Make art, not war
 
Let me just say this up front: These are glowing in the dark. :oO

*

So about last week. 

I'm still in shock. No words. I know there was a moon. A huge bright full moon. I was sure at some point I would stop feeling dazed and sick. Stunned. Saddened. Silenced. It's like the floor fell out beneath me and just kept falling, while I was suspended above it. Floating and hurtling downward. 

"Make more art," said a long-time collector, whom I value as a friend. 

Make more art. 

Make more art.

I repeated it to myself. I grabbed the nearest canvas and vowed to fill it up. I had to distract my mind and steady my hand. I would pour my brain into it. Look at the canvas, the ink, the grid, I told myself. Just add a little more.

I could hardly put it down. I would reach for it at all times. It was next to me when I woke up and nearby at dinner. I had to stop working on it each night just to get some sleep. One drawing became three. Three became six. Six became a whole new ongoing series that never really has to end because a circle, a mandala -- is just a shape. It morphs and evolves as I do. Wherever I am. Lines and curves, over and over again.

I remembered my friend Joumana. As a war survivor, art was a welcome distraction to her as a child. It provided a necessary coping mechanism during the years she was not in control of her life. But now Joumana is a freedom goddess, funneling light outward in all directions from her humble (and dreamy) studio in London. 

I need no better example right now. 

For the first time since I stopped Krav in April, I went to the gym. I wanted to move around again, to punch and kick and sweat and feel my heart pounding. I wanted to remember how much power and strength I had-- that I still had control over myself and my immediate situation, no matter what was coming. 

Training my body and my mind to focus. 

Eyes wide open.