Thanks for checking out the LAFPI “tag team” blog, below, handed off each week from one interesting female playwright to another.
Who are they? Click Here
Old Friends
by Kitty Felde
I think the last musical I saw was my niece’s high school production of “Beauty and the Beast.” Back in the 80’s, my best friend Julie was going to Shakespeare school in NYC and we’d line up for hours at TKTS for anything affordable. Unfortunately, my husband’s not a fan of people singing in the middle of a story, so I’m always looking for a buddy to join me for a musical.
Last night, I took myself out for a date to see the Stephen Sondheim tribute show “Old Friends.”
It was packed with veteran Broadway singers and actors who often outshone the two legendary stars Bernadette Peters and Lea Salonga. The show is headed to Broadway after a run in London’s West End and it looks like it: polished, fantastic costumes, clever set, well directed, terrific orchestra. Cameron Mackintosh produced it. I was surprised that there was little dance since it was directed by the fabulous choreographer Matthew Bourne.
I loved it, even though the show couldn’t decide whether it was a concert of Sondheim’s greatest hits, or a series of favorite scenes from favorite shows.
Which brings me back to the power of story.
The most powerful bits were the snapshots of past plays. There was a long sequence from “Sweeney Todd” which introduces the Demon Barber of Fleet Street as he and his unfortunate customer sing “Pretty Women” all the way to Mrs. Lovett peddling meat pies made of lawyers and priests. “West Side Story” was summed up in a powerful balcony/mean streets scene performing “Tonight.” It wasn’t just Sondheim’s incredible music and lyrics carrying us away: it was the story the music was telling.
We all want a story, with or without music. We want to carry those characters around in our heads and hearts. We care what happens to them. We want to root for them. Or cheer when they’re killed off.
We are blessed to be writers, creating those characters and those stories – imaginary beings that will live in the hearts and minds of others, whether in a Broadway house or a storefront theatre on a night when the cast outnumbers the audience.
Don’t be discouraged. Go back to your laptop. Sharpen that number two pencil. Go make magic.
Kitty Felde, in addition to writing plays, is the author of The Fina Mendoza Mysteries series of novels for young readers that introduce civics to kids. Her latest title Snake in the Grass” about the bitter partisanship in Washington, DC these days will be published April 1, 2025 by Chesapeake Press.
Ms. Patricia Diann Mckenna
I didn’t know where to begin. How do you speak of someone you love who has crossed over into the next realm? How do you honor a life that touched you so deeply, even if your time together was far too quick?
After forty days it still feels fresh even if the state, country, and the world have seemed to move on. There is this huge hole left in the city that will not be so easily healed for many not only lost their homes but family members as well. We lost Ms. Pat to the Eaton fire that destroyed not only her home but 9,413 homes, businesses, and tons of special buildings across Altadena and Pasadena.
I loved Ms. Pat from the very first moment our paths crossed. She was a tall, bold force of nature—unapologetically honest and refreshingly direct, even when the truth stung. Witty, clever, and laced with delicious sarcasm, she possessed a refined taste in everything from art to life itself. Ms. Pat was fiercely original; she lived by her own thoughts, beliefs, and ideals, never swayed by the crowd.
I was just a young girl navigating my second or third year in L.A. when I first met her in the LACC costume shop, a sacred space where dreams and chaos mingled under the watchful eye of theatre legend Naila Aladdin-Sanders. There, amidst costumes and endless creative energy, Ms. Pat wasn’t just a teacher—she was a mentor, a friend, a guiding light. In that vibrant, often wild space, she wore many hats: mother, auntie, and steward of time. With a heart full of compassion, she fed us when our bodies needed it—she nourished our souls. Whether it was slipping a little cash into our hands, offering a ride, or simply sharing her wisdom, every act was delivered with precision, intention, and unconditional love.
Our conversations were endless and free, spanning theatre, art, fashion, her husband Tom, history, and the power of books. In a new city where meaningful connection can be rare, I found in Ms. Pat a kindred spirit—someone who made intellectual exploration feel like a grand adventure. I absorbed every word, and every idea, knowing I was in the presence of a woman who truly understood the beauty of learning and living boldly. When she spoke you listened.
There were times in theatre school when life threatened to break me—when eviction loomed, my belongings became a makeshift set on the school’s main stage, and homelessness felt inevitable. In those moments, Ms. Pat was my sanctuary. She took me under her wing: first finding me an apartment, then furnishing it with the warmth and coziness of home. When a roommate’s behavior turned dangerous in the dead of night, I called her, and without hesitation, she scooped me up, brought me safely to her home, and gave me refuge. For over a year, I lived with Ms. Pat in Altadena, sharing in both our struggles and our triumphs. Through every hardship, she was a constant beacon of unconditional love, fueling my courage and nurturing my passion for the arts.
Ms. Pat was the light in our darkest times—a fearless advocate for every artist caught between dreams and the unknown. I wish with every fiber of my being, that I could have saved her, just as she saved me so many times over. I hope she knows how deeply she was loved, how fiercely she was respected, and how her legacy will forever guide our hearts and minds. The memories of our time together are etched in my bones, inspiring me to be as audacious, as bold, and as unyielding in my truth as she was.
In remembering Ms. Patricia Diann McKenna, I honor not just a teacher, but an indomitable spirit—a woman who lived, loved, and dared to be unapologetically herself. Ms. Pat was here.
Too Much
by Chelsea Sutton
I was lamenting to a friend just earlier today that I don’t think my voice has a place within American Theatre.
I tend to be too strange or impossible for many theatres. And too normie, too traditional for others. I’m solidly in that “too weird” or “too much” category that does not qualify me for popular entertainment, and definitely doesn’t fit me into the artistic elite.
I was meeting folks for the first time at a residency recently, and I mentioned going to Meow Wolf — an experience I actually really love, especially the one in Santa Fe. And the experimental artist I was speaking with immediately shut it down as commercial, called it “dumb” and the precursor to things like the Ice Cream Museum. I felt shame almost immediately. This was a clear moment where I was able to place myself in the rankings at this residency — I’m too dumb to ever be a serious artist, too gullible by pop entertainment and selfie museums.
I’m not enough of an “artist” to be taken seriously but I’m also not enough of a pop artist to ever make any money.
I think there is room for all kinds of aesthetics and styles in the American Theatre. And I’ve been wrestling with my place in it for a long time.
But then of course the NEA and the Kennedy Center may be falling. The few national establishments that dictate what theatre is in this country will be narrowing their scope to only pieces about how great the Constitution is, etc. Wanting only plays that uphold ideals, and never question them.
We have such a long fight ahead. And so much of the turmoil over the last 10 years has sometimes made it seem like this art stuff doesn’t matter, when people are dying and infrastructure is crumbling.
And maybe on some level it doesn’t. But then you threaten our Kennedy Centers, and the possibility — nay, the reality — of a real, actual oppression of art. Of our voices. And it is terrifying. And it also makes the art seem even more important.
And we need all of us. The experimental, the popular, the weird ones in the middle to resist. Because rather than trying to fit into the American Theatre, we’re going to have to build a new one. And American Theatre 2.0.
The taste of fire
The view from my house on Tuesday, January 7, 2025
by Cynthia Wands
January 11, 2025
It’s Saturday afternoon. I’m writing this while I’m watching the smoke from the Palisades Fire continue to menace the skyline. I’ve been on evacuation alert since Tuesday, when I packed up my car, reassured the cat (Ted) that we’re in this together, and that we’ll leave once I’m given a Mandatory Evacuation Order. It’s been four days of trying to remain calm and organized during the power outages, the buzz of evacuation alerts, and the sleepless nights hunched over the phone, tracking the Watch Duty fire maps.
Dear friends have lost everything, their house burned to the ground that Tuesday night. And so did thousands of their neighbors. The images of the neighborhoods charred beyond recognition look like the aftermath of the bombings in Dresden during World War Two.
And there’s a lot in this disaster that reminds me of what war might be like: the constant awareness that at any moment your life could be shattered; knowing that other lives have already been ravaged; there’s the unexpected roar of helicopters, and the shock of the hurricane winds that slammed through that dark night; the occasional burst of acrid smoke that make your eyes water; and the scent of burnt everything when you step outside to see if the fire is on the ridge line.
You get jumpy. And bursts of emotion can surprise you. Last night a friend was online with me as we were both yelling at the newscasters ON THE TELEVISION. I know. I know they can’t hear us, but it was the only yelling we could do. HOW MANY HELICOPTERS ARE ON THEIR WAY? WHERE’S THE FIRE? STOP THE STAMMERING! WHERE? WHERE IS IT? STOP IT!
That kind of thing. You’re so helpless that the only sense of engagement is yelling at the television. At least the power was on.
I’m thinking that these fires, and the disaster of these fires, will change the stories we tell about our life here in Los Angeles. We’ve had other fires, and earthquakes, and riots. And mudslides. But this disaster feels differently for me – its about the four elements: fire, air, water, earth. Its about home and refuge and community.
It’s also about the thousand little things we live with, the thousands of decisions we make about the things in our life. When I was packing up the car in case I needed to evacuate, I had to evaluate the value of any item I would carry away with me. And that’s when the story of my life here became a kind of inventory – what do you take with you when you have to leave everything else behind? After I packed up the legal documents, the computer, the medicines, cat treats, my grandmother’s quilt, Eric’s artwork – then I paused. Could I fit the artwork on the walls in the car? Family portraits? Some of it would fit. But could I fit the big pieces of artwork, the big paintings, the six foot mannequin, the six panel art screen – maybe not. The family china? The books? Oh, the many books – do I have time to go through my favorite books? Maybe I’d get more books. Later.
And that’s when the story became a thousand different stories. The mosaic of my life here: when I lived here with Eric, as I’ve lived here without him, the dinner parties with the fancy wine glasses. I felt every object asking “Would you take me?”
In the end, I took what I could. I hope I’ll be able to unpack it all when the evacuation alerts end, and the air is cleared of smoke, and the bits of the mosaic of lives burnt by fire finds a new pattern.
Just now I stepped outside to watch the trees thrash around in the winds. The air tasted like fire.
The poetry of January
January
We take a walk in the Medina
Once mighty
Now a bed of exposed stone
Her sun bleached backbone
Snaking the path ahead
Does she dream anymore
Her stripped banks rise twenty feet
A songbird startles in a rare puddle
The trees, pebbles quiet
Too tired for even a sad song.
by Ayesha Siddiqui
January, in the Northern Hemisphere, is a time that no one escapes. Despite sunshine or snowfall, we all are contained within the glumness of short days, the weight of having to take down our holiday decorations, with no merriment in sight for months. It’s a time of perhaps too much contemplation, wondering if no rain yet this season means weeks of cloud cover and storms, if the land we walk on will remain recognizable even a decade from now.
All around us it feels empty. Branches, bushes, banks of rivers, it is all without. Perhaps this is why humans created time this way. Emptiness is the beginning. What else could it be? That is what January provides.
Resolutions and any sort of push towards accomplishment feel antithetical to what the season asks from us. Writers absorb the world around them. The jade bush outside your door is not flowering, yet you expect yourself to somehow have a thousand blooms overnight.
For those getting ready to start another year again on the page, here is an offering:
1) There will be emptiness
2) Then contemplation
3) Then words
4) Then the beginning of something, again.
Future History
I’ve been spinning. Are you spinning? What even IS this world right now? I find myself doing a lot of listening. Books that have been bringing me insight, gifting me language which which to make sense of things: On Tyranny, On Freedom, Jesus and John Wayne.
I guess I’m trying to figure out what artists are supposed to do in fascist times? Timothy Snyder says it’s vital to build/cultivate community. Artists are good at this. He also tells us we must not obey in advance. Artists are rebels, so that feels like another check.
But artists are also targets.
Tyrants know we are dangerous – it’s why they always go after us first. Maybe we need to lean into our dangerousness? Do you feel dangerous?
I’m writing… writing… It’s taken me all week to write just this post because what I am writing is fractured, fuzzy… I don’t have answers. I can’t make sense of things. I’m leaning hard into absurdism, post-modernism… I know that I don’t want to write fluff. What truths can I embody? What are the metaphors for this moment? Does any of it matter? Does my art matter?
I have no answers.
Theatre as a business is too much an egregore to respond to this moment with teeth. It will be up to the individual artists and scrappy theatres to challenge our new norms, to speak truth to power, to keep ourselves honest. Theatre companies have bottom lines to worry about, and that means they will lean heavy into what they think they can sell, but anyone will eyeballs can see the truth isn’t selling right now.
Be a witness to history. Be present in your history. Be an active participant in your history.
We hover in liminal space. What happens after Jan 20 is big business right now – read all the papers and pick out your favorites. Glue them on the wall. Throw darts at the scariest words. Breathe deeply in the liminality knowing that soon air will be spiky, things will turn sharp, our new reality will close in with force.
Write your plays. Your words are power. Even if they don’t get performed, our future history needs these plays
Letting Go
This is my last blog for 2024. As the Thanksgiving weekend closes and we enter the December holidays, there’s a lingering nostalgia for the end of many things. The hardest part is letting go.
I have to say it, as it’s the elephant in the room. Yes, there will be a new president, and a lot of changes will rock my world and your world. The day after the election, I was teaching a Yin Yoga and Meditation class. In the first asana, “Sukasana” (Easy Pose), I asked the participants to unfold their legs and do the opposite fold of what they normally do. It’s uncomfortable in the beginning, but it’s also healthy to balance the body by doing the opposite of our habits. First we become aware of our habits, and secondly, we can grow and be more resilient as we work through our discomfort in the asana. Letting go is a powerful tool.
Our mode of thinking is also a habit. I noticed this afternoon, as I struggled to put a latch lock on the door of a chicken coop, my mind was looking to blame others for my “suffering”. I didn’t have an electric drill, so I had to hammer the nails into the pressed plywood, which was ungiving. I pounded and pounded with mighty effort and I wasn’t making any effect. I blamed my friend who put the “wrong” lock on the door. I blamed the Home Depot employee who sold me the wrong kind of nails. I blamed Bruno for dying. I noticed my thought pattern of blame and the resulting resentment and frustration.
There was about an hour and half left of natural light, and I had to fix this problem. I needed to install the latch to protect my chickens from the two humungous and fearless raccoons I saw last night. I need a man to do this work, or someone with strong shoulders and arms. My neighbor Alvin and his wife Dora helped me. He brought over his power drill and the job was done in less than ten minutes.
Incidentally, I met Alvin the summer of 2018, the year Bruno died. Alvin saw me walking a white German Shepherd, Batman. He recognized the dog. He asked if it was the same dog of the Frenchman, and why hadn’t he seen him for a while. I told him about the fatal accident, and his face was in shock. Since that day he and his wife have been wonderful neighbors and friends to me.
January 15th, 2024 will be seven years since Bruno died. I have an inkling there’s some truth to the cycle of 7 years. In Kundalini yoga, the belief is the consciousness shifts every 7 years (https://serpentine.yoga/the-7-year-cycle-of-consciousness-explained/.) Rudolf Steiner also had a theory for the 7 year cycle (https://beduwen.com/2015/01/29/seven-year-cycles/.) Noting also about the cycle of 7 in the natural world as in:
- 7 days in the week
- 7 notes on the musical scale
- 7 directions (left, right, up, down, forward, backward, center)
In the past, nearly 7 years, I have been learning about surrender and letting go in a profound way in my body and consciousness. I’ve been weathering some health issues and a shift in my consciousness has been helping me heal.
There’s also something about this clip from the 2003 documentary, “Born Rich”, by Jamie Johnson that fits into the puzzle of making connections between juxtapositions of different realities and surrender. Jamie Johnson is an heir of the Johnson & Johnson wealth.
Rich kids do not choose to be born into that privilege. Some of them, interviewees in the film, have accepted their “occupation” without thinking too deeply about their circumstances. But Jamie Johnson was different. He interviewed his family, friends and acquaintances about being born rich. What they all thought and felt were taboo for polite conversation or any intimate dialogue. I am far removed from that society, but what he revealed about that world and what resonated with me, in his words below, are the humanness of hiding and wanting to fit in whilst breaking from the mold to be your own self.
Here’s a transcript starting at: 1:04:33
I was always told that the American dream is about getting a bigger and better life than your parents had but that the dream was accomplished by my great grandfather so I live outside the American dream and now it’s my job to build a meaningful life apart from all this privilege I’ve inherited. I’ve learned that part of coming of age is finding something that’s your own and not your family’s legacy. I’ve had the benefit of being rich all my life and I’ll never want for material things, but after working on this movie I’ve discovered that what you inherit may not be as valuable as what you earn, and although I still haven’t found all the answers, at least now I know how important it is to ask the questions.
Jamie johnson, filmmaker “born rich” 2003
Replace the words “rich” and “privilege” with finding love, living love, losing love, and redefining love. I’ve inherited some hard stuff and some good stuff too. What I’m earning is experience and learning to cope with change by letting go and knowing the wisdom of surrendering without resistance so that I am able to move towards positive changes.
Rollout Plan to Upgrade to Version X.0
Soon a “milestone” birthday will be upon me. My longtime Danish friend, Michael, made me laugh when he asked in a supposed tactful way, “Isn’t December when you upgrade to version X.0?” (I’ll let you guess what X represents.) Michael and I are both from the tech world, so I responded, “I need a rollout plan.”
It’s true. I don’t have a rollout plan. It was only today that I started to think about what to do for my birthday. What is a milestone birthday? Isn’t every birthday a milestone, anyway? Isn’t everyday a milestone? I know some people who are grateful for every morning they awaken. The ones I remember who talk like this are enthusiastic and humble people.
It may sound arrogant of me to say that I don’t feel old, because I haven’t yet matured.
What is maturity? If I were to identify as a bottle of red wine (of the bolder variety), then I am not yet ready to be uncorked. I need a few more knocks on my head and turned upside down before I “grow up”.
I’m not seeking adventure, but seeking a transcendence in consciousness. When the upgrade to version X.0 happens then I want to be able to have plasticity in attitude that I can still be open to seeing life through a different pair of lenses.
It would be a little like the movie “Groundhog Day”. Each morning, I wake up and relive the day until I “get it right”.
What would you do if you were stuck in one place, and every day was exactly the same, and nothing that you did mattered?
– Phil Connors, weatherman in “Groundhog Day”
I don’t feel the need to go to a destination place to find myself. I can do that work right where I am, day in and day out. Where I go, there I am, always.
On Thanksgiving I had a chance to try an excellent bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the Stag’s Leap District. I would be deeply satisfied to share this wine, some flavorful cheeses, butter and honest bread (i.e. simple ingredients and handmade) on my birthday. It would be special to share it meaningfully with other people who wouldn’t know it was my birthday, while my dog is lazing around; the kittens making mischief; and the roosters crowing while the hens scratch for worms and bugs.
It would be better that the others didn’t know. It would just be a gathering to enjoy the moment with good food, good wine and conversation. Another day of chop wood, fetch water. It’ll be another day to find the extraordinary in the ordinary.
Black Friday Stream of Consciousness
Countdown to the next hype
Overflowing the senses
Never satiated enough
To pause for
A breath
Digestion & absorption
Rest
Turkey bones simmering
While creating holiday gift list
Lucky enough to be broke enough
Walking the dog in the park
Pine cones gnawed to the core
Kids on bikes, skateboards and razors
Pumping on the track
Laying down the tracks
to inhabit Mars
Dog rolls on the grass
Burying wet nose into dark earthly smells
I, sinking sitz bones down
Closing eyes
Letting go
Bob is reminded of people past
Every Thanksgiving
Later, Laura, his wife, texts
We look forward to reading your blog
Hey, I thought about you two
While I sat on the grass
With my dog
At the park
Emptying my mind
Escaping that empty feeling.
Words Words Words
Before I start, I’ve already said too much.
Finally, I was able to quiet my mind and center myself to apply myself to this task – write. Last night, a friend asked “Are you still writing?” Yes, I still write, but mostly journaling. To write something outside of journaling has been hard for me. I still write, because it fills my well. I started journaling at age 9 and have not stopped since.
I had a writing mentor, a memoirist, who said, “Writing is a muscle, and like any muscle needs to be exercised.”
The prefrontal cortex (PFC) is a part of the brain associated with writing. “This region of the brain is responsible for orchestrating thoughts and actions in accordance with internal goals. Many authors have indicated an integral link between a person’s will to live, personality, and the functions of the prefrontal cortex.” (Ref: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prefrontal_cortex)
Writing this blog is more effortful than journaling, because I make more conscious effort to construct sentences and a flow that is recognizable, understandable, and meaningful, unlike stream of consciousness writing.
After losing Bruno very unexpectedly, almost seven years ago this coming January 2025, I was in a state of waking coma for roughly 18 months. When I began to be functional, I noticed that something was off in my mental and emotional reactions to situations. The trauma had affected my brain, and the effects I noticed were the inability to find words and make associations between things as easily as I use to do. My speech pattern was slow as I tried to find the words to formulate them into a sequence to communicate effectively.
I found meditation effective to regulate my trauma. Like journaling, I started meditating at a young age of 14. Among the many gifts of meditating is being an observer of my thoughts and emotions. In meditation, I enter in a state of non-duality as an observer without judgement.
When I write, I enter the world of duality, because words are distinct. Words are intended to categorize and organize and make concrete what our mind conceptualizes, hence “words live in duality”. It has both the proclivity to divide and to unite as words can define and identify.
The words make a statement, but are symbols and imagery perhaps more powerful than words in the human psyche? A name is an elevated form of word. In the bible, Moses speaks to God.
Moses said to God, “Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name? ‘ Then what shall I tell them?” God said to Moses, “I AM WHO I AM.
Exodus 3:13-15 New International Version (NIV)
In 1993, Prince announced that he would no longer go by the name Prince, but rather by a “Love Symbol” which was a mash-up of the gender symbols for man and woman. https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-36107590
It is an unpronounceable symbol whose meaning has not been identified. It’s all about thinking in new ways, tuning in 2 a new free-quency. – Prince
There is a backstory to the reason he changed his name, but for the purpose of this blog, his reason was he wanted to encourage new ways of thinking and vibrate to a higher frequency. Tibetan Buddhism uses images to promote healing. For example, meditating upon the Green Tara (aka Dolma which means “to free something,” “to be free,” “the method of freeing”.)
There are different methods to engage in this meditation. One is to focus the awareness on the image of Dolma, as in the thangka below. Another would be a guided meditation with spoken words. The meditator creates the stage with her imagination. This method allows for spaciousness as the images evoked by the meditator is unique to their creation, for example, variances in the shades of green and the forms of Dolma.
“Goldilocks and the Three Bears” tells of Goldilocks’ experience of discovering the “Middle Way”. She eats from a big bowl of porridge “too hot”, then a medium bowl of “too cold” and a smaller bowl of “just right”. The story continues to the chair and the bed that were too hard and too soft, until she finds comfort in the one that was just right. The author, Robert Southey, had known of some translations and read Shakuntala (from the Mahabharata) and the Bhagavad Gita. In Mahāyāna Buddhism, the “Middle Way” refers to the insight into śūnyatā (“emptiness“) that transcends the extremes of existence and non-existence.” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Middle_Way)
One of the main reasons the Gita is so cherished is it promotes and discusses the middle path of yoga. Krishna advocates to Arjuna that the ascetic life is both a difficult and unnecessary practice. “Krishna recommends the path of Karma Yoga or selfless service as the superior and quickest path to realizing the Divine.” ref: https://www.yogabasics.com/learn/bhagavad-gita/
Reaching the Divine is a state of enlightenment. There is a method of yoga known as Jnana Yoga, the path of knowledge. This is what Ramana Maharishi taught. He spoke rarely. Whenever a new devotee sought his teachings in person, he communicated in silence. His message is that we are all already enlightened. We are already divine. Our ignorance (or maya) blocks the awakening to our natural state of enlightenment.
We can practice being precise with our words, but it could still create miscommunication because the listener or reader of the words absorbs the meaning through the filters of the mind. A controversy surfaced in the news about Miss Universe representing Denmark, Victoria Kjaer Theilvig, because she was lip synching a Jay Z rap song “Empire State of Mind” with the n-word. I don’t know the intent of the TikTok video, so I wouldn’t venture on an opinion.
There is the conceptual mind and the “dream mind” according to Tibetan dream master, Tarah Tulku. “Dream mind” is always active. To experience the “dream mind” requires working with dreams so as to be aware of it during the waking state. If not aware that the “dream mind” is active, we can mistake a waking perception as actuality, when in actuality, the “perception” is a waking dream. Ref: “The History of Last Night’s Dream” by Rodger Kamenetz.
Images are sovereign in the mind. Therefore, Colette1 said that ‘to choose one’s freedom is to choose one’s images.’
The impulse to write came from recognizing the power of words. There was a period when I couldn’t write what I felt, so I withdrew into journaling. Images and symbols are universal and emotes deeper meanings that are beyond words. Lately, I’ve been doing more sketching and drawing. It’s also become popular to “color”. Coloring books for adults have become popular. There are also mandala coloring books. The Mayo Clinic in 2022 stated “Coloring is a healthy way to relieve stress. It calms the brain and helps your body relax.”
- Colette Madame Collette is an Algerian-born mystic of the Kabbalah tradition, with whom Rodger Kamenetz studied with to research his book “The History of Last Night’s Dream” ↩︎
