Please pardon the 90s movie reference in the title, but I got a new bucket hat that I broke in at Wayne Plein Air that takes me back to my middle school days. All I need is a hemp necklace, low-rise baggy jeans, and a skateboard, and I'll be 14 again!

But seriously, a few months have past since I participated in Wayne Plein Air, and I've had enough time digesting the experience that I can put some semblance of cohesion to it. 

First, the rundown. 

Day 1:

For those who don't avidly follow these things, Wayne Plein Air is one of the bigger and older plein air fests in the country, held annually in Wayne, Pennsylvania. It is incredibly well run on a tight schedule. Sunday morning, we arrived for an orientation breakfast, held on a Fancy Farm in the cleanest stable I have ever seen. While artists were welcome to stay and paint on the farm in the afternoon, most dispersed to their own ventures, maybe because it was cold and pouring rain. I, however, stayed and painted under my nifty new giant umbrella, unknowingly terrifying the resident horses with it, as I found out later. 

This first one was a mess, which I attribute to nerves and the weather (water-mixable oils get extra slippery in the rain). Something about the dark shapes of the trees against the misty fields intrigued me, but off it got wiped! At least I got the badness out of the way so I could get on with business. (Ed Praybe got a really nice one of the purple tree. He, too, stayed behind to terrorize horses.)

While I would've liked to stay and have a go at the view of the barn through the rain, I really needed to warm up and dry off, so I hopped in my car and drove to the downtown area of Wayne, pulling over impulsively when I saw a nifty view of — you guessed it — a parking lot! Or more like the back lot behind what I would later find out was the post office. This was a comfort painting, a subject I am confident painting from the safety of my car. And I knew this week would be something special, because while I was painting, instead of being met with suspicious looks or people asking what I was doing and was I ok, passersby stopped to tell me how cool it was I was painting in my car! Obviously, this community had been prepped for the imminent arrival of the art horde.

I formulated a plan that evening, setting a rigorous schedule for myself based on anticipated energy levels. I made at least two paintings a day, working on the larger ones in the morning and then relaxing with smaller ones in the afternoon and evening. 

Day 2:

The train stations on the Main Line are a delight. Each has its own whimsical character, built to mimic various architectural styles from England. I could've spent the whole week at the Wayne Station, painting all the weird angles in and around the overpass, but I thought I should try for a little variety in case everyone else is not as fond of overpasses as I am. On my schedule in my head, the 12x16 looking out over the town was first, but there was mist! And fog! We don't get fog much where I live, so of course I had to adjust to take advantage of the fog. 

The afternoon was spent giving myself pep talks out loud as I painted from the very prominent spot above the overpass. I think because there weren't a lot of people walking around me, though, it wasn't as scary as I thought it would be. People down below were mostly in their cars, and the occasional people on foot either ignored me or shouted up encouragement. 

Day 3:

Tuesday! The day that had potential to be the most fun and hilarious, because my brother was going to come hang out with me while I painted at Chanticleer (a "Pleasure Garden!" Some rich person's estate that is now a lush and verdant expanse of myriad flora). The fun and hilarity was tempered somewhat, however, by illness, which struck my brother the night before. Like a trooper, he pumped himself full of drugs and came anyway, and I still had a wonderful and heart-lifting boost spending the day with him, but as he said, it was "cruel timing." Poor guy. 

This was probably my most challenging day painting-wise, because if you know anything about my preferred subject matter, it is not flowers, nor is it sun. Both were abundant at Chanticleer. I gave it my all, though, and I actually learned a lot about how to make up some of the light effects when the sun ducks behind the clouds. Not my favorite paintings of the week, but a solid effort. 

Day 4:

Wednesday I was going to venture farther afield, to the small historical town of Yellow Springs, which I picked somewhat randomly from the list of suggested locations because it was small and historic. Little did I know that it was also The Place To Be, hopping with cars and visitors for all manner of events: an art show, a wedding, an herb festival... 

So instead of picking a more prominent location on the porch of one of the beautiful old buildings, I spied a pile of wood behind the — you guessed it — parking lot! And it led me to a kiln area at the local pottery, with lots of interesting negative shapes and backlight and piles of stuff. I was pretty happy. And I also stayed fairly cool under the pines as the temperatures climbed into the 80s. 

Day 5:

Thursday was the final big push — a 12x16" that was reserved for the Radnor train station. While I was very tempted to throw my schedule out the window when I saw a giant inflatable rat on my way to the station (I later learned it was a union rat. Union strong!), I stayed focused on my plan. Initially, I was not impressed by the station. I arrived during the morning rush hour, so the platform was bustling with waves of young professionals, loading and unloading and looking rather intimidating. I walked all around, and just as I was about to give up and go back to my car, I looked back and saw a view that inspired me. 

The light stayed gray and even the whole time, which was a blessing, because this one took me five misstarts and four hours to complete. It was my problem child, but in the end, turned out to be my favorite.

In the evening, I had a delightful and delicious dinner with my cousin and her beau, who braved the train ride out from Philadelphia, and my parents, who braved the drive down for the weekend. As a military family, we know that whenever you're in a 200-mile radius from someone, that counts as close, so you better take advantage and go visit them. Thank you, family members!

Day 6:

Friday morning was the last opportunity for painting, and I was going to make the most of it, despite the rain, because I had seen a nifty storefront that would be fun and not too challenging. I parked in the lot of the locksmith across the street, which hadn't opened yet by the time I got there. I was going to ask if that was ok, but instead went with the ol' "ask for forgiveness later." Indeed, once the store opened, the man came over, prepared to shoo me away until he saw I was with the plein air festival — the magic words that smoothed everything over that week!  

Friday afternoon was for spending quality time with the folks before we all went to the collectors' preview that evening — which remains a blur of nerves and faces.

This all feels like eons ago now, but the experience still reverberates. I'll have to sort out my takeaways in the next post. 

For now, I will leave you with this tantalizing scene of what I REALLY wanted to paint, but refrained from.

A union rat! How fun would that have been. I'm sorry I didn't have the energy to go back and do a fun one just for me. Maybe someday I shall chance upon another...

I've gotten numerous questions about my car plein-air setup (for painting in the car, not painting pictures of cars), so here is the official introduction to my car pochade box.

This was originally a fancy box with a plush, velvet interior that held a set of silverware. I scavenged it from the dumpster of my apartment when I lived in Syracuse 20 years ago, and over the years, I've made adjustments and additions until it became what you see today. It measures approximately 11" x 14", so it is portable and light enough to carry around. Before I received my Daytripper Easel from Prolific Painter, I used this for everything — hauling it up mountains, packing it in my carry-on and taking it with me overseas, schlepping it across cities on the bus... It is an old friend. The hinge inside is not as sturdy as it once was, and the tripod I used with it is also on its last legs, so now I primarily use this on my lap in the car. 

I made an extension secured by a nut and bolt that can accommodate larger canvases. The palette, also scrounged from the dumpster around the same time, is plexiglass from which I inelegantly hacked a chunk to make room for the hinge when the lid is closed.

The jumbo push pin seen above stuck into the extension keeps the palette from moving when the lid is closed, and thus all the things inside do not fly around. I can also carry a wet panel on the inside of the lid; it sits flush against the lid, secured on the bottom by the two ends of the hinge screws that are poking through from the outside, and I fix it on the top with other push pins in such a way that it does not fall onto the palette. 

I  divided the inside with pieces of scrap wood, and there's room to carry everything I need to paint. I think the bottom might have originally had that ragged hole, but I drilled a proper hole in the center for the tripod mount. You could also attach a tripod quick release thingy outside on the bottom if you had a tripod with a standard mount. 

The moral is: You can shell out a bazillion dollars for something fancy, but pretty much any box or tin will work with the right adjustments — even pizza boxes! 

Here are two examples of plein air kits built with a variety of random materials.

Marc Dalessio's ultralight kit made from a plastic box.

Rebecca Alzofon's bicycle studio!

And last but not least, here's a 360 view of my box in my first foray into stop-motion video. 

Hope that helps!

I remember last year, my plan was to blog through the whole Adirondack Plein Air Festival, and I think I managed one day. This year, a month has past since the event, and I'm just getting around to it now. Ah, how the unbridled enthusiasm of youth has faded... lol! I've just had a lot going on, but better late than never. So without further ado, the Adirondack Plein Air Festival Painting Extravaganza 2023.  

Monday: 

This year, because I started a new job with an accrual time-off system, I just barely had enough time to cover the four official days of painting. That meant that I worked on Monday and skedaddled as soon as I could to hustle over to Saranac Lake before 5 p.m., the check-in deadline. I missed a day of unofficial painting, but that meant I hadn't burned through all my energy painting and still had some to spend during the evening's opening soiree. I even had some energy for an afterparty nocturne party with fellow artist and new friend Mo Myra. We fed off each other's enthusiasm, and I stayed out way past my bedtime. I have a hard time at these things not slipping into an unhealthy "I can sleep when I'm dead!" mindset. But I slept in a little, so it's ok. 

Night 1 of the nocturne.

Tuesday: 

The theme of this whole week (nay — this summer!) was unpredictable rain. The forecast predicted a mix of rain and sun, and then rain, so I planned accordingly. For rainy/sunny days, a backlit scene works best for me because the contrast between the subject in the foreground and the light in the back stays relatively similar no matter what's going on with the sun (or lack thereof). 

I had heard of a horse barn on Paul Smiths' campus and envisioned being inside the barn looking out, with maybe some tack in the foreground. The barn was actually really small, and signs menacingly forbade entrance at peril of bad things. Also, the horses were nowhere in sight. Luckily, across the road was an open-air carriage house, and it turned out to be the perfect spot. This was arguably my best painting, which happened last year, too: the first was the best, and then it's all downhill from there... (Ha ha! Joking! Sort of...)

I peaked here, just like I peaked socially in second grade...

The afternoon's endeavor. 

Wednesday:

I was planning to venture to a fabled barn (because people want barn paintings!), but I got sidetracked with the delightfully brooding colors of a tree cemetery in the mist. Which turned to rain. Heavy rain. It was kind of hilarious in a bitter-laughter kinda way. Thankfully, I had two umbrellas, one for the art, and one for my head. My coat and lower half were goners, but not my shoes! (Plug for Amazing Waterproof Shoe Brand!)

The trees wept along with me. 

In the afternoon, I was done in from being battered by the elements all morning. The sun came out, so I found a parking place in which to dry out in my car and painted these two trucks, in honor of my dad, a classic car aficionado. An enterprising youth came almost as soon as I had started and spent the entire time mowing and week-whacking the grass. He was so thorough, though, I couldn't feel irritated. And then, toward the end, an older couple came and had a hilarious time trying to force each other into various photo poses on and around the trucks.

How could I resist that light?

Thursday: 

The forecast was "fair," which — surprise! — meant rain. But in my silly "go big or go home" mentality I sometimes slip into, I decided to set up on the busiest bridge leading into downtown. This was one of those sessions that felt like I fought the paint with every stroke. No matter how much white I added, the lights weren't light enough, and my proportions were way off. Not to mention the thundering reverberation of trucks roaring by and people honking (at least they shouted nice things, like "I love your art!" Still. I could have done without...). I sunk to that day's low point when the sky suddenly opened up and I crouched on the side of a bridge, protecting the painting with my umbrella while everything else got soaked. I eventually bailed and trudged, downtrodden, back down to my car. With such enthusiasm I had started! And then fell so far... 

The horror! The horror...

But in the evening, Mo and I finished our nocturnes, and she sold hers, so it was all worth it! 

Friday: 

By Friday, I was done in. (I had been commuting some days and staying in Saranac some nights. I stayed over Thursday, but realized — after all the care I had taken to remember all the frames and everything I'd need to hang art Friday — I forgot my overnight bag with all my personal effects. It wasn't that this ended my world; I just went CVS and got what I needed and found a nice, reasonably priced dress for the reception at a local store. But the feeling of being unmoored was almost overpowering. I haven't slept in my clothes in quite awhile.) 

Through this morass of psychological overwhelm, I muddled through Friday. In the afternoon, it was raining, so I set up in my car, hoping to capture the silvery reflections of the water on the road. And then the sun came out and it turned into a lovely day. Gosh darn it.

Oh well.

I dug deep into the arsenal of self-care and treated myself to Chinese food and TWO Mountain Dews. The collectors' preview was a blur, but I made it home safely, probably angering every motorist by driving 35 mph all the way home in the dark. (It was through the mountains! There was a bear, thank you very much!)

Saturday:

By Saturday morning — which featured rain — I was sort of in the whatever/what-am-I-doing-with-my-life mode. I found an awning to set up under, and reverted to a familiar, comforting scene for the two-hour quick draw event: a parking lot. Feeling a little weepy and bedraggled, I bumbled along. Despite the rain, however, the atmosphere was quite festive. There was some sort of race taking place nearby, so lots of people in tiny shorts with paper pinned to their shirts were powerwalking by. It was also farmers market day, which draws a crowd, so lots of people stopped to watch or talk. And finally I was saved by the Canadian motorcyclists. Cars had been parking in spots I didn't even know were spots and completely ruining my composition, until two motorcyclists from Canada cruised up and parked in a manner that effectively blocked any other car rear-ends from intruding upon my scene. Thank you, Canada.

 Comforted by a parking lot...

I gradually climbed out of my funk, and the five hours of the sale were actually not that bad. I mostly talked to other artists and sat on the sidelines, sipping Mountain Dew. By the end of the day, I had sold two paintings and won a prize, so the drive home could not be more different from last year after selling nothing and feeling drained by the prospect of a life of no sales. 

ArtWorks put on a great event again this year, and I'm very honored to have been accepted into the fold. After hearing about the week, my mom asked whether I would do it again. Honestly, I had a moment's pause. But it passed, and I can say with certainty: of course. Go big or go home (preferably having sold some paintings and not weeping...)! 

Someone was very glad when I finally stopped all that to-ing and fro-ing.

Recently, I had the pleasure of meeting up with fellow plein air aficionado, Carrie Pill.

We spent a Sunday morning enjoying/suffering through all that plein air has to offer: the immediacy of all the subtle colors unseeable in a photograph; the entertainment of tunes by a cover band, wafting over from a nearby street festival; the frustrations of weather that seems to delight in raining not long after you start painting, all the way until you almost finish; the discomfort of stifling heat when the rain ended but the humidity did not; the joy of hearing someone nearby spontaneously bursting into a 1920s-style song; the camaraderie of doing the thing you love with someone else who loves it too.  

For some reason, flushed with the (over) confidence of I don’t know what, I decided I was going to paint a 9x12" of All The Boats. Had I ever painted that many complex and moving shapes all together before? No! But that was a minor detail! I was going to do it.

We alternated between bouts of silence and conversation, and I swear, every conversation must’ve started with me exclaiming, “This is really hard!” It was very hard. But I kept on, invigorated by the challenge and the accountability that Carrie provided.  

After about three hours, I ran out of steam. I think because I mentioned I would probably “finish this one at home” — which really means put it in a pile and never touch it again — we got talking about why it’s so difficult to complete a plein air piece.

I know that I am not good at finishing my plein air paintings. Often, unless I return home and complete them immediately, I lose interest. But when I return home after a day of painting, I’m often too tired to complete them immediately, and so the vicious cycle feeds itself. I’ve always wondered if it’s some sort of unhealthy character trait that I developed to protect myself from the fear of failure, or some such deep psychological reason.

But Carrie put into words so succinctly what I think my problem has been all along — “Of course it’s hard,” she said, “because it’s not fun. It’s not exciting like it is when you’re out here. Finishing a painting in the studio is work.”

YES. It is work. Hard, unglamorous, tedious work. Why slog through the final lap when I could frolic off to enjoy a new adventure?

Which brings me to the other thing we somehow got talking about: sports we played in school. I ran track in ninth grade, specializing in the 800- and 1600-meter races. While I enjoyed some things about it, such as spending time with my running mates and coach, it was a painfully physical endeavor that I eventually said “never again!” to.

The coach for the girl’s team was super cool in my ninth-grade eyes. She had pink hair and travelled all around the world competing in triathlons and Iron Men. I vividly remember running around the mostly empty dirt track after school during practice, trying to push myself in whatever grueling long-distance sprint she had us run. The last curve, heading into the final 200 meters, always seemed to stretch endlessly before me, and the urge to crumple over was compelling. But then, distantly, I would hear Coach shouting to me, “Come on, Jennifer! Bring it in!”

I recounted this memory to Carrie, and we were laughing about “finishing strong,” like good athletes. (Carrie really is an extreme sport athlete, as well as an artist. Ask her about Adventure Painting!)

I thought about my track memories and Carrie’s explanation of painting as work on the drive home, and I knew I had to finish this painting strong. Somehow realizing that it’s hard work, and not simply because I’m slothful or irresponsible, has helped me switch mindsets. It’s hard work, so get to work. Dig into that Protestant work ethic and get it done!

And so I did. Thank you, Carrie. I could feel proud of myself, even if the finished piece isn’t one of my favorites.

Now. About that pile in the corner…

As far as I got in three hours.

Every spring, it has become tradition to visit my favorite waterfall and make a record of it, plein air style. It was the first waterfall (big one) that I had ever attempted, so now I feel compelled to chart my progress through it. 

Last year, I was blessed by two otters who cavorted past. Although they remained hidden this year, I did have my camera ready and remembered to film the painting process in the hopes it might help/inspire others. Water is very intimidating, and falling water even more so. I have to psych myself up with lots of positive self-talk. 

A problem I've had every year — and this year was no exception — is that something about the light in this particular location tricks me into thinking I'm painting lighter than I am. But then, when I get home and look at the piece again, it looks much darker than it did outdoors. This year was particularly dark, because I tried a new kind of canvas panel: clear primed linen. I really liked how it took the paint in the field, but the paint really sunk in and darkened after it dried. So I'll have to figure out what to do about that ...

Anyway, for those interested, here is the video. No narration or music  — just the soothing sounds of rushing water. Thanks for checking it out!

Around this time last year, I announced that this was going to be my Year of Trees. I had been actively avoiding painting trees because they're hard and I would get discouraged. My announcement was supposed to help keep me accountable so that I would face my fears and practice painting trees. As I review now, I see I have indeed painted some trees. But they're primarily all without foliage ... ugh. The foliage! Bane of my existence ... 

[Side note: I don't feel so bad avoiding trees, because when I took a workshop with Famous Artist before the pandemic, this other lady and I were eagerly waiting for him to paint his fabulous trees so we could see how he does it. And we kept waiting ... and waiting ... Finally on the last day, he painted a few spindly trees, and that lady leaned over to me and commented, "I guess he really does not want to paint trees!" So I take consolation in knowing it's not just me.]

Anyway, I thought I would share the process of one of my most recent foliage-less trees. Is it a masterpiece? No. But it's where I'm at so far -- which is better than I used to be -- and incorporates some of what I've learned that works for me when painting (foliage-less) trees. I actually remembered to photograph AND record the process, too, so I've added a process video with my mumbling voiceover at the bottom of this post. Hope you find it helpful. 

1. Sketching in the composition. 

2. Blocking in the masses.

3. Adding some sky.

4. Adding big branches.

5. Refining details.

6. Adding snow and the river.

And then I tweaked it a bit after sitting with it for a few days at home.

The picture below will take you to a video of the process -- with commentary! Please pardon the rudimentary footage. But it should give you the general idea. Thanks for watching! 

In a departure from my usual ramblings, I'd like to share some more practical information for the naturalists out there. On my winter snowshoe adventures, I've come across many types of animal tracks, and while I've found a lot of information on how to identify most animals tracks in the snow, I've yet to find a comprehensive guide to identifying plein air painters. Thus, I have created my own illustrated guide with the photographic evidence I have gathered. You're welcome. 

While the tracks of the plein air painter can be easily confused with those of other humans, there is one defining feature that makes them easily distinguishable: I'll call it the Snow Circle. Similar to a crop circle, the Snow Circle is created when the plein air painter systematically tramps down a small area of snow in which to set up their paraphernalia (Fig. 1). Usually measuring 2-4 feet across, the Snow Circle becomes firmly packed, sometimes to the point of becoming icy. Thus, you can occasionally observe marks from a blanket or pad that has been set down within the circle to prevent slippage (Fig. 2). 

Fig. 1. A snow circle I came upon recently.

Fig. 2. I stumbled across this active paint site last winter. 
I must've scared off the plein air painter, but they left behind
their paraphernalia, including brushes and blanket.

A distinguishing feature of the Snow Circle is the holes left by an easel of some sort. While I have seen pictures of plein air painters with heavier easels, I haven't seen tracks to indicate that we have any of that kind up here in Northern New York. Primarily what I've spotted are three holes made by the legs of a tripod (Fig. 3).  I assume it is a tripod because the legs are evenly spaced. Were two closer together, I would guess the plein air painter was using a French easel. But one can surmise that perhaps that species only lives in France. 

Fig. 3. The French easel (top) and the tripod (bottom) species.

Also sometimes visible are the holes left by brushes, which indicate that the plein air painter has forgotten a brush holder or is simply feeling particularly jaunty on that day and has stabbed their brushes into the snow with a devil-may-care attitude. I have observed that less up here. 

New York state is excellent at monitoring invasive and unwanted species. In an effort to help them remove harmful species, I implore you to report any plein air painter scat sightings. Plein air painters in general are harmless, nature-loving creatures who leave no trace. They always endeavor to take all of their waste with them, leaving the area as pristine as they found it. Solvents are poured back into bottles, rags or paper towels are bagged, extra paint is scraped up and stored. Those who leave trash or even more harmful substances behind are a dangerous and invasive species and should be reported. If you happen upon one in the wild, make yourself as large as possible and in a firm voice, shame them for their wrong behavior. 

So next time you're out walking in the woods, keep your eyes peeled. You never know when you might stumble upon a plein air painter. Good luck!

Fig. 4. A plein air painter captured by an infrared
trail cam up near the Canadian border.

Recently, I joined Adobe MAX, a virtual conference hosted by the creative software company Adobe. While I did not vibe with a lot of the sessions (too many mentions of "change makers," "thought leaders," and "creatives"), I did learn from the more practical ones, and one talk in particular has stayed with me. 

Hello! 

I can't believe we're more than halfway through October. I've been meaning to chronicle September's paintings for posterity earlier, but with one thing and another (and stupid work!!!), I'm just getting around to it now. So without further ado, my paintings from the Strada Easel 30-day painting challenge. 

(And so we're all on the same page, this was the thing I was doing last month, hosted by the Strada Easel company. The challenge: paint from life every day for the month of September and share your efforts on Instagram or Facebook. The reward: glory and honor! And entry into a drawing for one of their easels. Spoiler -- I did not win. But I am awash in glory and honor.) 

Days 1 & 2

I waffled over whether I wanted to participate, and impulsively registered the night before and tossed a small paint kit in the car. Last year when I did this, I made a big production of prepping 8" x 8" panels beforehand, but I had nothing prepared this time. These first two were painted on 6" x 8" canvas panels I had on hand. 

Days 3 & 4

Day 3, a Saturday morning kitty litter run to Agway, was painted on Strathmore 115 lb canvas paper, but I have never liked how the paint goes on and sinks in. I blame the paper for my dislike of the painting. However, by Day 3, I had decided on a focus for the month: structures. So of course Day 4 was not a structure. But I knew the sunflowers would be fleeting, and I wanted to give them a go before they were gone. (11" x 14" on canval panel.)

Days 5 & 6

By chance, I found some Strathmore oil paper, which is soooo much better: 215 lbs, and the paint stays on the surface a little more, so I can slide it around. Not nearly as frustrating. 

Days 7 & 8

By Day 8, I have finally gotten my act together and masked the border with painters tape to make everything tidy.

Days 9 & 10

If you just saw Days 9 and 10, you would think I have such an amazing life -- on the high seas one day, a mountain top the next! What can I say... (It was exhausting.)

Days 11 & 12

Days 13 & 14

Days 15 & 16

Days 17 & 18

Day 17 was the low point, painted with much gnashing of teeth and a few tears. I had run out of the oil paper, so it was the bad aforementioned paper, which I blame completely for my misfortunes.

Days 19 & 20

Days 21 & 22

Days 23 & 24

Day 25

Day 25 was another departure, obviously. I knew, however, because of my schedule, I might not get another chance for a while to paint this scene I had in mind on the scale in mind, so I went for it!

Days 26 & 27

Days 28 & 29

Day 28 was one of my favorites. I feel like I had finally gotten comfortable in that size and ~hour time frame. Day 29 was a 30-minute sketch out a window on my lunch break. 

Day 30

And finally, Day 30, at Aldi's! 

So, my After Action Report: 

1. Having a focus helps, even if it only serves to narrow down the streets I drive aimlessly after work. At least I knew not to drive off into the mountains, where structures are few and far between. 

2. Daily painting, while exhausting, is great for quickly building confidence and skill. Especially with these small pieces on paper, I felt less desire to be precious about the subject matter or the outcome because it was on paper, so who cares? I can chuck it in the bin if I don't like it. 

3. As I remembered from last year, the first year I did this, the support of random strangers on Instagram is truly touching. I had a 10th grader leaving me inspirational messages and reminders to take time for self-care. Very sweet. I also had the camaraderie of other people who were doing it, and seeing their ups and downs was encouraging. 

In sum, I don't know if I will do it again next year, but I'm glad I've had the time, energy, and willpower to participate these past two years.