Sometimes the impossible happens. Or the thing we thought was impossible, the thing that since we first experienced belief we believed would never occur; there was no place for the barest idea of it. One such impossibility is the tornado that touched down in Scotts Valley last December—an actual tornado, not somebody going on about very big winds. A tornado in Santa Cruz? Cars were lifted off the streets, turned upside down, trees were lifted up by their roots from their secure placement and tossed aside. Two people were hospitalized with injuries.

Another, and far more significant and previous-believed impossibility—a far greater tragedy— bigger than most any amount of weather that I can envision, has taken place in our country. You know, the actions of the president and his administration. That previous impossibility is disrupting many of us to the core.

At the Monterey Art Museum’s Biennial, you’ll find over 100 pieces of art by contemporary practitioners living in in Central California, artists from Monterey, Kern, Kings, San Benito, Santa Cruz, and San Luis Obispo counties. This show is a celebration of diversity and wide-ranging talent, and according to the museum, it “allows artists from across the region to contribute diverse creative perspectives and spark public dialogue about contemporary California art.” I’ve gone to see the show a few times because there is a lot of beauty and complexity to revel in.

Over these past months I’ve turned to art — visual and written work — both as a creator and a devotee, with a need unlike anything I’d experienced before. It’s been one way to attempt to find balance in order to counter the impossible or at least to shoulder it. Standing in front of certain pieces in this show is like breathing fresh air; it’s a form of nourishment. And in these rooms, surrounded by these pictures and sculptures, I’ve been returned to larger truths, to the power, clarity and honesty of individual voices, to what it means to be human, to who we are to each other. If I weren’t already a lover of art in its various forms, this show would have made far more than an aficionado of me. Come stand beside me, would you, as I look at five pieces and chat with their makers? Then get yourself to the museum before the show closes on Aug. 31 (https://www.montereyart.org/exhibition/monterey-biennial/)

Sara Friedlander gives us the tornado that began this story. It’s a photograph. No, it’s a painting. I mean, I know it’s a photo but Friedlander’s picture looks painterly, its movement does. A viewer witnesses wind through a forest, such wind the branches have no choice but to let go their hold. And in the background where things are steadier, yellow aspens grow. Except not.

To create this picture Friedlander superimposed two photos; she merged a picture of trees with one of a rusty gate. Reality, she seems to say, is more layered and complex than it sometimes appears. This is true in much of Friedlander’s recent work: “I feel submerged, and I’m sinking,” not all the time, certainly, but still, and I know just what she means. For Friedlander this comes out feeling a lack of agency due to our country’s politics and her concerns about Gaza. “As a Jewish person,” she says, “this is a really overwhelming time; it’s as if I’m underwater.” And though I can look at “Tornado” and feel her, feel that sense, I also get something more, and that is its movement, a sense of shifting, of approaching change. Within movement there is promised possibility, and that gives me hope. “Making these pictures,” Friedlander concludes, “releases the pain that I can’t hold.”

The first image in the show that tugged at me upon entry, that prevented me from moving along, was Fresno artist Samantha León’s, “Beautifully Made.” The photograph is a story of light and dark and joy. At first, it’s the light that stops me. There’s light coming from the model’s dark face. Her head is turned a little; her eyes are closed, and she’s smiling the smile of someone comfortable with herself, confident and feeling celebratory. This Black woman’s body isn’t what we tend to think of as a model’s body. She is large. Her dark legs are bare, and they’re large too. And at first, I’m made a little uncomfortable by León’s photograph—she challenging me to stop and be with this woman rather than any preconceived ideas I have about women. What discomfits me isn’t the photograph, but my reaction to it. I notice the woman’s open, well-cared for hand upon her hip and there my discomfort transforms into joy. Because isn’t that what often happens when we stand in the presence of gladness and ease? We get some too.

In conversation with León, she tells me, “Photography is deeply personal. Especially right now. My husband’s grandfather was one of the founding members of the United Farmworkers Union here in the Central Valley. He worked side by side with Dolores Huerta and Cesar Chavez. My husband’s aunts were also part of the group that marched from Delano to Sacramento in 1966. The Progressive movement and the intentional targeting of the Latino community are deeply personal to me.” León sends me to a website to see the photo she’s made of her young son, “Viva La Raza,” dressed as a vaquero (https://www.vogue.com/photovogue/photographers/294196/gallery#4093345). And what do I find there? More joy and more pride.

In closing, León tells me, “Every time I do a session, I feel I’m handing over a piece of who I am and how I see the world.” No wonder I was stopped by Leon’s picture, I needed to see through her eyes, and by doing so to expand my knowledge of what is true, what matters.

On the surface, Becky Brister’s photograph, “Wish You Were Here,” is a quiet triptych—it’s still. The two subjects—an elderly woman and a small dog—appear to be sleeping, and the last image, on the far right, is of an empty blanket. Is there not much to see or am I looking at nearly everything? Brister tells me, “It’s part of a larger body of work I created while living with and taking care of my grandmother. I believe that being with a family member, friend, or even a beloved pet as their life comes to an end helps someone understand the power of being present for them, the importance of learning from them, and the difficulty of experiencing the emotions that accompany this experience. Photographing all the moments that are often forgotten is something I have loved to do since beginning my journey in photography.” It’s a deeply intimate picture. Standing there my lip quivers and I get very quiet, think of the deaths I’ve known.

Brister says, “I moved in with my grandmother to help her at first, not knowing I would be there for as long as I was and without the concept of seeing her through to hospice. The years I spent with her were simultaneously the best and most challenging times in my life. The lessons I took away from the experience and the photographs I made are more valuable than I ever would have known.” This comes through in “Wish You Were Here,” too. “As I put these images together with tears streaming down my face, I realized how often I experience something I know she would enjoy and whisper to her wherever she is, ‘Wish you were here.’”

Fellow collage artist Marybeth Rinehart and I met many years ago. We shared a friend in common, a woman who died not long ago, so I was inspired to look closely at “A Strong Vessel,” not only because it’s eye-catching but because of our longtime connection, the ease I feel when with her. At first glance, it’s not obvious that the work is a collage; it appears so entirely of apiece and not as separate images taken from multiple sources. The primary figure is a woman who is also an actual vessel; she’s wearing a Tehuana headdress, and there are light rays extending from her head. Her face isn’t made from just one face but is comprised of two. A rose is nestled in a cabbage, and her hands come together, making evident this picture is Rinehart’s tribute. She says, “This piece is a tribute to the strength of women. All women, but with a focus on the strength of farmworkers…(who) balance a life of being a parent, a wife, a caretaker of the elderly, paid work and hours of unpaid domestic work.” Her picture makes me think of the Whitney Houston song, “I’m Every Woman.” “It’s all in me,” Houston sang. Behind and beside the main figure are other women who represent the women who’ve helped make each of us who we are.

“For the last eight years, I’ve had the privilege of volunteering with Nancy’s Project, a group working in the Salinas Valley that delivers food to those who feed us. Agriculture work is extremely physically difficult and vitally important. But women somehow are able to create joy and community. That’s our strength. It’s necessary to record our own history, in words, images and actions. It’s time to honor our resilience, especially in these times of brokenness.” And that’s strength enough to stand up to brokenness.

It’s when I come to Jeanne Rosen Sofen’s oil on canvas painting “Oaks in the Mist” that my pulse settles and my nervous system calms as it’s not had a chance to in months. The museum is crowded the first day I come to see the show but though I’m surrounded, I don’t feel the press of others when I stand before these oaks. The trees offer this viewer respite, a spaciousness, time out of time like as being in any lush forest does. The layers of mist move as sunlight drifts, and I feel I’m moving between the nearby and the middle distance.

Rosen shares, “I was lucky to go to Santa Cruz Island, the University of California Nature Reserve, off of Ventura, on a day when the mist was heavy. (https://santacruz.nrs.ucsb.edu/) Most of my work is quite saturated, but not this one.” Sofen talked about the color gray, how it tends to be thought of like a single color when, in fact, as she discovered making this painting, “There are infinite shades of gray.”

“When I’m in nature,” she tells me, “I zero in on where the trees have been knocked against. They are the epitome of resilience and perseverance, reminding me, we can be resilient. I love how art takes us back to our initial encounters.” Yes, I think, this picture does return me to many beloved places where time seemed to stop or at least to slow. From encounters with art and nature, resilience may be returned to us and perseverance for whatever’s ahead is there for the finding.

Del Rey Oaks writer and poet Patrice Vecchione is the author of several books including, most recently, “My Shouting, Shattered, Whispering Voice: A Guide to Writing Poetry & Speaking Your Truth” and “Step into Nature: Nurturing Imagination and Spirit in Everyday Life.” Her titles are available wherever books are sold. More at patricevecchione.com