Eclosion: Gaia’s Acceptance (Offering 11.3)
Following the heart, even when the future is uncertain.
This chapter returns to art, to the coast, and to a painting that revealed something I couldn’t yet name—guided by my daughter’s wisdom.
(If you’re new to Eclosion: An Artist’s Path to Power and Peace, start at the beginning. Or visit my Memoir Hub for a full table of contents with links.)
Gaia’s Acceptance
It was around this time that I painted a culminating piece in my Sea Level Rise: The Mother’s Tears series. All the previous paintings in the series had a black background, the imagery coming out of the darkness, painted with cool blues. This one though, was warm—a sunset over a natural landscape.It was a painting of Hole in the Wall, a stunning stretch of coastline along the Pacific. Hole in the Wall was the site of my last backpacking trip with Shon and Seren, before learning he had cancer.
It is a time of tuning into the miraculous. The first thing I see when I step out of the car is a brown pelican. I love brown pelicans. We hike down the beach and set up camp amongst ancient driftwood, above high-tide line. Our site is well loved; the driftwood transformed into tables and kid-sized forts and hiding spots.
During the day we hike along the coast, picking our way carefully through Hole in the Wall, a massive arch you can walk through at low tide. We marvel over the many invertebrates—sea stars, sea anemones, and barnacles—visible in the tide pools. We climb huge driftwood logs that are arrayed up and down the coast like the grandest, most natural playground imaginable. In the evening, Seren and I play tag with the waves, laughing as we reach to touch the water with our outstretched hands, then run away, trying not to let the ocean catch us. A sea otter plays in the waves in front of our camp site.
To witness the miraculous, I need only look at Seren’s smile. If I could just see the miracle that is Shon… well, I can only imagine I would see him in a brighter light. That I would hold him with more reverence, with more delight.
So how can I see the miracle that he is? It is difficult to even see it in Seren on busy days with too much going on.
Slow down.
Enjoy the moment.
At the time, the trip to Hole in the Wall was simply an adventure—a return to nature. Looking back, it became a touchstone of life before cancer. Drawing from a collection of photographs from this trip and my own sketches, I began to paint Hole in the Wall not as it was, but as it revealed itself in my imagination.
The natural rock formations, with their massive arch you can walk through at low tide, became my focus. As I worked, I saw the rocks transform into the shape of a woman lying on her back, her body carved from the earth itself. This new vision merged the landscape with the feminine form, as if nature itself was reclining in a state of both vulnerability and strength.
As I worked on that painting, something was shifting inside of me—something I wanted to express with paint, something I had been trying, and not quite achieving, in each of the preceding paintings in the series. I was right on the edge of this shift but couldn’t quite figure out what to do first or how to get there. I went to Shon for advice, as I often do when artistically stuck. He and Seren were lying in the hammock in the sun. “I’m stuck,” I said, standing next to the hammock. “Should I paint the woman first? Or the background? Or should I just scrap the whole thing and start over?”
It was Seren who answered. “Mama, I think you should start with the part you know about, painting the woman. Paint the woman! And then just follow your heart!”
Of course, I thought. That’s it exactly. My heart melting at the truth in her words, I leaned down for a hug and was pulled on top of them in the hammock, laughing. “Oh, Seren, thank you,” I said, squeezing her tight. “You are so wise. I could not have gotten better advice from anyone else in the world.”
This was a perfect reminder of how wisdom so often flows through those who love us. Seren is such an incredible old soul, seeing right to the heart of things. She is, without question, the biggest gift in my life.
So that is exactly what I did. I painted the woman—then followed my heart. The result is the culmination of hours upon hours of painting, a place where success blends into mastery. The woman is reclined, made from rocks, with a round, pregnant, coastal bluff belly and her braided hair lying in the shallows. The clouds are fluffy and yummy, and the reflected water feels alive. The sun sets behind Hole in the Wall, creating an incredible glow, right through her heart. The painting is called Sea Level Rise: Gaia’s Acceptance.
Gaia’s Acceptance was scheduled to be part of a collaborative art festival on the Oregon coast that summer. The festival, organized by artist John Teply, featured John’s one-hundred-year project titled For the Seventh Generation. In John’s words: “Imagine 1,320 paintings by 1,320 artists to go with the 1,320 miles of the Washington, Oregon and California coasts. These paintings, each four feet in length, when put together end to end, and in geographic order, offer the viewer an opportunity to walk the Western coast.”
That summer, Seren and I planned a road trip to Oregon, just the two of us, for the festival. Not only was I showing Gaia’s Acceptance, I was also scheduled to give a talk on the Power of Collaborative Art. By then, I’d been speaking on stage for years, but this felt different—more personal, more vulnerable.
I was nervous about traveling alone with Seren for work. What if she needed me when I was in the middle of my talk? How would I keep track of her and make sure she was safe? I know single parents must do this all the time, but it was a new revelation for me. And I didn’t know if Shon would recover from the cancer. Maybe our future would end up being just Seren and me. Even though I didn’t want to think about it, it was a possibility I couldn’t ignore.
When I meditated on how it would work if I were a single mom, I thought of how Seren has always been part of my artwork, helping me paint murals or playing in the studio while I work. This time, I was speaking on stage, but there was no reason she couldn’t be part of that too. As I developed my talk for the event, I remembered the poems she’d written and shared during the Climate Art event we hosted earlier that spring. I asked her if she’d like to be part of my talk; would she like to share a poem about the ocean on stage? She liked the idea and began thinking about an ocean poem.
As I began planning our trip, I reached out to my friend Naomi in Oregon, asking if we could stay with them. She gave an emphatic Yes! Our families had been friends for years and Naomi and I were pregnant together—Naomi with her second child while I was pregnant with Seren. They’d moved to Oregon a few years earlier. Being far away and not on social media, their family didn’t yet know about the sharp turn our lives had taken. When I told her about Shon’s cancer diagnosis and treatment, I shared that we’d be coming in raw—that I was simultaneously leaving Shon home alone during his cancer treatment for the first time and sharing a very vulnerable talk at the Seventh Generation Mural Festival. I really had no idea what emotional state I would be in. There was a good chance both Seren and I would need extra support. She responded with such empathy and compassion, welcoming us with open arms and the willingness to hold us in whatever ways we needed.
During our trip, Naomi and I connected deeply at their home in Corvallis, sharing hard and beautiful aspects of our lives, as our kids jumped on the trampoline or played in the nearby river. On the day of the festival, the four of us piled into our car and made the hour-long drive to Lincoln City. I’d practiced my talk repeatedly before leaving for Oregon and felt confident. Even so, there were butterflies in my stomach. I gave them the recognition they deserved—a recognition of the Universe being with me—welcomed them in and thanked them. I turned the music up loud and sang “Into the Wild,” and “We Rise,” feeling these songs as the call to action they are. Later, on the beach, the kids played in the waves and built sandcastles, while I sang to the ocean, finding myself calm, willing, and ready.
When I stepped onto that stage, a real stage for the first time since before the pandemic, with a huge screen behind me showing images of my work, my mouth went dry. I paused, taking a drink of water and then a deep breath. Once I began, everything flowed. I felt a deep connection with the audience, even receiving a standing ovation. As my talk ended, I shared Seren’s wisdom in helping me paint Gaia’s Acceptance, then invited her onstage. Seren came up and recited her poem:
I love the grass
And I love the trees
And I love the oceans
And I love the seas
It was short and sweet, and the audience loved it. Even though she was only on stage for a couple of minutes, she was part of it. We were a team. This felt so important during that uncertain time in our lives.
One unexpected outcome of the festival was John telling me that my painting was getting a lot of attention. Another artist said it was the favorite of the event. Considering the number of paintings in the festival, this was quite an honor. While their words fed my ego, the more important outcome was accomplishing through painting a similar sense of unfolding, of layers that are not immediately visible, as I had achieved with The Butterfly Effect.
I wondered what else would come out of this trip. Would it ripple out into the world in untold ways? Would it result in tangible outcomes for my work, for my family? What came to me was the sensation of a strong connection to the Great Mystery, to the All that Is—a curiosity, a wondering, a loosening.
It was hard to leave Shon, but it was so good for Seren and me to take a break from his treatments, to connect with friends and nature and art, with each other and ourselves. Before leaving, I made sure Shon was set with food, rides, medications, and people checking in on him. He had space to let the side effects from the treatment move through his body in peace. Mostly he just wanted to sleep. And Seren and I got a much-needed break.
What part of your life is asking you to follow your heart—even if you don’t yet know the outcome?