May has always been blue to me, a soft periwinkle or powder blue on good days and a deeper cobalt on other days. I made this painting before I made April's painting, but it just didn't feel like an April painting. April is pink and loud, and May is blue and soft. She is a girl with dark hair in a pastel midi dress walking through a field.

In March, I drove from Florida to Brooklyn with all my most important belongings in the back of an SUV. I come from a road trip family, but I am still always surprised at how much of America is just highways. Thick concrete strips cutting through grasslands and forests.

A new beginning is always accompanied by a resurgence of an underlying feeling from childhood. Of not knowing and following curiosity and hope. Of sitting in the car and thinking the moon is following you.

I remember as a child I had a fiber arts class at school, they taught us how to make chains out of yarn by making a loop and then pulling the length of the yarn through the loop to create another loop, we called it pond fishing. I remember becoming so transfixed by pond fishing. My hands were never idle, I looped thread after thread, making multicolored chains and wearing multiple at a time around my neck like garlands.

When it rains, it pours; when it rains, it really pours. My life has been feeling like it is stagnant and then suddenly accelerated and then stagnant again. Maybe it always feels like that, and I am only now describing it. Every season, there's this one point which I pass through, and then everything proliferates. Like I've been swimming through a thick soup, and the container suddenly drains, and then I am on my feet again.

Month 13, I seriously thought about stopping at month 9 and then 10 and then 11, but I decided to keep going. I decided to keep going because I know the difference between something working and something not working is usually just that you didn't do it long enough, you didn't wait for the moment the soup container suddenly drained.