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Those who sow in tears
shall reap with songs of joy.
Psalms 126:5
I made this painting as a kind of alchemy. My hope was that depicting a process of transformation would transmute my own grief and the sense of an ending it carried into a portal to possibility. I am very happy to tell you that it actually worked.
I was overcome by a profound sense of disappointment when the deranged and vengeful current occupant of the White House was elected for a second time. My feeling was public, to be sure. Although I salute the writers and activists who focus on hope and possibility in a dark time—and although I see wisdom in that choice—my experience has too often been a steady beat of shock and astonishment as limbs have been ripped from the body politic, as gains made possible by decades of struggle have been erased overnight, as an avalanche of hate speech has submerged democratic discourse.
I think it is human—tempting, but not wise—to somehow connect a big picture of world events to the small-scale dramas that unfold in ordinary lives and relationships. I found myself doing that, piling personal disappointments and public troubles onto the same trash heap. Projects I’d invested myself in didn’t come to fruition. COVID had paused much of my work, as organizations that had hired me canceled contracts the quarantine had rendered impossible to fulfill. When the pandemic ended, something had changed.
To give the tiniest example, recently someone making casual conversation while we waited for a doctor asked me a question: “What did you do?” I had a sinking feeling familiar from childhood. I looked around to see if I’d accidentally made a mess or otherwise misbehaved. But then I realized her query was completely innocent and understandable; she was sure that someone my age was no longer part of the world of work. I explained that I write and paint, give talks and advice, and that none of these things were past tense. But aging has two dimensions, and neither can be escaped: how your body changes, comparable to going through puberty but traveling in a different direction; and how the world sees you, which often clashes mightily with how you see yourself.
My last two paintings, “Arlene’s Dream: Love is Stronger Than Death” and this one, were complicated compositions, each incorporating three images. They took a long time to paint, and instead of feeling impatient as I sometimes used to do, I found myself wishing the process would never end. I’m starting a new composition now, another three-part painting on a large panel. My hope is that it too, will give me a reason to spend time in my studio most days, will take shape gradually and speak to me for a long time before it settles into its final form. That is my hope because painting brings me into focus, banishing distractions, satisfying my desire to make beauty and meaning, and casting a warm light over the entire day.
“Those Who Sow in Tears Shall Reap With Songs of Joy,” oil on panel, 36″ x 48″ 2026
I have the same feeling about writing the short essays published on my blog or elsewhere. When something—words or images or both—is wanting to be born, I forget about past or future and ground myself in the process of midwifery. Things feel right.
That is what I learned about myself from painting “Those Who Sow in Tears,” that the act of creation, if what I am creating encodes something true and important to myself, is what sustains me. It anchors me in a way of being where I’m not immune to disappointment, but it no longer overwhelms me.
The images in this painting tell a story: the aging eyes overflow with tears that cascade into hands holding the beginning of green life, a datura seedling like the ones that spring up all around our house every summer. The tears complete their journey toward the waters covering this earth, especially precious in this dry country, where a stream or pond may be home to frogs, polywogs, and Rio Grande cutthroat trout, all New Mexico denizens. The story this painting tells rhymes with the story that making this painting taught me, that grief can replenish life if only I let it.
There are so many great versions of “Drown in My Own Tears,” but Ray Charles first recorded it in 1956, so I think his version deserves the spotlight here.