At a party last week an acquaintance and I were chatting about my recent trip to The Netherlands. He asked me if I was familiar with the Dutch concept of niksen. “Niksen?” I asked. “Nope. I’ve never heard of it.” Similar to the Danish concept of hygge, but distinctly different, and not exactly the same as practicing mindfulness, niksen means doing nothing or, more specifically, doing something without a purpose, like staring out the window, hanging out, or listening to music.

Matsuo Basho (1644-1694) was one of the greatest Japanese poets. He elevated haiku to the level of serious poetry in numerous anthologies and travel diaries. Years ago when I started a new office job in San Francisco, I arrived to find my desk completely cleaned and organized, a blank slate waiting for me to claim it. The only thing my predecessor left behind was this simple poem on a small yellow stickie note pinned to the wall. I left it there the five years I worked in that space and it served as a constant reminder to be fully present and to let go at the same time.

I often share a story with my students about the evolution of one of my favorite paintings. It’s a story about persistence despite misgivings. It’s a story about staying in the conversation even when that conversation is not going well FOR A VERY LONG TIME. And it’s a story about having faith that the questions one is trying to explore have their own timeframe for opening. It’s the story of a painting called Hiver (French for winter).

The opportunity to step away from the familiar patterns of our lives, from the to-do lists and the appointments, the cleaning and errands and schedules, can provide a much needed shift. This was true for me recently when I spent 10 days in San Miguel de Allende visiting friends. I lived out of a suitcase putting together outfits from far fewer choices than I have at home. I carried little in my backpack other than a wallet, my phone for taking pictures, and a water bottle. I ate when I was hungry and walked for hours each day. And there was ample time for yoga and reading, even a little meditation on the patio outside our room.

I have been thinking about light a lot this winter. It’s my first winter working from home and I have two big windows in my home studio, as well as two big windows in my studio. I am enjoying watching the sunrise while I drink my coffee observing the birds at my kitchen feeder and long mid-afternoon walks with my dog. Just soaking up as much light as I can. I’m also thinking about the light we share with others when we teach or share from the radiance of our own being.

Pare down to the essence, but don’t remove the poetry. This is the heart of wabi-sabi according to a slim volume by Leonard Koren I am currently reading. And a rule of thumb I've long applied to my work (although not always successfully). This time of year, instead of resolutions, I like to choose a word to focus on. My word for 2019 is strength. Strength to withstand when the work isn't going well and the doubts creep in. Strength to make the right choices for myself moment to moment, knowing when to be alone and when to go out into the world, when to stay up late and when to rise with the dawn. And strength in the literal sense, which I need for the series of larger paintings I am working on.

A few years ago I spent time on Isle de Mujeres in Mexico. All over the island my sisters and I found scenes like this--debris, flux, and in its midst, startling beauty. As Diane Ackerman writes in A Natural History of the Senses, "Much of life becomes background, but it is the province of art to throw buckets of light into the shadows and make life new again."