad, it is a constant that goes with the years and phases and trial and tribulations. It is unconditional and rock solid, it is surrender and determination and does not flinch in the face of adversity. I walked the beach later that day with the sun shinning and air warm. It was like summer but not. I held Lee close to me, I danced a jig for him and praised his spirit, and I thanked him for the few minutes I spent with him over the past months, and the opportunity to see that smile beam across his face.

Stinson Beach and I go back over 25 years. I walked these shores pregnant with Rena, watched my kids make sand castles, taught them to body surf and educated them in the beauty and meaning of a glorious sunset. Jonathan and I spent a warm August day here before he moved into his dorm. That was one of the all time Stinson greats, we body surfed for hours and found ourselves face to face with a seal bobbing in the surf. We have shared magic here on more than one occasion. They have Stinson Beach rituals that they now share with their friends, such as eating grill cheese (Rena) and burgers (Jonathan) at the Parkside. And they develop rituals of their own, as I have shared this place with other loved ones. Gene and I spent two days here at the Ocean Court two years ago January. Stinson was always a great day trip destination; I even coerced Gene into the sea on a warm July afternoon. Jonathan and Krystal love to eat at the Sand Dollar and will drive up here on a whim for fish and chips. The kids and I stayed at the Ocean Court many years ago for two nights. It was a turbulent time in our lives and it offered us a reprieve, a chance to escape and have fun at a place we loved. I am in that same room, and often think back to the joy of those few days before everything had happened and life felt scary yet full of possibilities.

Not everything has happened though. There is still time and life ahead to live. Paintings are spread across the extra bed and that is a good thing. I have felt peace and moved at my own pace for a week. I am rested and renewed. Another Stinson Beach chapter has been added to the collection. I am once again left to wonder if balance is possible or am I always to feel divided? I am nearing fifty years old and this is not getting any easier. I thought it would, that once my kids turned eighteen I would be free. Foolish me, and the truth is I do not want to be totally free of them. I like my kids a lot. I like being close to them and hanging out with them. They are the reason I am not living in Europe, they are the reason I agree to live a life of debt, and they are well worth it. I look at them and I think, job well done. They are kind and thoughtful and most important, they have a sense of otherness that I would have been willing to beat into them if it not had taken so easily. Nonetheless, I am in a role transition and it is not easy for any of us to move on and let go. But we are working on it despite the mutual cries of hold me close, let me go! It is a constant cycle of renewal, loss, redemption, despair and hope, fed by the random and the planned. I am the first to admit I am in the struggle.

Perhaps the real battle is between authenticity and practicality, what seems to be two opposing forces much of the time. This is most pronounced at work, where we earn our living to pay for all the things we deem necessary for our family and ourselves. There is no way I feel I can be my authentic self there. I do my best to maintain integrity in my work as coordinator of services to homeless students and their families at Oakland Unified. The truth is the district is failing a majority of the 48,000 students enrolled, as most urban school districts are, and perhaps education as a whole. I try to ignore that fact as much as possible and concentrate on what I can provide these students and families. I facilitate a group for parents at the largest family shelter in downtown Oakland. The only way I can do this with any measure of success is to be authentic, to lay the cards on the table about who I am and who they are and the differences between us. From there we can rest in some common ground. Although I have no clue what it is like to be homeless and live in a shelter, nor do I ever want to, I know what it is like to put my face in my hands and sob, frantic with worry over my child. On that we can relate, and we take it from there. The truth is I am more authentic with those parents than I am with my co-workers or boss. If I told them what I really think I would be fired on the spot. So we hold it in and there is always a price to pay for holding it in. My travels to Europe and this most recent week in Stinson are flashing red lights that warm me to make a change sooner rather than later. I cannot live my authentic life in one week or one month increments and be the artist I need to be. I also cannot take flight from my life in its entirety. Authenticity reflects the wholeness of self and incorporation of polarizing forces. That is the challenge. At least it has been my challenge for as long as I can remember.

Once again I prepare my departure without answers, only questions, and lots of paintings. There is a conspicuous absence of people in my paintings in recent years. The colors are ever-present; however, though I need to think about where the figures have gone and why. I hardly bother with structures of any kind, preferring to tangle with abstract impressions and color. At some point perhaps the figures will return and tell a different story. At this moment I am content and I intend to savor it for as long as possible. There are paints and clothes to pack up, and a beach to visit one last time. The sky is much like it was my first day, overcast with a hint of rain. The weather is a constant cycle of sun, rain, clear skies and overcast, of blue, gray and everything in between. A metaphor for life if there ever was one. I will linger in the silence and solitude here in my remaining hours. Soon I will be making the trek over the hill. I can see what awaits me in my mind’s eye; a puppy who can’t wait to jump on me and play fetch, my daughter in a study frenzy, my son relieved to have a few days without any obligations besides his fantasy football and basketball league. There will be Thanksgiving dinner preparations with Tommy at the helm and me in charge of clean up. We will gather tomorrow and the overwhelming theme will be gratitude. What else can I say about a life filled with wonderful family and friends, one that has afforded me opportunity to explore and journey, and of course, meet all of you!
Have a very happy Thanksgiving, or to my non-US friends, a wonderful weekend ahead.
Much love,
Paula