I sat in the small hotel room, an extended-stay place, suitcases around me, while my divorce continued. I felt there was little else in my life. I started drawing. Using my traveling sketchbooks, I started filling dozens of sheets with blue and black lines, then washing over them with water. Building then obscuring. Sharp and then blurred away.

I watched the different pens and how they interacted. It was fascinating to see pages covered with lines that appeared to overlap, intertwine, separate, and break off, transforming with only brush and water. In those moments of movement and observation, my attention was focused on what was in front of me.

It was like many things, we only notice after they happen. With my accumulated papers lying across the counter, on the coffee table, the desk, and even the bedspread, I became aware of a larger pattern. Through this daily ritual of mark-making, I was processing complex feelings, my own. And I had given them the shapes of wind and water. These simple lines, circled inward, burst upward, spiraled down, and rushed across the white surface. I finally saw the storms that emerged from my life, floods, hurricanes, and even tsunamis. I also saw gentle rains, rocking waves, and possibly a tidepool.

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