A wise person claims that asking yourself, “Am I better than yesterday?” is a powerful daily life practice.  Whether the answer is “Yes” or “No” during the pursuit of mastery, the practitioner’s reply must be a life-affirming, “Yes, I’m getting better at this because I practice.” Wisdom claims that answer drives doggedness through the stagnant times and frustration.

Easier said than done.

I reflect on my own pursuits which spread across parenting, painting, writing, climbing, fitness, mindfulness and admit there is no clear and simple answer.  I have given up in the past.  I’ve conceded defeat.  I’ve believed I can’t do better. I have many excuses too, and I hate excuses. I’ve discovered that what you might call my doggedness is not certitude, but an overall concession and helpless defeat that I can’t do anything else than this.

So, without anything better to do, I continue to practice. Sometimes I remember to ask myself.  “Am I better than yesterday?”  But mostly I don’t.

Then, sometimes I come across a project or circumstance that reveals my progress and I get a second wind. This painting is it.  It is my answer to the question.  Yes, today I am better than yesterday.

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C) Marika Reinke – Adventures in Art with Heart, Humor and Spirit.

“Mom! I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.” An eye roll emphasized her tweeny exasperation.

“I don’t care about what you are going to be.” I said. “You will be a lot of different things. I want an idea of what you want.”

She shrugged, but her eyes stayed on me.

“I always wanted time to paint and write.” I illustrated. “Now, here I am with the time to do it”

She nodded, so I kept talking.

“Your dad always wanted to be successful. It matters less what he is, it’s the success he wants and motivates him.”

“Some people want an ambulance.” She elaborated. Our friends recently bought an out-of-commission ambulance, it’s true. “But others want to go to Mexico.”

“And others want to take a year and half off and live in Costa Rica.” I winked. That was a couple of years ago.

“So, what do you want?” I asked again.

I can’t wait to find out.

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C) Marika Reinke – Adventures in Art with Heart, Humor and Spirit.

 

My dad’s main parenting objective was to make memories.  He created them with variety, skill, and simplicity.

He walked with me. In hindsight, our most precious amblings were the modest ones; the everyday stroll to the bus stop.  We conversed like peers and discussed the color of the dawn, friendships and school work. I felt equal as he lectured and philosophized.

He was funny too, sometime ridiculous. Our barking spiders could be fierce. My parents’ coconut cream pie wars. He crashed, splashed and then sailed into the bay not to return for hours when he taught himself to windsurf. His untethered laugh conquered our house.

He repeated himself.  “Life isn’t fair,” was constant. “Your friends are not your friends.” He commanded me.  “Do what you say,” and “Honor your word,” were built into his heart. He transferred them to me neatly.

Now, I deliberately make memories with all his tricks and more. They are all that are left of love.

 

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C) Marika Reinke – Adventures in Art with Heart, Humor and Spirit.

“What do you do all day when we are at school?” My son asked me.

A pageant of vignettes marched before me. Days before he told his friends that I don’t work.  He really means I stay home to work, I reasoned, or did he?  It’s thorny to discern from a 9-years-old’s imprecise words.

“I paint, I work on my website, I blog and write, I handle orders and I teach my workshop.” I replied, ferreting a collected tone.  “Basically, I run my business.”

I didn’t say that in one day I fret and scheme, I doubt and pout. I handle thwacks of failure and near misses. I celebrate small successes. I battle my impulse to do everything and surrender to limited time. I shake it off and forge ahead.

“That a lot, mom.” He conceded. 

It is.

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C) Marika Reinke – Adventures in Art with Heart, Humor and Spirit.

“This is impossible.” I thought as I stepped up to a climbing wall for the first time.

That unworkable wall, in hindsight, was an un-challenging ladder. The excess of holds that littered it should have made it ridiculous not to make it to the top.

I didn’t make it to the top.

I was not curious about climbing. I went to the introductory climbing class because my newly married husband had started gym climbing.  When he went, his wedding ring stayed on the bathroom counter.  That made me curious.

It turns out finger rings and manicures don’t survive crimps and pockets.  A climber’s hands are a mess of callouses and muscular swelling digits that sacrifice their jewelry.

By the end of my first day, I made it to the top of the easiest climb in the gym. That was cool and kind of addictive.

I’m a complete unnatural. It’s a scary, strength-centric, body-aware sport that demands practical focus and technique with no room for daydreaming. Every time I climb, I’m forced into a new agony or disappointment.  It’s just not me.

Then again, I’m not natural at much.  Writing, painting, parenting, teaching, spousing, skiing, running have all required their discomfort.  I’ve only gotten better because I keep showing up.

 

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C) Marika Reinke – Adventures in Art with Heart, Humor and Spirit.

 

Make jewelry from watercolor paintings with me! Book a workshop or party thru Airbnb.com here: https://www.airbnb.com/experiences/140929

 

 

 

My kids’ teeth began rotting out of their mouth when we lived in Costa Rica.  Every time we went to the dentist they had more than one cavity or, even better, a new brand-spangled unfamiliar dirty-tooth syndrome. I shook with exasperation as the dentist handed me another bill. We were taking an unemployed year off, it hurt more than usual to pay a few hundred dollars every single time we visited.    

It wasn’t that our kids inherited week teeth or their physical inability to brush that introduced bacteria to their unclean mouths. They understood the correlations between brushing and tooth decay. It was our collective habit. 

Our nightly routine went like this:

“Time for bed!” a parent declared. 

These magic words disappeared the kids who returned as incoherent, tempestuous, figgety, bumptious gremlins mumbling and groaning some version of this: Ug, blah! I don’t wanna. Grrrr.  Can I just? Blurp!  Wait a minute. Crash! I gotta… Shrlurp! No jammas on!  One more… glassawater. Grunk! Anotherbook. Schwip!  Whatabouta….Kissme!

They were slippery and wicked, deceiving and jittery, as they placed obstacle and challenge in front of being tucked into bed. Every detail of our hopeful routine was a negotiation; bedtime stories, music, water, PJs or not, read a book, room temperature, teeth brushing and dog barking. We’d maneuver them to the bed wishing as hard as we could “Just go the F*ck to sleep.”  

They finally would and maybe they would brush their teeth. I couldn’t remember.

A handful of bills later and after the dentist’s lecture clearly detailing that I could expect many more visits like this, I did something desperate.

“The next time I take you to the dentist and you don’t have any cavities, I’ll give you $100.” I told them.  I justified that $100 in their pockets was better than $300 or more I kept putting in the dentists hands for each of them.   

A few years later and they haven’t had a cavity since. 

 

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C) Marika Reinke – Adventures in Art with Heart, Humor and Spirit.

 

Make jewelry from watercolor paintings with me! Book a workshop or party thru Airbnb.com here: https://www.airbnb.com/experiences/140929