Musings from Pan Pan Studios.....

The Greatest Show on Earth

2012-02-05T06:45:00.000-08:00

My great-aunt Dot, who died before I was born, ran away with the circus in the mid-1930s. She was 15 years old and, orphaned as a very young child, had lived most of her life with my grandmother and great-uncle at Harris and Chilhowee Children’s Home in Tennessee. She would be hunted down and made to return a few months later, having changed her given name from Dorothy Beulah to Dorothy Grey, and bearing a tattoo of a Thunderbird on her left upper arm – very bold for moves for a young woman of that time period.

She resumed her life there at Harris and Chilhowee, finished school, and would later marry and have 4 children. She lived out the remainder of her days in Upstate South Carolina, and what stories of adventure she had during her time with the circus would remain hers and hers alone. What I consider fascinating others considered a rash youthful folly, and she didn’t discuss running away with the circus among anyone in her immediate or extended family.

I wish she had.

The story of Aunt Dot was the basis for the history of the character Nan in my book, The Absence of Anyone Else. I tried to imagine a young teenage girl, relatively happy in her day-to-day life, being swept up by the charisma and charm of a visiting circus, (or, as happens in my story, a handsome blonde boy who travels with a visiting circus), and walking away from her world to be a part of someone else’s. Talk about boldness. This was a time period, remember, where women who cut their hair and wore pants were still considered radicals in the South.

In faded family photos, Dot is dark-eyed and intense, her black hair casually arranged in the style of the day, her tattoo covered by the modest clothing of a rural Southern wife. She could be any typical woman of the era…But she wasn’t. She had a fantastic story, even if she kept it to herself.

I, too, have walked away from my world to be part of someone else’s. I’ve changed my name, then changed it back. I’ve done many things that others might consider to be follies. Some stories I’ve shared. Some I’ve kept sacred to me, as Dot did hers. She is one relative I’ve always felt a kinship to, even though I never knew her. There was something about the story of her ‘youthful folly’ that always spoke to me, that even as a child, I understood. When it became too much to merely wonder about, I bought a book of old circus photos from the early 20th century, and I’d often look at it and wonder about her. Who did she become, at the tender age of 15, when she left Dorothy Beulah behind and became Dorothy Grey? And what part of Dorothy Grey was still present in those blazing dark eyes that stared off somewhere just beyond the photographer’s lens?

And then, this weekend…I actually went to a circus. I took my son to see Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey’s ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’. It was the first circus for both of us, and I was, for all practical purposes, blown away. Of course, a circus of the 1930s would have been an entirely different show than what we saw, but I’m sure it would have been just as amazing for that period of time, for a young girl bored in a group home, wanting something more than just an average, typical life. Even if that something more came with risks. Caught up in the show on Friday, I’d have grabbed up my son and joined them too, in that moment, just to be a part of the magic. Of course it isn’t so easy these days. One cannot simply take the outstretched hand of another, leap up onto the train, and be a part of circus, which explains why I’m still here…that and the fact that, for all my many talents, I’m just not a performer.

However, there is one important thing from Dot’s story that I know to be true, and that is that we can watch the greatest shows on earth from our seats, but we experience nothing if we simply remain spectators, watching trains pass by on their way to somewhere else when the show is over. Without taking risks, without being bold, we’re only spectators, standing on the sidelines, watching others take risks and applauding on cue.

For some people, this is enough, as the proliferation of television watching, cable companies, satellite varieties and reality shows prove.

For Dot, it wasn't. And for me, it will never be.

It’s a sunny day, and I’ll head to the park soon…but expect an artistic interpretation of the circus from Pan Pan Studios. What can I say? It’s in my blood…

Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey’s The Greatest Show on Earth is worth every penny. Follow the link below for show information in your area: http://www.ringling.com/

The Earth is not Round

2012-01-26T20:12:00.000-08:00

The Earth is not Round

The earth is not round. It is

all around.

The hawk soars above you.
Try as you might

you can't do what he does. You

will never see as he sees.

You can fly, yes, and you can

look down from on high

but it's different from the window of a plane,

the top of a tower. These are only

attempts to reach

the type of freedom

he was born with.

But don't envy the hawk. Better to

cast your hand

into the soil. This you can do.

The earth is cool

rich

deep. It is here

that you can plant

something.

It is here

where you can nurture

the tiny seed into

a vine that runs across

carefully manicured lawns

like a wild woman,

succulent and beautiful,

making you wonder why anyone ever thought

that a patch of earth

would look better tame.

No, don't envy the hawk.

His wings grow tired from soaring

and hunting

...always hunting. Rather

remember that you, too, can fly

but he can only drag

a talon through the dirt. He can't

plant seeds
that bear fruit.

From above

he watches you

cast seeds into the womb of the earth.

Always hunting,

he watches

as your garden grows.

She Walks Two Worlds, painting by Amy L. Alley
The Earth is not Round copyrighted 2012 by Amy L. Alley

Mama Gratitude

2012-01-22T05:44:00.001-08:00

There is an art reception that I need to get to, it’s just a few minutes from now and I’m a long way from being ready.

There is, upon arriving home after a long day, the matter that my son wants to check on his guinea pig, Finn, before we head out. Seven-year-olds do not always understand the concept of prior engagements or commitments to be certain places at certain times. They do, however, understand being away from something you love all day and wanting to reconnect with it.

But…my art is on display, so I really need to be there. I also need to do laundry, and so to give my son a few more minutes with Finn, I pull clothes from the dryer (where they have been since last night) and begin folding them. There is also the matter of snacks. My child is hungry and I never know exactly what refreshments will be provided at these artistic functions. I promise to get a snack together as soon as I’m done with the clothes, and he reminds me that Finn also needs a snack.

The reception begins at 6pm and it’s in another town. I did not get home until almost 5, because I stopped off after work for a quick coffee with a friend while my son was taking part in an afterschool program. That brief stop, little more than an hour, is the only ‘grown up’ (as in without child) time I will have for the entire week. I’m used to them being rare, but try to fit them in whenever I can, even if it means putting me behind schedule the rest of the evening. The wonderfully stimulating conversation I had with my friend, which centered primarily on yoga and intentions for the new year, is on my mind as I finish folding clothes, throw a new load in, make the snack for my child, and wash lettuce leaves for Finn. Upstairs, I remind my son to feed his fish and suddenly, randomly remember that, in my haste to get to my coffee date, I forgot to post my lesson plans for next week before leaving work. Dang.

No time to worry about that now. I look down at my clothes. I wore this ensemble to work and have had it on since 6am, but I think it will pass for the reception. It will have to, there simply isn’t time to change. My son’s clothes…eh, no. I take a quick look at my hair and makeup, splash on some patchouli, and grab a new shirt for him. I brush his hair while he’s eating his snack, and change his clothes in the kitchen. We hit the road with perfect timing, and enter the reception fashionably late.

And it’s a wonderful event, full of friends, art, music, good food, better coffee, and laughter. But after an hour, my child is bored, wandering, looking up at me with tired eyes that remind me 7:30 is just a half-hour away from 8pm, his usual bedtime, even on weekends. In addition, he reminds me that it’s Friday, which is our movie night, and we’re supposed to watch Ninja Turtles.

***

In another life, back when I had the time, freedom, and desire to be petit bourgeois, I’d have stayed at events like this all night. And I’d have more lined up for the next night, and maybe a few speckled throughout the week, and spend hours planning outfits and getting ready. Now…not so much. It isn’t because I have a child, no. The idea that children take from our lives, rather than give, is one that devastates relationships and one I don’t subscribe to. But becoming a mother has changed me, completely, and I like to believe for the better. Because the reality is, everything has it’s time, its place, and it’s occasion to be enjoyed. Would I have liked to spend longer at that reception? A decade ago, yes. But last night, despite the amazing art, wonderful people, and good music, I was actually looking forward to movie night with my son, because I, too, understand being away from something you love all day and wanting to reconnect with it.

A few weeks ago I stumbled across yet another ‘frustrated mother’ essay online, posted on a website that is exists for the purpose of encouraging women, but seems to be turning into just a place for the unhappy to vent. Apparently, there are quite a lot of stay-at-home moms out there who are trying to balance being a stay-at-home mom with pursuing some type of freelance career (usually writing, which seems to be the new hot trend). The feminist in me applauds this as I begin to read the essay. But by the end, the mom in me is just appalled by the writer’s lack of gratitude for what appears to be a pretty cushy life.

Another essay details a woman’s distress over trying to continue her writing career in the midst of parenting two toddlers while her husband works long hours. I’m trying to sympathize, remember what a handful one toddler can be, until she mentions her live-in nanny. Live-in nanny? Really? She is complaining about parenting solo, and yet she has a live-in nanny (which hubby’s long hours obviously pay for). And then another young at-home mom’s essay mulls over long, tedious hours and sleepless night of parenting an infant while watching one’s keyboard get dusty because there simply isn’t enough time to parent the infant, grab sleep when possible, and write. I’m not totally unsympathetic; I remember the days of parenting an infant. I have been there, but here’s the thing: I did all that they are doing, all that parenting , but I did it alone…and while working a full-time, very stressful job outside of the home. And here’s what I’d like to say to these moms who complain without seeming to realize how easy they actually have it: Quit whining.

I have raised my son alone for the last seven years. It was not my intention or desire to, it is just the way it has happened. There was never anyone else in the middle of the night to help tend him, no one to help when he was sick and I was scared, no other parent to lend physical, emotional, or financial support, and certainly no spouse to work long hours so that I might stay at home for the sweet, short duration of my child’s infancy. And unlike many single parents I know, I do not share parenting responsibilities of my child with my own parents. Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible; my mother has a myriad of health issues and my father’s time is consumed in tending to the things that my mother can’t. So I’ve done this – and continue to do it – on my own, wondering what it would have been like for my son and I had things been different, but being grateful, so grateful, always, that I am able to do alone a job that even God intended to be shared by two.

So when I read these venting essays, I’m so stunned by the lack of gratitude these moms seem to have that I can’t even wrap my mind around what they are thinking. Did they not realize that parenting was going consume the majority of their lives? Did they go into motherhood totally delusional about what tending an infant or toddler was like? Did they actually believe a person can tend and infant and simultaneously build a career? But most importantly, don’t they realize that childhood is brief, so brief, and that time for themselves will come again, sooner than they might imagine? In the blink of an eye, afternoons will stretch out endlessly before them, hours and hours to write, paint, do whatever they please without the interruption of ‘Mama’, because their child(ren) have grown wings and taken flight? Don’t they realize how precious these days, these moments, actually are?

And are they not in the least bit grateful to have been afforded in life a partner to raise these children with? One who is intelligent, responsible, and caring enough to spend long days working a job they may not even enjoy in order to support a family which, rare these days, has a mom at home at the helm? I hear the whining loud and clear. What I don’t hear, even once, in their writing is the gratitude.

I’d have given a limb to have not had to take my son to daycare at 8 weeks of age. To not have had to go into work – work! – on an hour of sleep on so many occasions when my baby was still learning the difference between days and nights. To not have counted weekend hours slipping by with tears in my eyes because I knew, come 7am Monday, I’d be turning the babe in my arms over to someone else. It was a searing pain in the heart, this parting, and wasn’t because I wanted to pursue a career. It was because I had to work in order that my child and I could live. There was no one else who was going to do it, no one giving to me the luxury of staying at home or, good heavens, staying at home with a full-time nanny. The light at the end of my tunnel, however, was the fact that, as an educator, I knew that I would always have summer break, winter break, and spring break. These times together, and the knowledge they were coming, got me through those long months of being separated from what I loved most all day.

But the most amazing thing of all is that while I parented alone and worked a full-time job, guess what? I still found time to write. And paint. And learn to knit. And play with my son. And organize art exhibits. And potty train my son. And send out query letters that got answers. And take commissions. And teach my child the alphabet. And make altered clothes out of old clothes so I didn’t have to buy new ones all the time. And have articles published. And teach my son to identify birds by their sounds on long afternoon walks. And get my own column in a magazine. And teach my child to ride a bike and bake bread. And work. Work, work, work…and keep up with bills, the laundry, the house, and still make special events (like movie night and a trip abroad) happen for my child. And plant a garden, and take day trips, and set up an Etsy shop for my art, and do yoga every day, and take my son to swim meets, and work out, and write, and attend art receptions (even if just for an hour), and have fleeting coffees with friends and all day play dates with my son’s friends because that’s just life when you’re a parent. And paint, and knit when I couldn’t paint so I’d still feel creative, and watch my child grow and blossom into an amazing human being, and remember enjoy every minute that I have been blessed to BE…A…MOM.

While I am intensely passionate about my art and very committed to my writing, I know there are at least million artists out there, and a shockingly increasing number of writers popping up every day. But there is only one child that is mine, and he has only one mother. Me. There is, and will never be, a greater calling for me than this. And maybe my experiences in mothering solo have made me, after 7 years, just more unsympathetic to ‘mom whining’ than I’d like to admit. I try not to judge, and to practice love and compassion, but truth is, ingratitude is an attribute I find intolerable. However, a few days ago, I stumbled across a blog by a wonderful young artist-writer-mom, a happy stay-at-homer (they exist! Yaay!) that freelanced in her spare time, not worrying if she wrote every day or even every week, because she knew her husband’s job would pay the bills, and she knew she was blessed to be present for every minute of her young child’s life. WOW. This wise woman, a decade younger than me, basically stated that she “knew her time to pursue her own passions 100% would come back, so she didn’t mind giving her time now to her son because she was so utterly grateful to have the opportunity to be with him full-time in his early life.” I was elevated, thrilled, over-the-moon with her essay. There was a tribe of Mamas like me out there. Kindred Mamas. Grateful Mamas. Happy, creative, child-centered Mamas, who, whether parenting with partners or parenting solo, embraced their blessings, were grateful for every minute with their child(ren), and knew that if you quit whining and practiced gratitude, happiness opened up, even on the difficult days, and you found you simply had more of it than you ever imagined you might.

***

No one is superwoman, least of all me. I have a high energy level and having practiced martial arts rather intensely in my younger years, I’ve learned a thing or two about discipline that help me accomplish what I have in the midst of what seems like chaos to others. But I also make choices that serve me and my child in the now. And, as the young mother I admire so much wrote in her essay, the thing about the activities I step out of, the events I don’t attend in order to parent, is that they will still be there, still happening, when my son no longer wants to spend his Friday nights with me. It’s like a dance that never ends. I’ll step right back into it when the time comes, like I never left, like the whirlwind days of mothering a young child had never even happened.

Something tells me, however, that I’ll miss those whirlwind days of young childhood much more than I’ve ever missed standing around with groups of fashionably dressed people, sipping wine and making intelligent conversation. I’ll miss movie night, hurried snacks, and quality time with guinea pigs more than I’ve ever missed elegant petit fours with people I only know socially. And so I linger in this time now, stealing creative moments and grown-up coffees with dear friends when I can, but cherishing, always cherishing, the now that I have, this fleeting now I’ve been blessed with. There will not likely be, for me, another time that I will ever be the parent of a young child, but there will be infinite chances to write and make art when he is no longer a young child. This present, this now, is once in a lifetime. I don’t wish it away, heavens no…I snag it, grab, and try to hold on.

It hasn’t been easy every step, and I’ve not always been as grateful as I am now. I’d also not recommend solo parenting as an ideal, no matter how fabulously feministic it might seem. It’s hard, damn hard, but so are diamonds, which society treasure and hold in highest esteem as a token of love. I’ve personally no use for diamonds, but I do hold in highest esteem the role I have as a mother, whether society values it or not. Perhaps there are those who would look at my art or my writing and actually consider it a more worthwhile contribution to the world than my child, and for them, I feel compassion… but for myself, I feel only joy.

Mama-whining? No thank you. I have Mama-gratitude. I’m blessed beyond measure…and lucky me, I’m wise enough to know it.

Letter To My Son In Honor Of His 7th Birthday

2011-12-16T18:25:00.000-08:00

Here is what I know: At the beginning, I knew nothing. Only love.

I did not know how I was going to do this…alone. I only knew, instantly upon seeing you, that nothing I’d done with my life up to that point even mattered. It fell away. Who I was before that moment fell away. Nothing mattered, nothing at all, but you.
When you have your own children you will know what I mean. The feeling is that strong. But to love someone, anyone, takes courage. You’ll learn that, too.

Before your birth, when your feet pressed so hard against the inside of my tummy that I could see the shape of it on the outside, I knew you had spirit. I liked that, because I, too, have spirit. I wanted your spirit to be as indomitable as mine, even though I knew it would mean tough discipline challenges down the road.

And I was right. You have not always been easy. But I did not ask for easy. I wanted spirited…and they are not the same thing. Not at all.

You have grown to look like me, with your big brown eyes and unruly mane of curls, but your personality mirrors mine very little. I’m amazed by this. You’re so outgoing! You seek the company of others, where I always preferred to play alone. I used to find a quiet spot and read during recess, but this is not your way, not at all. I liked solitude, but you prefer companionship.

And what companions you and I have been! How I cherished our time together, just the two of us, when you were younger. Then one day, when you were about five, you said to me, “Mama, we need more people,” and I knew you were right. I’d kept our little world almost exclusive because of my own preferences. But you were ready to broaden your horizons, and I loved you too much to hold you back. So I opened up the world for you. I broke our constant routines that you were growing so tired of and I let you lead me into developing new friendships, new connections, and a whole new lifestyle. I watched the ease with which you connected to new people, and I quit bringing books or knitting to the park or to birthday parties you were invited to. I spoke to other parents instead. Acquaintances slowly become friends, good friends. Our world got a little bit bigger each day. And I saw how happy it made you. Now you hit the door immediately asking for someone to come over. I don’t take it personally. I love that you brought more people into both our lives. I’ve spent enough time in my own head. Our world is so full of people now, sometimes I wonder how to fit them all in. And it’s fabulous. Wonderful. So much better than it was before.

Your mind fascinates me, because it’s so unlike my own. You love concrete, logical things. You get upset with me if you know I’m bending the rules, or not following the Lego instructions exactly. You notice things like this, and you’re bothered by them. I see the seeds there for a future preference for organization. It lets me know I better make more of an effort to be organized in my own life, so I can set a good example.

And that, my child, has been your greatest influence on my life, knowing that I serve as an example to you. Every action I take, I know you are there, watching. Every chance I take, and every chance I pass up, I know you are learning from my example. The moments when I want to turn away from someone in anger, but choose to act with love instead, because I want to make sure that you are taught by my example it is never a mistake to care; The moments when I want to give up, but know that I can’t, because I want to make sure you are never taught by my example that giving up is okay; The moments when I feel overwhelmed, but I want you to remember me as strong, and so I find a way to demonstrate strength, so that you might know, from my example, nothing is impossible; The moments I find delight in a sunrise, or the shape of a plant’s leaf, a cup of coffee or the particular rhythm of a cat’s purring…I want you to learn from my example that the simple joys of life are always with us.

Your days as a young child have passed, you are entering your middle childhood years, developing a clear idea of who you are and what you like. These years will take you away from me little by little, bit by bit, moment by moment…but I’m okay with that. You are my child, not my life companion, and I know full well there will come a day that you leave me completely. I want you to do it with courage and confidence. You are so fearless now, I can’t imagine what adventures you will take yourself on in years to come. I’ve already taken you on so many, and I know we have many left to take together. But you have taken me on an adventure of finding myself through parenting you. My love for you made me determined to give you the best and fullest life possible…which meant I had to grab life by the horns in a way I never quite had before. But I could not show you how to really live were I not doing it myself.

And so, my spirited, son, as your 7th year begins, here is my wish for your life, spoken to you in a way I know you will understand: Live it. Fully and completely. Don’t stand on the sidelines playing it safe. Get out there in the game. You might get hurt, but you will heal. You might get knocked down, but you’ll stand back up. What matters in the end is that you played. What you would regret, in the end, is standing back, holding back, wishing you had the nerve to play. I will always lead you by this one example: Play. Play well, and play as often as you can.

Thank you for teaching me how to do just that.

The Wind

2011-11-18T18:11:00.000-08:00

It is a thought, it is a feeling, it is the wind, carried to me and through me by a voice on the other end of the line.

How foolish we are! How vain to think ourselves so strong. How vain to think that I could not be toppled. I have never seen the wind, but I have seen what it can do…mighty oaks scattered like toothpicks.

Wind can glide through the tree tops, calming our minds with faerie sounds. It can dance with stars at night. It can gently warm our faces as we stand on shores of foreign seas.

Or it can blow cold. Bite. Bring tears to our eyes.

I’ve tried to paint the wind. But like love, it can’t be expressed in form. Like love, it cannot be seen. Like love, it can only be felt. Like love, we have no control over its intensity or the direction it may choose to take. We can only experience it.

I hang up the phone and immediately hear sirens wailing. Outside, I see signs of the wind. Leaves are scurrying by, enjoying the ride. Without the wind to scuttle them, they lie in piles and decompose. The wind is their adventure, the only force that can save them from simply rotting where they fell. They have no power to lift themselves up. They can only lie in stasis, hoping for a gust to carry them somewhere new before it is too late.

I watch one large golden oak leaf pass by the window. The wind picks it up, dances with it, then lets it be. Still for a moment, it is lifted up again. Carried. Dropped. Up. Down. I watch until it disappears from sight, a particularly strong gust carrying it around the corner.

Sirens wail. I’m in the car. I want home. I want safety. I want to drink coffee and watch the storm through my patio door. And this is the plan.

But it is not what I do.

I’m home. I’m safe. But I’m not behind the door. I’m on the patio, wind whipping past my face, drops of rain dancing on my skin. The storm is abating, as they always do.

I cannot see the wind, but I believe in it all the same. I have never doubted it is there. I have never doubted, in its absence, that it would one day return.

So long as I can feel, I know. I do not have to see.
For example, I do not need to be near the Arctic Circle to know that it is winter there. The wind blows cold, carrying with it tiny shards of ice that bite the skin, bring tears to the eyes. Wind from the top of the world can freeze a person in place, which is quite dangerous. It can take a long time to thaw a thing that’s frozen solid. And other times, it can thaw in an instant.

It all depends.

The phone rings. I am still for a moment, then lifted up again.

Carried. Dropped. Up. Down.
We can only experience it.

Art: The Other Side of the Sea, by Amy L. Alley, 2011

Mylar Balloon Reflections (or Playing with Creativity)

2011-10-15T06:11:00.000-07:00

From the window of my classroom, I can usually see kids outside playing. However, when there is no recess going on, I can see what lies beyond the school gates....a small church cemetery. (I can see the church too, of course....)

One day I noticed balloons and flowers on one of the graves. I could see them from the window, briliant colors blowing in the wind. Those balloons got me thinking about life, and about how I am spending mine. Mainly in terms of what legacy I leave behind.

All I can do with Eric is hope I leave a lasting, valued impression on his life. Although I love my own parents, I am so different from them...I don't embody any of thier beliefs and/or values...other than my life, I'm not sure what thier legacy to me has been. My family life has not always been easy. There's a reason I sometimes need a little distance, whether it is 15 miles, 1,000 miles, or an ocean between us. Which makes me wonder about Eric, about what life he'll embrace, and which of the values I've taught him - if any - he'll hold on to. And suddenly I'm aware that he is getting older, and that his childhood is passing faster than I can keep up.

There is still so many things I wish to make happen for him... I wish he had a sibling. I wish he had a father figure, or at least another person in his life who'd love him as I do. I wish he had a backyard. And a pony. And a pool... I wish so much...but I am only one person. What takes the primary bulk of my attention right now is simply living. The chores, the homework, the necessary family time and play, the woods romping, the laundry....what time I find to really focus and concentrate on dreams and ideas is usually the late evening hours, when the house is quiet. I unclutter my mind from the drama of the day and play with creating.

Play with creating, you say…isn’t it a serious, deep venture? Aren’t artists supposed to be on some different level than everyone else? Aren’t writers supposed to be ornery loners that possess more intelligence than everyone else? Aren’t poets and musicians supposed to be dreamy romantics who hop and skip through clover waving colorful ribbons? Okay, maybe I went too far on that one but I think you get the point. Play at creating makes it sound like I don’t take myself – or what I create – very seriously.

And you know what? I don’t.

I did, once. When my life consisted of evenings spent in pretentious mod circles, sipping wine from plastic cups and eating Brie at art receptions and listening to other artists – or worse, myself – talk cryptically about their work and their reasons for creating it. The big favorites were always political or social justice issues. Rarely did anyone, even me, ever say ‘I created this because I just love painting!’ (you can change the setting here to literary reading or concert and insert poetry or music or writing in place of painting, the effect will be the same.) And my own work took on darker overtones, not because I had complex, deep issues, but because my seeming to have complex, deep issues made both me and my work more interesting somehow.

Then, I had a child. Wow.

Deep, complex issues? Thanks, but no thanks. Political and social issues, yeah, I care about you, but I’m not inspired by you to create something just to prove to the world I care about you. And as to being on a different level than everyone else, well, I’ve come to the realization that Picasso was right when he said we spend our entire adult lives trying to create again with the freedom we created with as children. I’ve done the loner thing, it isn’t as fun or fulfilling as Hemingway made it seem. And I have skipped through clover waving colorful ribbons, I’ll admit that…but it was with my son, and we were playing with nature.

And last night, I sat in front of my easel and had fun with dots and swirls. Perhaps my new work won’t be taken as seriously as some of my older pieces, but I don’t take myself as seriously as I did ten years ago, and I’m kind of okay with people not staring into my art and looking for pain and angst beneath the layers of paint, or reading my poetry and dissecting it, and so on. Life is short. I’ve no time for pain and angst, nor do I want to create any lasting thing that reflects it. I want to play. Not just with my child, but with art. And poetry. And the things that I write. If you've seen my yard, then you know I even play with my landscaping. And definitely my clothing. And if there is a message that my work, or my life, conveys, I want it to be this:

CREATING…IS…FUN!!!!!

And so I look out the window at the balloons, so out of place on cemetery grounds, blowing in the wind, and I think about the legacy I will leave behind. I want it to be greater than paintings adorning the walls of strangers, a mention in an art book somewhere, an inclusion in an anthology on painters. While all of those things are nice, they’re not my sole (or my soul) ambition anymore.

Creating, like life, should be fun. When we take ourselves too seriously, we lose that element, not only from our work but from our lives, from our beings. I recently passed up a glitzy Friday night art reception to paint pottery with two 6 year olds, something the 25 year old me could not even have conceived of doing. And the most amazing thing of all is it was exactly what my heart desired to do.

As my 38th birthday approached and passed last week, I realized that having a child and working with children has spared me from the road of pretentious mod-ness that I was careening down at breakneck speed. Becoming a parent opened me up to a magic and a wonder I had forgotten in my quest for fame and fortune. It opened me up to skipping in meadows waving ribbons, getting my hands dirty, catching butterflies with nets, making flop cakes and ‘anything’ cookies. It opened me up to love something, finally, more than I loved myself. It opened me up to fun.

I still want my work, and my life, to have an impact. I’m passionate about environmental and social issues. But I’m more passionate about joy, and helping others find it. If there is a legacy left behind in my art or poetry or writing, I want it to be one of beauty.

And the legacy I want to leave behind for my child? Be joyous. Life is short. Create always, but create beauty. Help others to create beauty and find joy as well. There is no nobler pursuit in life than bringing joy to another, whether it is through art, writing, poetry, music, or by simply loving them and showing that love by sharing your most precious gift: your time and attention.

I may never be able to give my child a house with a yard, a pony, a pool, a sibling or a father figure for his life. But I can give him the gift of how to find beauty and joy through the act of creating, not for recognition or fortune, but merely for fun. I can make sure that whether or not he agrees with my political, spiritual, or even nutritional beliefs, he will at least know, for certain, that it life it meant to be lived. And it’s meant to be fun.

And when we take ourselves too seriously, well, it becomes our great misfortune.

The Photographer

2011-09-12T03:52:00.000-07:00

The Photographer

"You're alluring,"
says the man
photographing my art.

"Would you consider
letting me
shoot you
sometime?"

Standing behind my painting
I consider
his offer
for a moment.

Standing behind my painting
I consider
(for a moment)
how nice it is
to be seen.

- Amy L. Alley, 2011

Poem - Good Junk

2011-07-28T07:51:00.000-07:00

GOOD JUNK

Cleaning the silver jewelry
outside on a summer day.

The tarnish yielding
to an almost white shine.

I look at the ring I bought when I was 12,
and have had repaired at least a dozen times
(because I'm really too rough
to wear delicate things).
It's been with me a long, long time
since I discovered it in a $2 pile
at a local thrift shop.

And then, the pendant
that was actually an earring
discovered in a box of junk
my dad decided
was good enough to be picked up
and picked through.

It was black with tarnish
and had no mate,
but I saw the Many Goats signature on the back
and knew that meant
something.
As did the beauty
of the stones
that spoke to me
through layers of grime.

I polished the earring
then broke it apart
(because it had no mate)
and strung it on a necklace.
I wore that necklace during winter months
when I was sure I'd spend the summer ones
in Teec Nos Pos, Arizona

I ended up in Helsinki instead
Blown just a little off course
from the American deserts
to the edge of the Baltic Sea
(and the edge of
a lot of other things as well.)

But I've always had a knack for
veering off course.
Just like I've always had a knack
for changing the shape of something.
And being able to see
beyond the tarnish
to the white shine.

I slip the necklace on
It's cold against my skin
I'll wear it in the summer months
and wonder what winter will bring...

Trust Lessons from Stray Cats and Wandering Hobos....

2011-07-17T04:01:00.000-07:00

The cat has been hanging around the house for months. I've tried many times to just get close to him, but he's always bolted like a rocket.

I'd try approaching him quietly, talking in a low voice, but he never seemed to appear at a time when it was convienent. It was always when I was coming in from the supermarket or on my way out the door to somewhere else. And the appearance of my energetic, almost seven-year-old son bounding out the door joyously (as he always seems to do), would usually send the stray cat bolting if my own presence hadn't already managed to do so.

Until a couple of days ago when, inexplicably and in an unprecedented display of a sudden decision to trust, the cat not only let me get close to him, but let me pet him as well. It was morning, and I was on a stroll around the gardens, cup of coffee in hand. It was early, my sacred morning time (which I accomplish only by rising at 5:30am), and I was almost startled when the cat suddenly appeared, strolling out from the sunflower patch where he'd been resting. He caught sight of me and I expected to see a flash of tail and black-bottom feet disappear around the fence corner, but this time....he stayed. And as I whispered softly to him, he twitched his tail, blinked his eyes, tapped his front feet up and down, and made some low sounds back to me.

This is all communication...cat-speak for, "I want to know you."

I went back inside, grabbed some dry food, and returned.. He was still there, and I shook the cup of food a few times before putting it into the kitty bowl. Then I knelt beside it. This is all communication, too. Offering food to a stray animal is human-speak for, "I want to know you."

The magic worked. After circling me and meowing several times, he finally approached the food bowl, despite it's dangerous proximity to me. And when I reached out to touch him, he didn't slink away, but remained, allowing me to pet him. I couldn't believe it, and I couldn't stand this strange and wondrous new development on my own, so I slipped into the house and awoke my son, telling him that "Gray Kitty finally let me pet him!" I told my son how to come out the door quietly (as opposed to his usual 'bursting forth into the world') and to slowly approach from behind me, making no noise or sudden movements, and he did it all just right. As a result, he was able to pet Gray Kitty as well, which was the equivilant, to my animal-loving child, of Santa Claus showing up unexpectedly in mid-July.

And so it has gone on and on. Every day we have some time with Grey Kitty, who we've 'named' Lamington Deer (don't ask why, please...) and who occasionally still bolts away for no particular reason I can see. But he also has climbed up into my lap, allowed me to pick him up and hold him, showed me his belly and allowed it to be rubbed (ultimate sign of trust for most animals as it's such a vulnerable spot), and allowed my son (who approaches him now with the quiet grace of a Ninja Warrior walking through a motion-activated security field) to pick him up as well. He doesn't know it, poor kitty, but once he's tame enough for me to put him into a carrier he'll be taken to the vet for shots and a slight 'alteration' to his manhood, for he on occasions gives my little female kitties an unnecessary chase. But bottom line is the question that my son asked me last night: "Is he going to be ours now?"

"I'm not sure," I replied, "It's really up to him." And this is true. He's never been 'owned' before. He may not want to hang around in one place after at least a few years of stray nomadic-ness. It's a tough qeustion to answer. I remind my son, however, that what matters is not him becoming 'ours' in the end, but that we are showing him kindness and love right now. This small creature has decided we are worthy of his trust. And I'm not only flattered, I'm honored, because there is no greater judge of a person's character than a stray animal. This is universal knowledge to the point that years ago, travelling hobos used the image of a person holding out a bowl of food to a dog as a symbol for a house where one might find kindness. And in Medieval Europe, the image of a woman with a bowl of food surrounded by cats meant the same thing. These drawings were usually crude and stick-figurish, but there is a truth behind them than animals seem to know, and the down-and-out can sometimes see through to the soul of a person and know a truth about them that others often miss because thier vision is too clouded with a sense of thier own grandeur.

So whether or not Lamington Deer becomes ours, he's giving me a lesson in trust that I find heals my spirit. My heart leaps when I step outside and see him there amidst the sunflowers. It makes my soul smile each time he lets my son and I pet him. I needed this lesson, I know and perhaps the kitty knew as well. Or rather, I'm sure he did. He'd observed me from afar for quite some time, after all, and cats are considered healers in many countries both in the past and today. My Reiki-practitioner friend has told me that cats naturally do Reiki because they have an ability to heal hurt with positive energy. I can feel this happening in me, with each closeness that he allows. (Why did it need to happen? View my other blog at http://www.boldnessinitiative.blogspot.com/ and look for the 'Sad Eyes' post.)

And now my son is awake...the sacred morning time, so fleeting these days, is suddenly filled with, "Can I have breakfast?", "Can I watch cartoons?" and now the new mantra, which pleases me greatly: "Can we go outside and see if Lamington Deer is still there?"

"Yes," I say to all three.

Caylee Anthony and the Sensationalism of the Self

2011-07-06T02:38:00.000-07:00

Most who know me are aware of the fact that I'm not a fan of mass media.

I don't care for the way they tell us what to care about by sensationalizing certain events while completely ignoring others. I don't care how a man who murders his family in Missouri might get 24-7 media coverage for a week while new planets being discovered or acres of rainforest being saved gets a small byline passing along the bottom.

And I wasn't going to write about the sensationalism of Caylee Anthony. I was determined to stay out. I have never worked as an attorney, nor have I ever served as juror on a capital murder trial, so I don't feel competent criticizing those who serve in these roles. And I won't...that's a dangerous game. But I was in a cafe yesterday when the verdict was read. I saw bits and pieces of the media coverage over the last few years. And I am a mother, so I feel there is one thing I can comment on in regards to this case.

And it isn't the sensationalism of Caylee Anthony.

It's the sensationalism of the self. The more and more obvious simple fact that a me-centered person simply can not successfully raise a child. Not even part-time.

The generational dysfunction present in this media-glorified family was enough to make me put my face in my hands and weep. Add that to the generational dysfunction that I see far too often on my job, and I can only close my eyes and say a fervent prayer that I am doing my own personal best with my child. Because, in my opinion, here's the bottom line: When you become a parent, whether you are older or younger, single or married, planning it or caught by surprise, there is one simple fact you have to face - IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU ANYMORE.

Call me a guerilla-mom if you like, but let's face it: From the (few, really) years that encompass childhood, it's going to be all about the life you created, and your new mission is going to be doing your best to make sure that the life you created has the most amazing life you can create for them. I'm not saying you can't still accomplish things, have an occasional night out or enjoy a cup of coffee in peace... don't get me wrong. I've accomplished much more professionally in the years since having my son than I did in the time before I became a parent, and I do enjoy an occasional few hours of solitude. I'm just saying you're not living your life simply for your own pleasures anymore. You can't put getting your own jollies first.

This means sacrifice. It means taking a harder road at times. I often laugh at new parents talking about sleepless nights with infants, because while that is trying (trust me, I went through it alone) it is only the beginning of your giving. But with my son, all of this just seemed to be the way it was. I never questioned the giving. I never resented it. I never pushed him off onto others for the weekend so I could have nights 'on the town' mainly because 'nights on the town' have never really been my style anyway.

No, when I became a mother, everything about me changed, from what I wanted to do with my time to those I looked up to. I came to admire not fashionably dressed hipsters with exotic careers and jet-setting lives, but mothers who wore thier babies and nursed passed the age of one year and taught thier 3 year olds to knit or made paper dolls for a sick toddlers and could make homeade baby food from garden grown vegetables. I came to admire parents, both mothers and fathers, who were there in the home every night to read thier child a bedtime story, to put love and concern for thier child's well-being into making a nourishing meal, because really, what greater role do we have as parents than to nourish our children? I found heros in people who found ways to work at home so they could have more time with thier children. I found kindred spirits in friends with stories similar to mine, who took no shame in putting thier child first, even though it seems we live in a very parent-centered society that is becoming more and more focused on ways to 'cut corners' and do less parenting so as to have more 'adult time'.

For committed parents, there is precious little, if any, adult time during a child's early years.
And big whoop to that. Becoming a parent means your whole lifestyle's going to change. My lifestyle changed. What I couldn't do with my son in tow, I generally just didn't do, because I felt I had already spent enough time away from him while I was working. I wasn't going to cut into the precious time we did have together. It just didn't seem right. But I found new worlds opened up. There are many, many ways to get out there and enjoy time as a family. I still find that my greatest joys come from moments spent out with my child rather than time spent without him. Because really, it is fleeting. My son is almost seven now. I see in a friend's ten-year-old the 'pulling away' from mom that I know I'll be facing in a few short years. I don't cut into what is left. I have found great delight in being a mother. If I have one regret, it is that circumstances in my life have only given me one opportunity to be in this role. I often wish that my son had a sibling, that he had another child to enjoy life with and someone to share memories of growing up with. Still I feel blessed to at least have been given this one beautiful, magical, amazing little being to raise.

Back to Caylee Anthony...a child who was missing for 31 days and apparantly not even missed. Back to the me-centeredness of her mother, and seemingly her entire extended family. Back to wondering how something like this can happen...how can a parent have no genuine concern for thier child? There are many reasons. It could be pontificated over for hours. Most reasons have to do with personal insecurities, unfullfillments, feelings of inadequacy, selfishness, people who didn't have thier own needs met in childhood, or feeling that being a mother means not having a life and having no one to tell a young girl otherwise because her own mother acted miserable because she had to stop partying in order to raise her...

But let's make it simple...at some point in this family, there was a complete breakdown of healthy, mature emotional development. There was an idea that something mattered more than the little one. Whether it was going out on the town, having a love interest, having 'me' time, whatever, it doesn't matter.

What matters is all of these things culminated in a toddler losing thier life because an entire family of people were so focused on thier own lives that they couldn't get it together enough to ensure a child's safety and well-being.

Sensationalism of the self.

Bonsai and the Art of Not Being Tame(d)

2011-06-28T19:23:00.000-07:00

Wild: Being in a state of nature, i.e. not tame.

I was feeling bad about uprooting the small tree that had taken root in my flower bed, but it could not be left to grow there, so close to the house. Still I was surprised when a nieghbor suggested that instead of replanting it, I try my hand at Bonsai.

Bonsai is one of those art forms I'm on the fence about. It's essentially about restricting growth. Controlling and taming the wild until what should have been towering and free can fit into a tiny pot is simply not my cup of tea.

I can appreciate the history and technique behind the art, but I can't help feeling like Bonsai are the 'Stepford Wives' of the tree world. They look the same as thier wild sisters, only they are celebrated for being smaller. Which is odd to me, because what they become, essentially, is merely what someone decides they should be.

It's hard to ignore the fact that the art form originates in the same area of the world where women were forced to wear shoes that basically cobbled thier feet until they were so ridiculously small the women could barely stand, let alone walk...or run free. And it's hard to ignore the fact that man's ability - and need - to tame the wild seems to be the purpose of both of these customs.

Trees and women share a sisterhood. Julia Butterfly Hill (http://www.juliabutterfly.com/) lived in the canopy of Luna, an ancient Redwood she was determined to save, for 738 days. She came down in 1999, after she and supporters negotiated a deal that saved Luna, who still stands today.

In Cassie Premo Steele's novel Shamrock and Lotus, (http://www.cassiepremosteele.com/books_02.php?id=350) there is a story told of several village women in India making a human chain to hug the trees in order to spare them from governmental deforestation.

And of course, there is the profound history that has linked women and trees for centuries....we've both been curtailed, trimmed back, put into tiny pots because of a misguided belief that in being less wild we were more beautiful. That a tidy, tended yard was more worthy than one with a pumpkin vine blooming wildly in the hedges. But to me, there is no beauty in a mighty oak tree living out its life in a 5" pot.

Perhaps it was ancenstral memories or being controlled, contained, curtailed...or maybe recollections of pictures of women with feet forced into a tiny shoes...or maybe it's the being told that one is too independent, too liberal, too smart, too intimidating (what the heck is THAT about?), too strong-willed, too creative, too successful, too much of this, that or the other to ever fit into the ornamental, complacent 'little woman' mold that so many men seem to find attractive that made me look at my nieghbor as if he were quite insane. And then I headed out to a small wooded area and replanted the seedling tree in the ground where it could grow freely, alongside it's wild sisters.

I can appreciate the ancient art of Bonsai...but I celebrate the need to put one's hands into the soil and work the earth without gloves. I celebrate the need to be out in nature, to feel the earth beneath one's feet, and to pick up the feathers that one finds on the ground. The need to sit out on a deck and watch the night sky. The need to wonder, to feel, to lie back on the grass, to watch a bird's flight. The need to live life on my own terms, not follow a blueprint of proper experiences, complete with timeline and ettiquette rules. The need to watch my son hoot and holler with delight as he falls in love with nature, exploring every inch of the outdoors. The need, in me, not complain on the days he has to have the mud hosed off before he can even enter the house to shower. He'll never be a kid who is seen but not heard, and who cares? I celebrate my son's need to grow freely, even though it might lead to a life lived outside the box that so many others conform to fit within.

In other words, I celebrate what is, essentially, allowed to grow free, not what is ornamental, carried, complacent, contained...but what is living in a state of nature.

What is not tame.

Art: Egg, Feather, Nest Mandala, Amy L. Alley, colored pencil on paper

A Handful of Surprises

2011-06-13T19:08:00.000-07:00

I reached into a black widow's nest today.

It wasn't intentional, of course. I realized my hand was covered in dozens of tiny, pale gold infant spiders about the time the mother waved her many arms at me, making her presence known as she defended her brood. I shook the babies off my hand and went inside, grabbed a bottle of eco-friendly Raid (yes, they make it), and annihilated the lot of them.

Then I felt a pain in my hand and realized that it might be in my best interest to call poison control. I can proudly say now that, most likely, I am more knowledgeable about Black Widow spider bites than anyone I know.

I say it all the time, but there is a truth that is universal, always with us, always asserting and proving itself: Life is, blessedly, full of surprises.

Was I bitten by the big spider? Really, I don't even know. I'd been gardening for an hour or so when I reached into the nest, and there are bites, scrapes, and pricks all over my hand because I like the feel of working without gloves and rarely wear them. There was pain, yes. But whether my symptoms were real or psycho-sematic, I do know I'll be okay. Any severe reaction would have occured by now.

For the most part, I just know that I sat down to plant cosmos and ended up having an adventure I'd not planned for at all. Which is funny, because on my mind all day had been the concept of adventures, how they can happen suddenly, and how they can lead us in directions we never expected.

Reaching into a nest of a venomous spider was not quite what I had in mind to do this afternoon. Still, that's the thing about life, it is full of surprises. The key is to remain ready...and unafraid.

Photo courtesy of National Geographic.

Precious Gems

2011-06-07T18:29:00.000-07:00

A friend was showing me her collection of semi-precious stones today, and I was reminded of this short story that Paulo Coehlo shared in his recent blog (http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2011/02/12/the-stone/)

A wise woman who was traveling in the mountains found a precious stone in a stream.

The next day she met another traveler who was hungry, and the wise woman opened her bag to share her food.The hungry traveler saw the precious stone and asked the woman to give it to him.

She did so without hesitation.

The traveler left, rejoicing in his good fortune. He knew the stone was worth enough to give him security for a lifetime.

But, a few days later, he came back to return the stone to the wise woman.“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I know how valuable this stone is, but I give it back in the hope that you can give me something even more precious.

Give me what you have within you that enabled you to give me this stone.”

I share this here because it sums up, nicely and neatly, what I was hoping to write about tonight. I am not sure who I admire most in the story, the wise woman, for giving so freely, or the traveler, who was able to recognize that within this wise woman was something more valueable than precious gems.

I only know this: We are always demonstrating to others what truly lies within us. But it is important to remember that we are also always being shown, by others, what truly lies within them.

And it's also important, as the traveler learned, to recognize something precious when it is handed to us.

Measuring A Year...

2011-05-31T19:09:00.000-07:00

I'm pulling out fabrics and thread, yarn and patterns. I'm tearing images for collage, and ordering new art materials. I'm starting to slow down a little from the routine that has guided my days for the last 9 months. I'm watering my garden in my night attire at 10pm just to show myself that, despite the trials and stresses of the past year, I am still the boss of me.

Summer has almost officially began.

I don't measure summer from the start of a set date. For me, as a teacher, summer - and all the promise it holds - is measured from the last day I work in May until the day I return in August. And I don't measure years by days on a calendar.

I measured this past year by Friday afternoon cups of coffee at an uptown cafe, and by the times I turned the pages in my son's school journal and watched how the August scrawls turned into legible words by December. I measured this past year by paint strokes on canvas, and by knits and purls and laughter with the group of friends that gathered in my home every other Saturday night. I measured it in moments spent coming to term with things I could not change. I measured it in books I read, in emails I sent, in letters I recieved. I measured it in hours spent waiting on to catch a plane, and in the memory of the moment I stepped off the plane to a destination I'd dreamed about for years. I measured it in days spent at the pool watching my son learn to swim, and then to dive, and then to dive deeper. I measured it in moments I forced myself to dive deeper, even when I didn't want to know what lay beneath the surface.

I measured this year in choices I had to make, difficult ones. I measured it in articles and blogs I wrote, in animals I rehabiliated and rescued, in the bursting forth of life from seedlings I planted. I measured it in hugs from students, in bills I managed to finally pay off, in goals I accomplished. I measured it in moments I realized that out of all the attributes a man can possess, courage is the one I value most, and it's okay for me not to accept someone who is less than bold. I measured it in moments I took risks, and in moments I realized that there are some people who live within fences that they'll never have the courage to leap.

I measured it in moments I held my son close, and realized that he is the best thing I have ever created. I measured it in moments I knew, without doubt, that raising a child is the noblest of goals, and, modern woman or not, I am a mother, and it is the job most worthy of all my effort and energy. There will be plenty of time for writing, for painting, for waxing poetic over coffee in cafes with friends...but there is only one period of time that my son will be a child, and it is now. I measured this year in skinned knees and fairy houses, in lego castles and in times my son got back up on the bike after falling....and in long evenings spent watching him ride after he finally learned how.

So I let this year draw to a close. Summer, with all of it's promise, is about to begin. For me, it's only 3 days away! I close with one of my favorite songs from RENT, a favorite musical.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HcSDli-Byn8&feature=related

Painting: 3o Minute Peonies, Amy L. Alley, completed in college for a class assignment, dug back out of the closet for a Feng Shui experiment! :-)))

Butterfly Magic

2011-05-26T02:33:00.000-07:00

Today is my son's bridging ceremony.

It's a Montessori celebration of transitioning from one year of learning to the next, similar to a kindergarten graduation.

The year has flown by. As a matter of fact, the past six and half years have flown by. I don't think about it often. I don't have time. As my child's sole parent, the days fly by at speed of light, or speed of childhood, I should say. I used to be able to have my son asleep by seven o'clock each evening. Now I'm lucky if we're able to slow down the day enough by seven so that he can be asleep by nine.

There is just so much to do, and so little time to do it. The magic of childhood is flying past just like the butterflies that seem to always be attracted to my son, landing on him while we're playing in the yard or while he's riding his bike. He used to be amazed by this occurence, now it's so normal he'll usually just call out, "Mama, there's another butterfly on me!"

I smile, because I want so much for this boy, and I carry on my shoulders every day the weight of being the only person who can provide it. But I did not provide the magic of having butterflies land on him, so much that he's used to it. That's something that came to him from somewhere else. Perhaps it's a magic all children possess, I don't know. My only experience is with this child.

I bought him a small turtle sculpture for his bridging gift. It's carved from wood, and it's an adult turtle with a smaller turtle on it's back. I didn't even think about it when I picked it out. My son was with me, as always, when I was in the shop, and I was trying to purchase it without him seeing. It was only later, when I was wrapping it up, that I noticed the symbolism of a larger turtle carrying a smaller one. I practiced attachment parenting, which means I carried my son for quite some time, in a large sling on my hip, and I loved every minute of it.

He's much to big for that now, of course. He's almost too big to even sit on my lap. I'll blink my eyes one day soon, and like the butterflies that love him, he'll simply fly away.

But I hope that, where ever he lands in life, it will be some wonderful place that my love helped carry him to.

Finding your niche....

2011-05-22T05:01:00.000-07:00

The older I get, the more I realize that if something is mainstream, (i.e. what everyone else is doing) it is probably not going to be for me.

I don't know why. I just know that I spent a few early years trying to find out what was so fascinating about things other people seemed to love, like sitting in bars or pubs for hours on end sipping overpriced drinks and talking to other people who were just sitting there sipping overpriced drinks; watching cable shows that, while entertaining, were ultimately just a waste of mental energy; or wearing the same style of shoe as everyone else even if I didn't actually like them. I did all of these things as a young adult only to find out that I could never get into the collective 'group think' that seemed to make certain styles or activities so fascinating to others.

And that's okay, just as it's okay if other people enjoy those things. I no longer watch cable; set foot in bars or pubs if I can help it; or buy what's in fashion just because it's in fashion. To decide not to be in the collective mainstream, however, will set you apart from most everyone else around you. It can be a little bit lonely not to blend in with 90% of the population...but the good news is, the more you embrace your authentic self and engage in activities that you truly enjoy, the happier you will be. And what I have found to be true is that the more you live in a way that honors your own spirit, the more you will draw to you people who share your same interests and passions, and with whom you will blend just perfectly.

Living a truly authentic life, embracing who you are and NOT trying to be someone you aren't just to please a majority population that you don't even relate to is a huge catalyst for the unhappiness and depression that seems to plague society today. I've rarely met a person who is living fully that is unhappy. But I meet many people who are hiding a major part of themselves from the world, and for this reason, are secretly miserable. And I've had dissapointing experiences with people who could not take a leap of faith, believe in something that wasn't mainstream, or give chance to an opportunity that would change thier lives just because it was different than what thier friends were doing.

I can image these people years from now, still sitting in pubs or bars, sipping on a tall glass of regret, the most expensive drink there is. Because life rarely looks back, never waits, and blessings rejected usually turn into curses as the years pass by.

My last Boldness Initiative post was about swimming lessons, diving in, and buying a pink dress. http://boldnessinitiative.blogspot.com/ But a big part of the Boldness Initiative series was on finding the strength to be your authentic self, because in finding - and being - who you were meant to be, you will find your niche, your tribe, and ultimately, your happiness.

Painting: Mixed Blood by Amy L. Alley

Cicada Blessings

2011-05-18T19:03:00.000-07:00

Hanging off the edge of the pond, rain pelting my back, I was trying to scoop up a nice cup of algae water without falling into the algae water. My heels were sinking in the mud, and I was acutely aware of the spectacle I must have been, clad in a white top and silk skirt, braving the elements and a particulary cross pair of nesting geese.

It was a perfectly insane moment of life...however, my son is raising tadpoles, and they needed a fresh food supply. Even if it was raining.

It never ceases to amaze me the things we do for our children. It just amazes me how we do these things so often, and so willingly, without even thinking about the effort we're putting forth.

But what amazes me most is the joy that my child brings into my life. He was an unplanned blessing, a delightful surprise to someone who had spent years focused on work and career. I was driven to accomplish so many goals, but what I never expected was that motherhood would fulfill me in a way that nothing else ever has. Even on the most exhausting days, when I've got glue and glitter on my arms from helping with yet another collage, leaves in my hair from the afternoon's nature walk, and a cicada loose somewhere in the house, (because I relented and allowed him to bring it inside, where it naturally escaped), I know that there is nothing I could ever give my time and attention to that would be more worth it than the child sleeping down the hall.

There are fairy houses in our yard and a butterfly habitat full of cocoons in our den. The jar of tadpoles rests on a counter, and a row of stuffed animals who serve as 'gaurdians' line the back of our couch. Because there is a child in my house, there is magic. I want to put this magic in a jar and keep it on the counter as well.

Somewhere downstairs the lone cicada announces it's presence with a shrill chirp. My son has reveled in these insects, fearless of them from the start. We've researched them together and learned alot about thier lifespan and 13-year cycle. For weeks they've been abundant, but thier time is winding away. A photograph freezes a moment, but I can't freeze childhood. It's winding away too. The next time I see these cicadas, my son will be a grown man, almost twenty.

I leave the lone chirper downstairs.

On Dreams, Boldness, and Patience (and also locking down and walking away)

2011-05-14T03:57:00.000-07:00

Dreams are amazing things.

I don't mean what happens when we are sleeping, I mean the dreams that possess us and drive our lives. The dreams that give us extraordinary destinies and make our lives magical. The dreams that come on us when we least expect them, and are often far from what we thought it was that we wanted to do with our lives.

Sometimes, a dream seems impossible. But when you share the dream with someone else, it's a combined force of energy and desire that can make anything possible. It creates a sense of working together towards a common goal. Pursuit of the dream bonds you at heart and spirit. You are fiercly loyal, standing back to back to face the world together in a way that few people understand. And the universe opens up, giving you signs and signals that your dream is the right one, and that yes, it can come to be.

But what happens when the one you needed to complete the dream suddenly freezes up, locks down, then disappears? And nothing you do or say seems to convince them that the dream is, at heart, still worth it? And you begin to feel frozen and locked as well, because no new dream you can think of comes close to what that one was?

There is only one thing you can do: Wait. Even though in the end, waiting is so much harder than forgetting, you know that patience is the mother of all wisdom. You know something will come from this, it has to, because everything in life has a purpose, even this extreme test of your own love, loyalty, and patience.

I'm reminded of a beautiful poem by my friend, distinguished poet Cassie Premo Steele, Ph.D.

Cave Lesson

You ask me to join you in your cave, and I do.

I sit down on the damp floor and we watch the dark walls
dripping with yellow light from the candle.

You are like that light,
I tell you.

See how you affect everything around you.

You do not believe me.

It takes time.

I breathe out. I let go of my impatience,
even though I know candles do eventually burn out.

I must let you take your time.

I'm also reminded of another one of Cassie's poems, from her recent book of poetry entitled This is how honey runs.

Bold

Athena was not always bold.
We want to think that she was.
We want to remember the owl,
the victories, the wisdom.
Nothing comes like this.
The owl was an egg first.
That sound you're hearing.
The one your heart is making.
That is your egg cracking.

There is a lesson always, even when you are left standing alone, holding in your hands the broken pieces of a dream that you can not accomplish on your own. Patience reveals the lesson. Patience tests our ability to love, to be loyal, and to be bold enough to continue believing in something that suddenly seems as unattainable as a feather drifting on the wind.

Waiting is hard, yes. Forgetting is easier, always. Anyone can give up. Regardless of the defense one might mount to the contrary, it takes no strength of spirit, no sense of courage, loyalty or boldness to just give in to fear and take the easy way out. It takes nothing, absolutely nothing, to simply walk away.

But even when our hearts are cracking, we must remember that patience is the mother of all wisdom, and no one was ever bold without first being wise. And the wise know that in the end, it is only boldness that determines what dreams are possible.

Art: During The Time That He Was Away, by Amy L. Alley. To view more of my art, visit www.panpanstudios.com

Cave Lesson was first published SC POETRY INITIATIVES ON-LINE CHAPBOOK POETRY ANTHOLOGY 2008-9 http://www.sc.edu/poetry/chapbook_09web.shtml#steele

For more information on Cassie Premo Steele, or to order a copy of This is how honey runs, visit www.cassiepremosteele.com. Cassie will be reading poetry at the SC Book Festival in Columbia Sunday, May 15th, at the Garden Terrace Pavilion from 12:45-1:00 and copies of This is how honey runs will be available for sale and signing.

Luna Lessons

2011-05-08T04:01:00.000-07:00

We were rushing into school on a typical day when I saw a spot of green on the asphalt.

Closer inspection revealed the spot of green to be an adult luna moth. She was lying directly in the path where schoolbuses would soon be passing by. I scooped her up into my hands gently. She didn't resist at all.

I have always loved Luna Moths. I even used an image of one on the cover of my book, The Absence of Anyone Else. But I'd never, ever, held one in my hands.

My son was enthralled. The Luna was still alive, but barely, and I explained to my son that it would most likely die. It had been bitterly cold the night before, which could have affected her, but also most large moths, like Lunas, have relatively short life spans and females will die soon after laying eggs.

The Luna was so weak. She barely moved when I transferred her from my hand to my son's in order that he could hold her. Her wings had suffered some damage, and the only sign of life she issued at all was an occasional wriggling of a leg or two. She was safe with us, however, and she seemed to know this.

My son is enrolled in a Montessori program, and his class is currently studying insects. We put the Luna into a container for butterflies and my son took it to his classroom, where it would be placed in an appropriate viewing area for the children. As an artist, however, I wanted to keep the Luna's remains as a visual reference for a painting. I've painted Luna moths before, but always from a photograph, never from a life study. I told my son's teacher I'd pick the moth up at the end of the day.

When I arrived, the teacher informed me our Luna had not moved at all during the day, but the children had enjoyed watching it and the class had talked about Luna moths and thier life cycles. So imagine my surprise when, back in my classroom, the moth suddenly seemed to undergo a complete transformation! I was packing up my supplies when my son cried, "Mama, look! She's flying!"

And she was. Or trying to, at least, as she was still confined by the container she was in. I was amazed. And excited. We brought her home right away, and carried her out into the nearby woods. I gently let her rest on my son's hand, hoping she'd take flight from there, knowing it would bring him great joy.

After a few minutes, however, it was clear this wasn't to be. Worried that perhaps I'd misinterpreted the suddenly burst of life the Luna had demonstated, I placed my hand on his. As if on cue, she walked slowly across my fingers and rested in the center of my palm. I held my hand up, high, and she slowly fanned her wings. Then she lifted up, taking flight. She dipped and dived a moment or two, hovering about us, and then dissappeared off beyond the trees. Her wings, though damaged, were strong. She flew high, and away. She would live another day, she would lay her eggs, all would be as it was meant to be.

There's a very old adage that states 'when the student is ready, the teacher will appear'. It just doesn't say what form or shape that teacher will take. When I found the Luna that morning, I was convinced she was dying. I never imagined she would fly from the palm of my hand later in the afternoon. But I know now that she flew from my hand, not my son's, because although I wanted him to have the experience, it was me that needed the lesson she offered.

It is easy, sometimes, to assume a thing is at an end, when the reality is, it simply needs time, as the Luna needed time, so that it can grow stronger, take flight, and become all it is meant to be. I didn't realize it before, but I needed to see this happen in order to believe that it could.

Life is an amazing series of adventures. We are always learning. A teacher appeared that morning in the form of a gentle winged insect, an insect I loved, one that I had painted many times and even used an image of on the cover of my book.

She had a lesson to teach me...and yes, I was ready.

Visit my Boldness Inititiave blog, a month long series of posts on how to live in a more intentional, dynamic way, at http://boldnessinitiative.blogspot.com/

Guest Writer Justin Schoenberger

2011-04-17T15:11:00.000-07:00

I have no desire to leave this place.

I was reminded by an old friend today of a map my daughter had drawn for her last winter. There were dots all over the paper representing destinations like the North Pole, grocery store and relatives’ homes.

One - the landing spot - was “home,” Kalista told her. My friend told me she was reluctant to discard the map, fearing - more than a year later - she might not find her way home as Kalista had warned.

Oh, how I can relate.

It started in Portville, N.Y., where I was raised. One year into my pursuit of a college degree, I left the place with the restless feet not uncommon among 19-year-olds who’ve lived in the same place since birth. The plan was to finish college somewhere far away and return, if desired, with a diploma.

I likely would have returned - to the Western New York area, at least - upon graduation had Kalista not been born in 2005. Coastal North Carolina was the “exotic” location I’d chosen for school, and coastal North Carolina was a place I’d grown tired of rather quickly.

But Kalista - living a not-so-ideal life with her mother a few hours up the Carolina coast from my alma mater - needed me. Almost by default, I took the first job I was offered at a newspaper in New Bern, N.C., which positioned me directly between her mother’s several “residences” in Havelock and Jacksonville. It was the only paper at which I’d applied to work.

Our time together increased over the next six months or so, going from every other weekend to every weekend plus some week nights.

I had a one-bedroom apartment in the quaint little historic town - North Carolina’s colonial capital, actually - we’d explore via bicycle every chance we got. She loved our Saturday morning ritual: riding to the farmer’s market for hippie-grown goodness before stopping off at the riverfront park to feed the ducks whatever stale bread I’d saved from my lunches during the week.

Then came the legal-laden process of getting full custody of Kalista. While this exposed an awful aspect of parenthood (one that, at times, distracted me from actually being a parent), the year-long ordeal made me understand exactly how important it was that I do anything necessary to keep my daughter with me. That included agreeing to a deal that gave her mother bi-weekly supervised visits … which kept me within driving distance of the coast, which kept me in the Carolinas.

In 2008, my career took us to Kinston, N.C. Kinston was a place I adored from the start because, from the start, it was wildly apparent I was not living or working in a tourist town. New Bern and Wilmington - where I’d gone to college - were tourist attractions … rather blatantly. Kinston had no waterfront condos. That was in part because its only waterfront was a stretch of the Neuse River that reminded me of the desolate, eerily moving Allegany River of my childhood, and partly because it was a town where people worked real jobs for real livings.

(Here’s a blank space for rebuttal.)

Kalista and I moved into a two-bedroom cottage with seven-foot ceilings and a great view of the woods from across the two-lane county road it sat on, named after Elijah Loftin (whoever that was). I left work at the daily newspaper by 5:50 p.m. each day so I could pick her up from daycare - a facility owned by the daughter-in-law of our landlord - by 6 p.m. And each day, I’d put the car in park at the bottom of our driveway, unload her from her car seat and lead her by the hand across Elijah Loftin Road to get the mail from the box in front of the woods. Kalista would sit on my lap once we got back into the car, and I’d let her “steer” (my hand was always at the bottom of the wheel) as we drove up the driveway and around to the side of our house. Telling me she wanted to be just like me, she’d lean and stretch to rest her left elbow on the car window edge as we did this.

We lived in Kinston for one season of Kinston Indians baseball. The Indians were a minor league team that had a stadium downtown. Sometimes, I got free tickets through the paper. On nights I didn’t have a ticket, the usher would let us in anyway because we attended the same Lutheran church on Vernon Avenue. At first, Kalista came to the games armed with dolls to play with and on a constant search for cotton candy. By the end of our days in Kinston, though, she’d become as big a fan of the Indians as any 3-year-old could be, staying awake most nights until the seventh inning or so. To this day, she remembers the catchy song that’d ring throughout Grainger Stadium whenever first baseman Ole Sheldon stepped to the plate and, to this day, I haven’t forgotten her scrambling around the bases on her fourth birthday.

The Indians announced in December 2010 - a bit more than a year after we left Kinston - the team had been sold and is moving to Zebulon, N.C. I’m not necessarily a baseball fan; what made these games fun was the comradely. There were numerous folks in this rural city who made these games - and our lives - completely memorable, starting with my coworkers at the paper. We’d do our best to sit together, whether it was Kalista and me with a fellow reporter and his girlfriend, my editor with his girlfriend or the publisher and his wife. If this seating arrangement didn’t come to fruition, there were no worries … there always seemed to be someone who knew us sitting nearby. I believed for a time Kinston would be the city we always called home.

Suddenly, abruptly and rather forcefully came Greenwood, S.C., in September 2009. One Saturday at work in Kinston, I’d driven my car through a steady red light and been struck - where Kalista would have been seated, had she not been spending the weekend with my parents - by a truck. I was okay, but I left the scene that day realizing my distracted mind was weighted heavy with the toils of raising a child alone without family nearby, and decided it was time to act on my desire to be near my parents for help. And due to my father’s job, they had relocated to Greenwood - not Kinston - when they pulled the infamous Yankee move south.

Nowadays, things are good, minus Kalista's mom no longer wanting much to do with those bi-weekly visits. It took a while for Greenwood to live up to Kinston’s benchmark, but I’d say it’s there. The people are different - not as “progressive” as the folks in N.C. and huge supporters of the commitment to loyalty the rest of the country dropped 30 years ago - but people nonetheless. There’s no baseball here, but at least everyone likes to go out to eat. And shop at Walmart.

Essentially, what I’ve learned and come to accept in Greenwood is I’ll never be a man of prestige, but I can be a man who’s a very good father, which I learned from Kinston is all that matters. I’ve also learned - perhaps most importantly - in Greenwood it’s not the quantity of people you surround yourself with, but the quality. For instance, I have approximately 1/40th the number of friends in Greenwood I had in Kinston, but that 1/40th has been outstanding. These are the people I’d prefer Kalista be around.

It is home here. Know how I know? Tonight I stood in front of our home - an old mill house I bought one year ago - and admired the freshly-cut lawn, recently-pruned rose bushes and week-old African daisies until it occurred to me this is a place Kalista loves. All along, I’d done things I thought would make me a better parent, but not one time did I consider how much Kalista liked New Bern or Kinston or Jacksonville or Havelock or Wilmington.

“You know what?” I thought to myself. “She’s pretty happy here. She loves her room and her swing set and walks up the road to Grandma and Poppa’s house. I bet she’s tired of moving.”

Truth is, I am too.

And I realized, after hearing about the map Kalista made my friend, my daughter made me a guide to home as well … except mine’s been in the works since the day she was born.

Justin Schoenberger lives with his daughter Kalista in Greenwood, SC. He has an English degree with professional writing ceritificate from the University of North Carolina Wilmington, and enjoys bicycling, gardening and the Buffalo Bills and Sabres. Please visit his blog at www.eveningson.wordpress.com

The Boldness Initiative

2011-04-10T18:16:00.000-07:00

Happy April!

I am celebrating this month with a new daily blog titled

The Boldness Initiative.

You can view it here at

http://boldnessinitiative.blogspot.com/

:-)

Guest Writer Charlotte Ehney :-)

2011-04-03T05:38:00.000-07:00

Embracing the Now

For the past few weekends, my husband and I have worked on updating our den. This is a project six years in the making. Way back in 2005 we started planning for this room. I wanted the den to be bold. I wanted the den to be red. We started collecting color chips and taping them to the wall. After much back and forth about which shade we liked, my husband bought the paint. For one reason or another, it wasn’t the right time to get started. So I went about buying other items for the den -- a decorative mirror, a wood curtain rod, sheers and curtains -- and squirreled them away.

A few weeks ago, we decided it was finally time to paint. I excitedly told a friend about our plans for the room. I described the burgundy red paint and the silver mirror with small, vining red flowers. Imagine my shock when we opened the paint and saw an orange red like the color of creamy tomato soup. We pulled out the mirror. The flowers were actually geometric designs consisting of red bars with a circle in the middle. No vines anywhere. Apparently over the years my memory of these items had morphed.

How like life that is. As we deal with struggles like bills, job stresses, relationship issues and parenting challenges, it is easy to fondly recall a different time and place in our life. The desire to return to that point can distract us from our present, sometimes to the extent that we make ourselves miserable in the here and now. There are times I long for the carefree days of my youth, when my parents handled all the bills. I miss my hourly job as a cashier that I had as a college student. I wish my kids were still infants so I could enjoy baby cuddles once more.

But were those times really that good? If we are honest with ourselves, even the wonderful times were not perfect. Being a youth at home meant power struggles as I moved toward independence and my parents wanted to maintain strict rules. My cashier job gave me spending money but would never allow me to live on my own. Having infants also meant sleepless nights and comforting crying babies who did not understand what was happening around them and could not tell me what they needed.

As we look back, we tend to minimize the bad parts and amplify the good. The energy we spend reminiscing keeps us stuck in today’s problems. Bottom line: The past was not always perfect and the present is not usually as bad as we think.

It took four coats of paint to evenly cover the den walls. I had my doubts but once the paint dried, the color was beautiful. The mirror looked great. A watercolor we’d had for years complemented the bold wall.

We’re not done yet. There are some minor repairs to make. We still have to hang the curtains and purchase a few accessories. The den is not the room I imagined six years ago. It’s not even the room I imagined six weeks ago. But I’ve accepted that I won’t have that room. Instead, I have fallen in love with the den I have today.

Charlotte Ehney has served as the President of the Greenwood Writer’s Guild from 2009 to the present. She is a participant in the Greenwood Poetry Circle. She received an Honorable Mention for her short story “The Game” in the 77th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition (Genre Category) and an Honorable Mention in the Fifth Annual Writer’s Digest Popular Fiction Awards for the story “Full Circle”. Her poems “The Prophet” and “Bedfellows” were displayed at the Greenwood Arts Center during the month of June 2010. Charlotte’s poems have appeared in the column “Birthing the Writer Mother” on LiteraryMama.com and in Thump magazine.

Earth Hour Musings...

2011-03-27T06:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, stillness must be sought out like a needle in a haystack. It’s elusive, hard to catch, as intangibly difficult a concept as visualizing someone else’s dream. Other times, it settles upon us easily, a mantle of peace suddenly wrapped around our shoulders.

Tonight was the annual Earth Hour, when the world collaborates on a global mission of using less energy. Those who participate turn off all power in their homes for one hour. No lights, no television, no anything that needs a cord and an outlet to work. This is the third year I’ve participated in this event, and the stillness it creates always seems to take me to a different place. I suppose that’s because each year, I’m in a different place. Not physically, but mentally and spiritually. And Earth Hour encourages me to take one hour out of an entire year and just sit. Reflect. Be. Don’t try to do anything by candlelight, but to just sit for a while with my thoughts. Observe the candlelight. Observe the soft glowing aura that surrounds it, how it contrasts with the neighboring darkness. Walk slowly through the house, noticing how different my surroundings appear in the absence of artificial light. Imagine my house is a cave, my hallway a long dark tunnel. My senses respond to this new world: fingers touch the wall, feeling their way along. I can anticipate what will come next: the coolness of the stair rail, the ridges of a doorway, the feel of tile becoming carpet under my bare feet as I pass into a new room. In the dim light, my art appears mysterious, seen only in small lit sections, surrounded by a warm red glow, like the ancient graffitti of long ago.

I’ve always been keenly interested in the art found deep within the earth's hollows, evidence of the need to be creative scrawled on the walls of caves thousands of years ago. The paintings of Lascaux in particular make my soul feel ignited. Some of these images are estimated to be between 10,000-20,000 years old, and scientists all over the world spend quite a lot of time debating the intention behind the works. Were they spiritual, part of ancient prayer rituals? Or were they talismans intended to bring luck to hunting parties? But no one knows. We see these paintings through the filter of time and the power of artificial light…each large animal, each glyph, each handprint on the wall, all at once. But this is not how the ancients would have seen these images at all. They’d have seen them the way I see my paintings on the wall during Earth Hour: by the light of a small flame, whether it was a torch or simple grease burning lamp. They’d have taken the images in one by one, holding their light to the walls, watching each painting appear in the glow of their lamp’s soft, flickering aura. They would have created the works in near darkness as well, not in the glow of artificial lights that I feel I must bask in every time I pick up a brush.

There is a sense of stillness that the absence of bright lights can bring about. But what about the absense of sound? Or should I say the absence of the sounds we are so conditioned to as modern humans. It is a universal truth that a state of chaos tends to generate more chaos, and yet we have grown so habituated to the continuous presence of artificial sound in our lives that we keep it going. We revel in the ‘mind chaos’ that these sounds bring about. We leave the television on for ‘background noise’, or we need the radio’s ramblings to fall asleep. We raise our voices over the sound of our appliances droning and run to the chirp of our cell phones like lackys to a bell. We don’t even realize what it does to our physches when chaos takes the place of stillness, when sounds, any sounds at all, are preferable to silence.

During Earth Hour, I hear the soft rhythmic breathing of my son while he sleeps. I hear the sound of rain striking the glass top of my patio table. I hear an owl call out, and I hear his mate respond. I hear my cat, obviously angry, emitting a low growl at some trespasser. An occasional car passes in the night, tires slick on the wet roads. A nieghbor laughs as they unlock the door of thier home. Otherwise, the world is still, my den an ancient cave.

I’ve explored caves, following their trails deep under the earth. They are quiet places where the only sound tends to be that of the explorers' footsteps and voices. I can imagine the Lascaux artists of long ago creating in the halls of those great caves, firelight flickering nearby, the sound of low voices occasionally piercing the stillness. If chaos generates more chaos, then stillness certainly generates more stillness…stillness of the mind, which allows us to connect with the deeper levels of our creativity. What thoughts went through the ancient artists’ minds as they scratched pigment onto stone, spread color with their hands, watched as animals came to life in startling detail by the power of their own hand? Were they considered sorcerers? Alchemists? Were they thought to possess special abilities?

I found a place of complete stillness once, stumbling across it in the Alaskan backwoods almost two decades ago while enjoying a youthful adventure. It was a clearing outside of a small town, tucked away between the mountains, somewhere along the road to other places we were heading towards. It was a pit-stop, a diversion, not an intended stop along the journey...but there, in that clearing, I experienced not silence, for the natural world was alive with life that day, but stillness. True and total stillness. No cars passed by, we were too far from the road for that. No cell phone could even get a signal, much less ring. The only sounds to be heard were those of the earth itself. I stood for a long time in that moment, knowing I was being given a rare gift. I was being allowed to hear what my ancestors had spent thier lives hearing. I don’t mean the cry of the hawks or the soft rippling of wind through the trees, but what those sounds carry with them. How they speak to our souls when we allow stillness in.

A world away from Lascaux, ceramic shards litter the floors of the ancient cave-like dwellings the mysterious Anasazi once inhabited. The shards form parts of pottery, functional items used for carrying water and storing grains. But closer inspection reveals that the shards are decorated. Whirling lines, dramatic stylized animals, repetitive patterns, all carved or painted onto the clay surfaces. Unnecessary for function, yes, but necessary to the ancient artists who rendered them in the same stillness that surrounded me in Alaska’s wilderness. In a workshop on creativity, the teacher encourages us to find time each day to sit in stillness. I think of how rarely I actually do this. I wondered if I even can.

But now, as Earth Hour ticks slowly by, I find myself sitting alone in my den, my candle flickering down to nothing as I thumb through a book on the cave paintings of Lascaux. I have a book on the intricate designs of Anasazi pottery, but I don’t need to look at it. I can see the images clearly in my mind as if creating them are my own memories. And it is in this Earth Hour stillness that I realize I will never need a team of other people to explain to me why ancient folk created art, made musical instruments, or had intricate storytelling traditions. I do not need someone else to tell me that the need for creative expression is as primitive as life’s origins, as essential to our souls as food is to our bodies. It is the reason someone painted on a clay pot, or hollowed a flute from a limb, carved a stone into a bear, or told stories around a fire at night a thousand lifetimes before mine.

In the stillness of their ancient world, they found their creative voices, voices that still speak to us today.

And if we make time to sit in stillness, we will find ours as well.

Activating the Light

2011-03-20T05:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I shipped two works of art out to their new prospective owners. One a commissioned work; the other, a piece from my own heart and mind…and just a little harder to let go of.

Here’s a secret, about artists…we don’t always create our works with the idea in mind that they are going to sell, oh no. Most often we create just because it’s in our soul to do so. And then, when someone asks the price, we stand a little speechless, suddenly feeling possessive, not quite sure if we are ready to let go of our creation just yet.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve parted with a piece of art, only to wish later I’d kept it with me a little longer. Because the truth is, I’ve never known an artist who could paint the same picture twice. Creation is an act that deals solely with the moment. What is in the mind, soul and heart at the time that the work is being created is poured into the piece, whether it is a portrait, a sculpture, a poem, a musical composition, or a coffee table made by hand. All the thoughts, ideas, and love behind the work become a part of it. And yes, there is love behind things that one creates: the love of the idea, the love of the materials, and the love of the process itself. The creative process. But what defines these moments, these instances where creativity takes root, shape and form?

In Lowe’s Home Improvement store last week, waiting on the attendant to mix the paint I needed to complete my kitchen do-over, I took out a slip of paper with the numbers and dimensions for all the new light switch-plates I needed to buy. Over a dozen, total. There’s nothing wrong with the current ones, mind you. They are simple beige plastic plates that function perfectly, but just seem dull now that new coats of paint grace nearly every wall of my home. I thought replacing them would add an elegant little touch to each room’s new décor, but I was startled to find out that it would cost at least eight dollars per switch for the nicer plates. And I needed a dozen.

Ouch.

There are levels in life to nearly all experiences one can have. For example, being a single parent. There are many single parents out there, and all situations aren’t the same. There are those who share the physical, emotional, and financial duties of child raising so equally with their former partners that they are actually still raising the children together, regardless of their relationship status…this is, of course, ideal for the children’s sake, but doesn’t constitute single parenting. It’s more co-parenting, really. Then there are parents who do the primary physical and emotional tending to the children, relying on the other parent for some shared financial support and also the physical care of the child a few weekends a month. They may also have a support person in the home, a new spouse or partner who shares in these responsibilities as well.
And then there are those like me, true single parents who shoulder the entire responsibilities of child rearing on our own, without any concern from the child’s other parent or any other support person to fill in the gaps. And for those of us in this situation, no decision that involves spontaneous spending of money is ever entered into lightly. We’ve learned that wolves lurk at the door when we least expect it, and when it’s all on you financially, you’re a little less likely to splurge, no matter how much money you make, or how much you might desire a little elegance. If you’ve faced down wolves at the door before, you know there’s always the chance that they’ll come back.

But mercifully, being creative is a way of life, not simply an act to be done spontaneously when time allows. It’s about how one’s mind works; how it processes a problem and arrives at a solution. It’s not just about making art or clothes or poetry, it’s not just some intangible realm known only to dreamy souls. Being a creative person is about choosing to live one’s life in a unique, extraordinary way that doesn’t yield easily to being told ‘it can’t be done.’ It’s not about just settling for what you already have or what would be the easiest solution to a problem, but in letting what lies within you dictate what will and won’t be possible in your life. I stood in Lowes that morning knowing full well that it would be risky and impractical to spend so much money on fancy, but unnecessary, switch-plates, but I also knew it would be useless to buy cheaper ones, for they weren’t much of a step up from what I already had. And I didn’t want to leave them as they were. It made all the renovations I’d already undertaken on my home seem somehow incomplete. And so I left with just my paint, and the question in my mind of what to do.
It wasn’t a real crisis, of course…just a simple glitch in my redecorating plan, but it was on my mind all the same. Then, halfway home my son asked, “Mama, while you are painting, can I make a collage?”

And there it was…the solution appeared instantly, tripping over my son’s words as his spoke, the idea falling down upon me so quickly I could barely wait to get home and begin. A mottled coat of oil paint on each plate and a few carefully chosen words and images torn from magazines, and voila! The problem of the dull switch plates was solved in a splendidly creative way, no money was spent, and I accomplished a more unique result than if I’d simply bought a dozen identical plates. The process itself was simple and fun, and the ‘renovated’ switch plates are now bright, happy little spots along the walls…appropriate really, for an object whose sole function in the world is to activate light within a space. But if something is to have just one function, isn’t activating light a pretty good one?

Creativity rarely arises from the desire to make money or receive acclaim from others. It often involves those factors, yes, but if it becomes primarily about external motivators like fame and fortune, it will lose its authenticity, for money and praise rarely walk hand in hand with love. And creativity must involve love, because both stem from the same source within us. They both arise from the internal desire we have to activate light within a space. To make visible, or possible, what without us might never have been.

No matter how much I may miss a painting I’ve let go of, I’d never try to paint it again. Creating the same painting twice would be like trying to recreate the same experience over and over. Nothing is the same the second time around, we all know that. However, there are many, many people who live their lives with this goal in mind. They long for something special in their lives, but when they are given a glorious new – but startlingly different – life experience, they cast it aside like rubbish because it’s unfamiliar. Blinders fully on, they can only see what they have created in the past, and they seek to recreate something similar for the future. Because what is similar is predictable, and the predictable is somewhat controllable, and if you’ve ever had your life turned upside down, there’s nothing you’ll long for more than some sense of control. But these are fool’s errands in the end, for keeping life within the parameters of the familiar and predictable doesn’t guarantee any real control over what might come next. It only guarantees doing the same thing the same way over and over, which after a few years, becomes about as exciting as my plain beige light switches.

The artist knows this, and it is the sole reason one rarely sees a painter trying to create the same image over and over. But creativity is not the sole possession of the artist, no. It It exists in all of us. It is the place in the mind where problems meet solutions, where torn images from magazines and a little paint and glue become dazzling new switch-plates, where great lengths are taken to ensure, mercifully, that instead of trying to recreate what was, we can be courageous enough to let the familiar go sometimes and step up to bold new roles, unafraid.

In my house now, the switch-plates are like snowflakes. No two are the same. They shout their presence out from the walls, and because of this, activating the light is a pretty easy task.

And thank goodness for that.

Faith, Freedom Riders, and the Perseverance of Hawks

2011-03-13T06:55:00.000-07:00

Growing up I spent a lot of time outside alone. It was a place of peace for me, a refuge from strings of difficult schooldays. I was an ADD child before the term was coined, and the classrooms of the late seventies and early eighties were difficult places for me. I can remember being told over and over and over by exasperated teachers, “Why can’t you just sit here quietly like everyone else?’ or ‘Are you paying attention?’ If there was a window in the classroom, I can assure you, I was not. I was staring out the window at the world beyond.

I was so out of place in the classroom, and with my peers. They didn’t understand me any better than my teachers did. But I was in my element in nature. There I felt at home in a way I rarely did anywhere else. And so I learned to be patient. I learned to grip the sides of my desks sometimes when the urge to move was too strong. I learned that if I looked out the window too much, the teacher would turn my desk away from it, so I trained myself to use my peripheral vision to sneak glances at the sky while appearing to be completely focused on the board. I learned that to make it in the classroom, I had to become, in a way, a totally different person, but I knew that if I could maintain that identity for the 7 hours I was required to be at school, the days would roll along smoothly and there would be no reprimands, no trips to the principal’s office, no notes home to my parents. It just took being patient, and knowing, no matter how slowly the clock ticked the school day away, that eventually I’d be outside in the woods I loved.

In nature, I could sit still for hours on end with no problem. As a matter of fact, I used to try to 'blend' with it...by being very still and calm and quiet. I wanted to belong to the outdoors the same way the lizards and bees belonged to it. I learned to watch nature, and to watch for nature. I learned that if you are still enough you can see birds building their nests, a snake sliding along a tree branch, a chameleon change it's color, a butterfly drink from the puddle of dew in a leaf. The first time I was able to sit still long enough to have a bird actually land on me, I learned that there is something to be said for the art of persevering.

Yesterday I watched a hawk sitting on a very low branch by the creek. He was watching the same spot, his eyes never moving. He waited...and waited...and waited. Occasionally he'd ruffle his feathers or look away...but then he returned his gaze to that spot. He watched and waited for a very, very long time. The sun slowly changes positions in the sky, and neither of us moved. The hawk watched the creek, and I watched the hawk. Eventually, there was a rustle in the leaves, and the large bird raised his wings and carried himself up to a higher branch. But even from a different perch, his sharp eyes still watched the creek. Hunger is a powerful motivator.
Pain in the belly rarely disappears just because you want it to.

I recently discovered the story of The Freedom Riders. That I could have come through years of public school and six years of college and never known these quiet heroes existed in our nation’s history amazes me. The Freedom Riders were a group of average citizens, both black and white, who banded together in 1961 to protest segregation on the public transit systems. It’s a complex and amazing story of courage and perseverance. At every stop, The Freedom Writers were met by angry mobs. Buses were set on fire. Riders were beaten, often brutally. But they continued the ride. They weren’t trying to change the opinions of the mobs who met their buses with weapons and torches. They knew there was no hope of that. But they knew that what they were doing would, somehow, make a difference. They also knew that at every stop, one of them would have to be the first to exit the bus. Someone would have to be the first face the mob saw, the first body that would be hit, knocked down, stomped. And yet, there were those who volunteered to get off the bus first, even though they knew what they would face upon exiting.
There is so much more to this story…bus bombings, quite acts of heroism, examples of both the height of human compassion and the sad depths of ignorance that intolerance can inspire. But I won’t go any farther into it here. I’ll only say that I’m glad the story of The Freedom Riders came to my attention. I’m glad they believed that their cause was worthy, and that half a century later, their stories are still being told. I’m glad that their hunger for justice and fairness motivated them to continue the ride. And I’m glad I live now in the world that the perseverance of people like them helped to create. There is always room for improvement, yes…but we’re certainly in a better place now than we were then.

So what is it inside of us that keeps us going, that tells us what we are doing is worth continuing towards? With no definitive proof that our efforts will pay off, what gives us the strength, the determination, to keep moving along a certain path? What gives an 8-year-old child the ability to grip tightly the edge a desk just to get through a school day without a reprimand? What gives a hawk the ability to sit patiently for hours and watch a creek that may yield nothing for the hungry belly in the end? What fire inside gave The Freedom Riders the courage to continue the ride when they knew what they were facing at every stop?

I can’t tell you that. I can only tell you this: Giving up is the easy way out. It’s lying down and letting the world roll over you with its own bus. It’s looking into the face of hardship, challenge, and adversity and saying “Okay, you win.” It’s telling yourself you don’t want something anymore instead of fighting for it. It’s taking the story of your life, for which you are the primary author, and allowing fear to ghost write it for you. It’s being a spectator, and not a participant. It’s not being realistic, no; it’s being too weak to stand up for what you really want…what you really believe is possible. The Freedom Writers had no evidence that their bold stand would still be inspiring people fifty years later. The hawk had no idea I was watching him yesterday, learning lessons from his perseverance. As people, we have no idea of our own capacities to love, to live, and to believe, especially in ourselves.

I wonder sometimes, when my young son is frustrated trying to learn a new skill, or when I myself am trying to hold onto to a dream that seems to be defeated at every turn, if the ability to persevere is just genetic, something we are born with or without, or if it can be learned, taught, and inspired through the stories of others. I think it’s a little of both, but I hope it’s more of the latter, because while we can’t help how we are born, we all have total freedom to choose what we believe ourselves to be capable of. We all choose whether to author our own stories, or let fear, doubt, and intimidation ghost write our lives for us.

A hawk rests patiently, knowing perseverance is key to survival. Somewhere in history, a person takes a dangerous bus ride, knowing intolerance cannot be tolerated. Someone else loves against all hope, swims against the tide, and closes their eyes for the night with the knowledge that what they believe in is worth fighting for. Somewhere else, a person steps out of their own story, letting blank pages fill the void where words should go. These blank pages become the chapter of thier life called ‘When I gave Up’. In later years, it is destined to be the one read the most by the author, who will sit, pen in hand, desperately trying to fill the pages with what they wish they'd done.

To learn more about The Freedom Riders, visit http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5149667

Finding the Time...

2011-03-06T06:32:00.000-08:00

I wake to the sound of pouring rain, falling rhythmically onto the various items on my patio, creating a cacophony of sound, a random orchestra of high and low tones. It is early Sunday morning, before dawn, the time I best like to wake.

I can barely remember the time when I didn’t rise before dawn. It began in art school, when I was working three jobs, being a full-time student, and realizing that if I wanted to be a painter, I was going to have to find some time to paint. I did not have the type of life that afforded long stretches of time in the studio. I still don’t. Then, just like now, my days were often planned down to the minute. Working all day at the frame shop, then evening classes and weekends spent teaching or hostessing at a local restaurant afforded little extra time back then. But being in the studio was important to me, so I began rising at 5am and painting, writing, or just doing something creative until 7:30am, when it was time to start getting ready for work.

Most of my friends thought I was insane to give up sleep, and yes, it took some time for my body to adjust to the early hour. I figured out pretty quickly that if I was going to be waking up at 5am, then I’d better get to bed before midnight. And I gave myself a break on the few mornings that I just couldn’t do it, when I was too exhausted from all I had to do to survive to pull myself out of bed before the sun rose and be creative. But in time, with nothing but my own determination not to be undone, waking up early and going into the studio became a habit…such a habit, in fact, that more than a decade later, I’m still rising before the dawn, even on weekends.

According to Julia Cameron, author of the acclaimed Artist’s Way book series, it takes approximately 12 weeks for a new routine to become a habit. That’s three months, which seems like an interminably long time at first, but as we all know, tends to pass in the blink of an eye. That’s one thing about time, it doesn’t hang around. We lay claim to it while it is slipping through our fingers like sands in an hourglass. It was Benjamin Franklin that stated “Do not squander time, for it is the stuff life is made of.” For years, I had that quote taped onto my bathroom mirror. Every morning I’d read it and remember that no matter how I chose to spend my day, free time was a precious commodity that I did not have in abundance. I still don’t have free time in abundance, but I have learned how to give creativity a high priority in my life by managing what time I do have.

I don’t need to see Franklin’s quote every morning now to remind me not to waste time…my life is certainly fuller these days than it was a decade ago. With a teaching career and a few side pursuits, along with raising a child on my own, it takes more strategy than ever to find time to be creative. But it is there. A comment I often hear from others is, “I don’t know how you have time to do all the things that you do.” I don’t understand this, because few people, least of all me, ‘have’ time to do things. That’s not at all how it works. When something is important to you, you must make time for it. It’s really that simple. Because the time is hiding behind hours spent in front of television or idled away looking for bargains in a shopping center. It hides behind social engagements we feel we must take on, and voluntary commitments that we impose on ourselves and often, our children. (How many family schedules revolve around the kids’ extracurricular activities?) Creative time hides because, sadly, we are often taught that the arts are a frivolous luxury that only people with an abundance of time can afford to pursue.

To put a value on creative time is to take a stand that many of us aren’t ready to take.
It’s much easier to tell ourselves we don’t have time for things than it is to tell others that we value creativity in our lives, and that making time for it is important. But the truth is, there are many ways to incorporate creativity into daily routines. The first, and simplest, is by waking up a little earlier each morning and spending that time in some creative pursuit, just as I did when I was pinched for time in college. Journaling is a favorite early morning practice, because so much comes from this simple exercise. Not only clarity and a release of negativity, for we often ‘vent’ when we write, but also for the occasional poem or essay that will suddenly burst forth from a journal’s pages.

Finding a creative activity that can be done ‘on the go’ is also very rewarding. I have an ‘on-the-go bag’ that accompanies me almost everywhere. It’s filled with a variety of projects that I can pull out and work on when I find I’ve got a few minutes to spare. And as our lives become busier, we often have to adjust our creative goals. I used to paint on huge canvases that were typically 3’ x 4’. Now, as my life has gotten busier, I usually work on canvases no larger than 16” x 20”. It simply makes more sense to work smaller, and it allows me to complete more projects.

If you have children, don’t use them as an excuse for not being creative. Be creative with them! Children love the chance to explore artistic mediums. When my son’s friends are over, and I pull out the clay or the collage box, there’s no Wii or Playstation in the world that can compete. Most children delight in being creative with their parents, even if it’s as simple a project as making a cake from a box mix and decorating it. And there’s not enough that can be said regarding the memories you’ll give them during this time.

If you are persistent enough with finding a way to fit creativity into your life, it will eventually become a habit. You’ll find yourself cutting off the television, which might mean missing GLEE, but finally finishing the painting you started back in college. You might find that it isn’t so big a deal you don’t spend this Saturday afternoon in Greenville shopping, because instead you’ll spend that time creating a collage with your children. You might miss a night out at the pub with your friends, but complete the poem you’ve struggled with for a month. At the end of a year, because of your ‘on-the-go’ bag, you might knit a sweater during the time you spent waiting to pick the kids up from school or for soccer practice to be over. Or maybe, by waking up a little earlier each day, you’ll find you’ve written an entire book or series of poems in those wee morning hours you spent scribbling away in your journal.

Time is there…hiding, lurking around behind the reasons we give ourselves for not having it. If you’ve got the desire for more creativity in your life, then take a close look at how you spend the time that you do have. We all squander a little…take the initiative and salvage what you can today. Create some new routines to allow more creativity into your life. In twelve weeks, your routines will have become habits…and you’ll find yourself somewhere along the way.

The Wolf We Feed

2011-02-27T06:13:00.000-08:00

It’s 70 degrees out, and I’m barefoot with my toes in the sand. All around me, people are enjoying this little taste of spring, even though it is still February. When you live in a Southern climate, the seasons like to tease this way, coming and going, blending together, giving you a nice warm week and then blasting you with ice a few days later. Still, these random warm days are impossible to resist, even when you know they can’t be trusted. I’ve learned not to put away my sweaters or put my house plants on the patio until at least April.

But this was not my best winter, and I’m more eager than normal to see the coming of Spring this year. It doesn’t carry with it the same promise as last year, but it carries promise nonetheless, because spring is all about new life, rebirth, and hope. As I sit in the sun, I think of an old Cherokee adage a friend recently shared with me:

One evening a Cherokee elder told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.

He said, "My son, the battle is between the two 'wolves' that live inside us all. One is Unhappiness. It consists of anger, jealousy, fear, regret, greed, arrogance, sorrow, self-pity, resentment, inferiority, false pride, superiority, bitterness, weakness and ego.

The other is Happiness. It consists of joy, love, hope, serenity, benevolence, peace, empathy, kindness, generosity, truth, humility, faith, strength, forgiveness and compassion."

The grandson thought about it for a while and then asked his grandfather, "In this battle, which wolf will win?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed." - Cherokee Elder

Although I spent much of my young adult life on or near North Carolina's Cherokee reservation, participating in pow wows, learning stories and traditions, I’d never heard this particular tale put forth in this particular manner. But it makes perfect sense, really. Do we really need hours of therapy, dozens of books, and thousand-dollar seminars to tell us that happiness is a choice, not an automatic condition we're gonna find ourselves in? Just like Spring in the South, life is unpredictable. We find ourselves in all kinds of situations that we never imagined…these moments are the forks in the road, the stopping point where two paths diverge. They are not always what we expected, and often, not what we wanted. But it is here that we make the choices that carry us forward.

Last summer, I killed a Copperhead snake with a small hand shovel. I didn’t want to do it. I like snakes. I think they have been unfairly villanized throughout history, and for the most part, mean us no harm. But I don’t like highly venomous snakes on the patio where my young son is playing. I remember the moment I realized what I was seeing, when the serpent's golden eyes were looking back into my own. There was no panic, no running to get someone else to handle the situation for me. There was no one else to handle the situation. Being on one’s own teaches a form of independence that can’t even be imagined by those who’ve not had to live it. I’m so out of the habit of calling on someone else to handle my emergencies, it never even occurred to me to do so. My reaction to seeing the Copperhead was instinctive and immediate, coming from that place in a mother’s soul that knows protecting her offspring must come before anything else, even the risk that she herself will be struck. But also, there is an instinct born from forced independence, from knowing there is simply no one else to handle a situation but you. The snake was coiled and poised to strike. My son was less than two feet away. If there was another choice in that moment, I could not take time to consider it.

Although I know I did the right thing, I still regret taking the life of another creature. I regret that there was no other way to handle the situation. I even regret that there was no one else to handle it for me. But to ponder regrets is to risk unhappiness, and, as the Cherokee elder states, the victor between happiness and unhappiness will always be the one we feed.

Spring is coming now, it’s obvious in the budding trees all around me. Winter wasn’t my best season, no, but the warmth of the sun on my skin reminds me that, even though there may be a few random icy blasts over the next few weeks, the cold is almost at an end. Soon it will be time to start seedlings in old egg crates. The trees are sporting small green buds that will eventually flower. Birds are busily gathering materials for their nests. Hope lies in a seed, in a waiting bloom, in a pale blue Robin’s egg.

Apologizing to Serpents

A flash of reddish brown diamonds
Amongst the clover
And my heart stops

I can smell the venom
I am death, the serpent seems to say
Perhaps not to you
But to the child behind you
Who plays
At striking distance.

I don’t make a move
Or sound
My spade is in my hand
My son is five
Curious age
And he plays
At striking distance.

Copperheads are quick
But I am faster
My spade meets flesh and bone
In an instant
Eve slays the serpent
Before there is a chance
For the world to come undone.

Later, as I cover my deed with dirt
I remember the serpent’s protest
As its life ended
And I wonder if there might have been another way
Everything desires to live
And what was its sin, really?

But in the absence of Adam
Eve must be swift.
Her shoulders sag at times
From a weight that should be shared.

Still, death does not stalk my house tonight
I sleep with my spade in my hand
And wake up
Feeling strong.

Spring Cleaning, Golden Threads, and Water

2011-02-20T06:38:00.000-08:00

It’s that time of year again…spring looms on the horizon, and it’s inspiring me to clean out closets, drawers, and sort those random stacks of papers that seem to accumulate somehow during the droll months of winter.

I love ‘spring cleaning’. It’s so refreshing to purge through one’s things, to discard what is no longer needed. Not only do I love the Feng Shui feeling of open spaces in my closet and no stacks of paper on the floor, but I like the fact that I am clearing room for new things to come into my life. Let’s face it, we all like new stuff. But my home is small, and the rule is, if something comes in, something else must go out. It’s an easy rule to follow, once you get into the habit.

So I’m going through my closet with gusto, thinking of all the space I am clearing out for the new spring fashions, when I see the dress. Technically, it’s new, because I haven’t worn it yet. It’s a long black tank style dress with a gold lacey overlay. Tassels hang from the bottom hem, and the matching gold lace shawl is draped over the hanger. And there are strappy shiny new black high heels with gold buckles somewhere in this closet as well. Still in the box, tag still attached. The dress, you see, is a dancing dress. The shoes are made for dancing. I find them in their box, and sit down on the floor, removing the lid slowly. They are so shiny I can see my own reflection in their black patent leather sides.

Do I go out dancing? No, not really. Not in a very long time, at least. I bought this outfit for a very special occasion I thought would occur in April. A night out with someone I was so looking forward to seeing again. This outfit, with the dress, shoes and shawl, were not a cheap ensemble. But some things are worth the extra bit of elegance. However, that special occasion isn’t going to happen now. I’ve found that even the best laid plans can be like sandcastles on the seashore. No matter how grand your construction, the tide can come in an instant and wash it all away the minute your back is turned. There is one simple fact of life concerning any plan that involves more than one person to complete: people can change. The minute you turn your back, the sincerest of words can be washed away, like drawings on the seashore at high tide. A little water on your toes, a rush, a wave, and then…nothing.

The gold of the dress reminds me of sand, and the sea, and what lies beyond it. I stand for a moment, my ‘give away’ clothes bag at my feet, wondering what I should do with the dress and shoes. I’d forgotten they were here, and yet, on some deeper level, I remembered. A woman doesn’t forget buying a dancing dress. She doesn’t forget the way gold lace shimmers, or the way the shoes felt she tried them on. She doesn't forget the smile of the man she planned to go dancing with, or how his voice sounded to her ears. We don't forget these things, no...we just try to put it out of our minds. And then, we see the dress...

I could go out dancing anyway. I could easily get a group of friends to go. It might be fun. But truth is, I can hardly bear the thought of that. It’s nowhere near the original plan that I had when I bought the dress, and as fun as it might be, it would only be substitute. And I don’t believe in substituting one plan, one dream, or one life for another. So I carefully put the top back on the shoes and take the dress down from its hanger. I fold it slowly, and place the shawl on top. I’m a bag re-user, so it’s just a short trip to the hall closet to find the bag from the store the dress was purchased at. I’m also a receipt saver. Even though it’s been a couple of months, the store graciously accepts the return. I walk out of the shop, a hefty sum of cash in hand, a mixed feeling in my soul. I could do a lot with this money. The dress and shoes were, after all, top-of-the-line. But taking them back was acknowledging that the evening I’d so looked forward to is not going to happen. I’m not sure I was ready, really, to accept that loss of hope. Hope is the life-raft we cling to when feeling adrift in the sea of someone else’s choices. But that type of hope only keeps us afloat for so long. At some point, we have to come ashore…or drown.

I take the money and go to a salon. I have my hair cut and colored. A radical change from the dark tresses I was born with to a soft, honey tone, a light golden brown, like the gold lace of the dress that is no longer mine; the gold buckle on a shoe I’ll never wear; the gold of sand along the seashore; the golden thread that still binds my heart to a dream I don't want to let go of. Like Penelope of ancient lore, I toil at the loom by day, weaving golden threads into a tapestry that will never be completed, waiting for someone who, for all practical purposes, is lost at sea. By night I dream of the three fates, of making them my allies, for they alone possess the secret tool to cut the golden thread that binds one world to another.

The beach is only a few hours drive from my home. The sun is a golden disc high in the sky, the sea still too cool, really, to lose one’s self within, but I have no self left to lose, so I stand with my toes in the sand, shoes in hand, looking out over the water. It seems endless, but it has an end, I know. I’ve been to the other side. I’ve stood on a foreign coast and looked back towards where I am now. I thought the coming of summer would take me back there again, just as I thought I’d wear the dress to go dancing on a warm night in April. But the tide washes away what is written in only in sand to begin with. Maybe Robert Frost was right when he said nothing gold can stay.

I set down my shoes and wade into the ocean slowly, my body instantly reacting to the water’s chill. But I’ve been in colder waters, so as soon as it reaches my knees, I dive forward, swimming out, letting it wash over me completely. If warm water is relaxing, then cold is purifying. I dive forward again, going deeper this time. I let the water wash over my hair. It falls into my face, strands of gold shining in the sun. I think of the dress, how it would have shimmered beneath the lights, how the shoes would have sounded on hardwood floors. I dive under again. For something new to come in, something old must go out. It is the only way.

There are many forms of spring cleaning.

A Valentine's Message of Love by guest writer Justin Blackburn

2011-02-13T04:13:00.000-08:00

A Valentine’s Day Message of Love for Everyone
by guest writer and poet, Justin Blackburn

I would like to thank you for being here with me, with everyone here on this strange, dramatic, and beautiful planet, during this charming Valentine’s Day dedicated solely to the expression of love. What a wonderful thing to do, to take a single day and celebrate love!

But what is love? And why are we only supposed to celebrate it once a year? And why does it come on February 14th?

Now I could tell you the story of the many St. Valentine’s and good ol Pope Gelasuis but basically we celebrate Valentine’s Day because someone said to and most of us do what we are told. So imagine if we were told to celebrate love everyday! Imagine if we were told not only to celebrate the love of our significant others, but the love we have for everything… mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, grandparents, strangers, trees, birds, dogs, sunsets, clouds, poetry, films, oxygen etc. Imagine how much love would fill our hearts and dazzle our minds on a daily basis! Imagine how satiated, how happy we would all be together!

So right now I am going to do you and myself a favor, I am going to call myself St. Justin and I am going to declare everyday for the rest of everyone’s lives, Love Day, and I am inviting everyone in the world to celebrate love every single day they are alive! Cause let’s be honest, what are we all searching for? What is the great mystery that we are all doing our best to find? What is the reason we are all still surviving? Simple, it is love. Love! Love! Love! Beautiful, heartfelt, feel it in the soul, hear it in the spirit, praise it in the mind, perfectly divine all the time, love! Love is what created us! Love is what is evolving us into a state of love!

It is easy too think we want money, fancy cars, popularity, accomplishments, notoriety, etc. but what if we all felt loved, what if we all knew in our hearts we were fully loved by everyone all the time, do you think we would still want what it is we think we want? Or do you think we would be satisfied simply by being ourselves and we would not feel forced to find outside images to define us in order to make ourselves feel better? No big deal, just think about, and as you think it about do your best to feel your love because what makes us happier than love? Nothing.

I would like to thank you for reading my Valentine’s Day message and I hope I follow my own advice and I celebrate my love and your love everyday for the rest of my life because I know in my heart of hearts where I was born and how badly I desire to go back there. Thank you. I love you.

Justin Blackburn Visit Justin Blackburn’s website at www.justinblackburnlovesyou.com

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A Valentine's Message of Love

2011-02-13T04:03:00.001-08:00

Guest Writer, Fred Bassett

2011-02-06T06:40:00.000-08:00

This week's blog features a column and poetry by guest writer, author and poet, Fred Bassett.

One of the most compelling topics for poets throughout the ages has been passionate, romantic love. Among the many different types of books of the Bible, for example, there is an extraordinary collection of lyrical poetry which the translators of the King James Version entitled The Song of Solomon. Although the original Hebrew text does not have a title, they gave it one based on the tradition that the lyrics were written by King Solomon. More appropriately, recent English translations entitle the book, The Song of Songs, based on the opening phrase of the text. In the Hebrew language such expressions as “the song of songs” and “the king of kings” are superlatives, meaning “the best song” and “the best king.”

And what is the best song according to this text? It is the song of love ─ that passionate pulling of two people toward a new whole. The love lyrics of this little book, however, proved problematic for both the early Jewish community and the early Christian community. Both communities tended to interpret the lyrics allegorically as expressions of spiritual love between God and the religious community. According to this interpretation, the male speaker is God and the female speaker is Israel or the Church. Other interpreters read them allegorically as expressions of the mystical love between God and the individual.

Modern scholars have rightly concluded, however, that these love lyrics were expressions of passionate love between woman and man. Originally, they were likely oral poems recited at wedding festivals.

What is most striking to me about these lyrics is the bold, aggressive love found in the female voice. Nothing demure or reticent here. Since February brings us Valentine’s Day, I’d like to share four of the seventeen poems that I arranged from the Hebrew text. In 2002, Paraclete Press published them in a little book, Love: the Song of Songs, with illustrations by Valenti Angelo. The poems alternate with the titles “SHE” and “HE” to indicate the speaker.

SHE
As an apple tree among
the trees of the forest,
so my beloved
is distinguished among men.
I sat in his shadow
with great delight,
and his fruit was sweet.
He brought me
to the banquet hall
and showered me with love.
Strengthen me with raisins,
refresh me with apples,
for I am faint with love.
Oh, that his left hand
were under my head,
and that his right hand
caressed me!
I warn you fair maidens,
do not stir up or awaken love
before its time.

HE
Oh, that you would set me as a seal
upon your heart,
or as a seal upon your arm.
For love is strong as death,
passion as unyielding as the grave.
It flashes like fire,
like a raging flame.
Many waters cannot quench love,
neither can floods drown it.

SHE
Awake, O north wind,
and come, O South wind!
Blow upon my garden
that its fragrance
may be carried abroad.
Let my beloved come
to his garden,
and eat its exquisite fruits.
Awake, O north wind,
and come, O south wind!
For I am my beloved’s,
and his desire is for me.

HE
My love is an enclosed garden
with gushing fountain.
She is a luxuriant garden
with abundant fruit and spices.
I will go to my garden;
I will gather my myrrh
with my spice.
I will eat my honeycomb
with my honey;
I will drink my wine
with my milk.
Until the day breaks
and the shadows flee,
I will revel
on the mountain of myrrh.

I’ll conclude The Poet’s Corner with a poem about my first love, long before I met my true love, my wife for 55 years. Our first love teaches us something significant about ourselves. I decided, therefore, to contrast my experience with that of the British poet, George Wither, who takes a very cavalier attitude in his poem, “The Lover’s Resolution:”

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman’s fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
‘Cause another’s rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads of May─
If she be not for me
What care I how fair she be?
And so, the poet goes on for several more verses, all with the same refrain. My experience was totally different, so I address George Wither directly in the poem.
To George Wither on Love
How clever you were George Wither
never to anguish over love,
to control your heart like a logician
doing dry proofs in a cloistered study,
to care or not to care for any woman
with a rational switch in your mind.
I, not so prepared for Ann McMurphy,
embraced her love with total abandon,
assuming the clocks were set for life.
But she, with a consumer's taste,
left me bobbing like an apple core
in the wake of her thirteenth summer.
Unable to topple its golden idol,
my dumb heart waited for her mythic return
as the years slipped slowly toward manhood.
Oh, you were clever George Wither
to shield yourself from such a woman,
and yet I marvel that I do not envy you.

Visit Fred on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/#!/profile.php?id=1466537438
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The Persistence of Red

2011-01-22T04:36:00.000-08:00

It’s a typical Sunday afternoon. My son is upstairs with a friend, painting a cardboard playhouse. I’m downstairs tapping away on the computer, struggling to meet a weekend deadline. Every so often I call my son’s name, and in response I hear a giggle or a laugh float down the stairs.

As a mother, especially the mother of a boy, I try not to hover. Still, the lack of running, stomping, or jumping noises that usually accompany my son’s play finally become too much for me to bear. Taking a break from writing, I am about to head upstairs when the doorbell rings. It’s the mother of my son’s friend, and because she is also a friend of mine, we stand chatting in the hall for sometime before I notice her gaze drift over my shoulder. Her eyes widen as I hear the sound of my son laughing behind me. I turn to see him standing shirtless on the stairs, grinning from ear to ear, the entirety of his torso, arms and back painted bright blue. His face is red with blue accents, and there is blue paint smeared into his hair. His friend stands behind him, paintbrush in hand, with just as big of a smile on his face.

I don’t know what to say, honestly, only that this isn’t the first time in my life I’ve been caught off guard by color. My son is a very imaginative child, and also a lucky one, because I’m not the type of parent who goes off the deep end over the things like this. I have lived long enough to realize the difference in a real emergency and a minor inconvenience. A quick shower, a change of clothes and a wet rag to remove the blue handprints from the stairway, and all is back to normal…or something like it.

Color has a way of surprising us sometimes; of making us stop and reconsider the way we look at things. I never could have imagined that my son would stroll downstairs that afternoon looking like an extra from the cast of Avatar, just as I never could have imagined the birch forests of Finland until I stood before them and allowed my eyes, so used to seeing trees in black or brown, adjust to the sight of rows and rows of white trunks stretching to the sky. A change of color challenges our perspectives. If you don’t believe this, go paint one of the rooms in your house a completely different shade than it currently is, and see if you don’t feel just a bit differently when you step inside.

But the absence of color can also have a profound affect on the spirit. The dull skies of winter can seep into our psyche; make us feel heavy and leaden somehow. We muddle through January in a grey daze, then February comes, and we rejoice at the sight of the blue sky above us and purple crocus peeking up through the grass. We know these things mean spring is coming, and with it, the rainbow of shades that have been missing for so long. Winter, for all practical purposes, is a black and white season, the only real color being the occasional sighting of a red cardinal on bare branches.

This brings me to red, the most dominant color in the rainbow. Red is the color of the life-blood that pulses within us, of the sash that angers the matador’s bull, of signs that tell us over and over again to ‘STOP’. I don’t wear red, because it’s much too fierce a statement for me to make with clothes. I have a few accessories in red, but for the most part, I shy away from this shade. Red is strong, independent, and assertive, traits that both sexes possess, but girls are far too often taught to subdue. Growing up, there was always some adult reigning in my personality, reminding me there were different expectations for girls, which mostly centered on being quiet and passive. Red is neither quiet nor passive. As a child, it was my favorite shade, but there would come a time I would associate red with things I wanted to forget. I would put it out of my mind, out of my wardrobe, out of my life.

But red is fierce. It does not go quietly into the night. I open a new knitting book and the first project is an Isis stole in red. I’m given a gift by a dear friend of bright red earrings. And, at my monthly poetry meeting, we each write a phrase down on paper and put it into a bag. The assignment is to create a poem based on the words you choose. It’s my turn, and I slip my hand into the bag and pull out a piece of paper. I look down at the words I’ve chosen, and I almost laugh out loud, for my phrase is “the color of red.”

Colors have meaning, symbolism, and special places in our souls. We all have personal connections and associations with colors, and these thoughts and feelings are as unique as we are. Think of a color that is a favorite of yours and write about it. Or better yet, choose a color you dislike, and use it as a subject for a journal entry or a poem. Write not only about the color itself, but what it is that draws you to it, or makes you feel compelled to turn away from it. This is a very simple poetry/writing exercise that can yield delightful results and growth. Sometimes all we need to get going is just the right prompt!

Happy writing!

The Persistence of Red

The only promise they ever made
to one another
was not to disappear.

And so it was the only one broken.

He disappeared completely
leaving behind
a trail
of red words.
………………………….

“You are the least colorful artist
I’ve ever known,” she remembers a friend
saying.
She surveys her wardrobe
filled with grey and black and white
and knows her friend is right.
But how can she tell anyone
that the colors
all disappeared
when he did?

Except for one, of course.
Red.
The color of love.
The color of pain.
The color of trust,
broken.

She sits before the easel now
and dips a brush into the
deepest black.
She layers it over
the color of red,
but it persists in her memory,
just like his last words to her.

She persists as well.

Gazing at the red before her
she dips the brush into black once more
and wonders if persisting
leads to healing.

…………………………..

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To Be, Or Not To Be, BOLD

2011-01-17T07:50:00.000-08:00

A dear friend asked me once what I wanted from life, and I didn’t have a clear answer to give her. After all, it’s an open ended question, bound to have different answers at different times of one’s life. But I know I need to give her a response, and so I think about it for a moment.

What do I want from life?

And the answer comes like waves crashing into the shore: I want to be bold.

Well, that may not make a lot of sense initially, but think about it for a second…what does being bold really mean? Taking a brave step? Going out on a limb? Or just facing up to a nasty neighbor who insists on using his leaf blower to redecorate your lawn? Boldness is a way of life, unlike bravery and courage, which are typically attributes that we can all call upon ourselves to have from time to time. Boldness is living fiercely, taking risks, and making sure that the adventure of our life is never, ever typical.

I was introduced recently to the ancient myth of Ariadne and Theseus, famous lovers from Ancient Greek mythology, and their story is one of boldness…mainly Ariadne’s boldness, and Theseus’ lack of it. I’m trying to decide if it’s a sad or happy tale, and like many Greek myths, it appears in a variety of forms, with different endings. But after doing a little research, I found the one most common telling of the tale goes as follows: Ariadne was a special young woman who possessed an ability to defeat the Minotaur, who lived at the center of a labyrinth. Her secret was a ball of yarn, red yarn, a special fiber used to find one’s way out of a labyrinth that no one had ever escaped alive. But the labyrinth belonged to her family, the minotaur was her half brother. She never thought to use her gift, until she saw Theseus.

He’d come to slay the Minotaur, and when the duskily beautiful Ariadne first cast her black eyes onto the handsome, fair-headed warrior, she was in love. She knew that even if Theseus defeated the Minotaur, he would never find his way out of the ever-changing labyrinth, and thus, she changed history by being bold enough to take the chance of helping the handsome Athenian. She knew if she were discovered assisting him, she’d be cast out of her family, never to be allowed to return to her homeland, possibly even killed. She knew the risks, but Ariadne also knew what it meant to love another person completely. And so she shared with Theseus the magic of the red fiber, and he defeated the Minotaur and found his way out of the labyrinth.

Theseus pledged love to Ariadne and took her away with him when he sailed from Crete back to his home in Athens. But it was a long journey, and Theseus began to have second thoughts along the way. He began to fear the reaction of his fellow Athenians if he pulled ashore with this dark foreigner. He was a prince, after all. It could create trouble in his kingdom to have a Creten bride. Despite his affection for Ariande, he began to believe that his life would be simpler without her in it. And so Theseus took the easy, albeit cruel, way out. He pulled his ship ashore on the island of Dia, telling the lovely Ariadne to take a nap on the shore while he checked on the ship. And while she was sleeping, Theseus set sail for Athens. He never returned.

There are differerent versions of what happened next…but the one I use here tells that Ariadne woke up, realized Theseus was gone, and was devastated. She couldn’t believe that this man, whom she had loved and risked so much for, would abandon her so coldly without an explanation. She spent days, weeks, and then months watching the shore, waiting to see the sail of her beloved’s ship. But of course, it never came. She was sad for a long, long time, but then one day, she summoned the same boldness that had given her courage to love and save Theseus and applied that to her own life. She made a new home on the island of Dia, learned the native language and customs as easily as she would have in Athens, and began to be a happy, productive member of Dian society. She still watched the sea, however, and one day she saw a ship’s mast looming on the horizon. Her heart soared…but it wasn’t Theseus who pulled into shore. It was the dashing and truly bold Dionysis, who took one look at her and saw all the wonderful attributes Theseus had seen but not been bold enough to claim. And Ariadne saw in Dinoysis a true adventurer of spirit, someone whose boldness matched her own, a man who wasn’t intimidated by a woman’s strength, but instead, reveled in it.

And what became of Theseus? Oh, he had a pretty good life, I suppose. He returned home and fell into typical patterns for a young prince of his day. He would become king through his birth, not by his own doing. He wasn’t as lucky in love as Ariadne, for he would never again find someone who loved him the way that she had. He’d marry twice and be betrayed by each wife. Ariadne would become immortal through her marriage to Dionysis, who was actually a God. When she was slain, he was bold enough to brave the underworld to bring her back, and further bold enough to take her then to live on Mount Olympus, home of the Gods.

Well, it’s a nice tale to mull over, isn’t it? What Ariadne did for Theseus showed a far greater courage and strength than he possessed, and most likely, he knew this. It can be very intimidating for a man who considers himself strong to realize his woman's courage far exceeds his own. Whether or not this was true with these two lovers, Ariadne would survive Theseus' betrayal using the same strength that had enabled her to love him enough to risk everything. She could have let the hurt of his betrayal destroy her, just as we can all choose to let pain destroy us, but she didn’t. She rose above what he had done, and in his absence she began to see him for what he really was: A fair and handsome man full of sweet words and bravado, but lacking in the end the one characteristic most important to her in a partner: Boldness. It would be months before she would meet the wildly charismatic Dionysis on the very shores where Theseus had dumped her, but when she did meet him, she’d finally be face to face with a man whose strength and courage matched her own.

But even if she hadn’t met Dionysis, Ariadne would have been okay. She’d have still had a fulfilling life because she was a survivor. She did not take the easy way out. She took risks. She sometimes lost. But she rose up to face the challenges life cast upon her, because she was a bold and courageous woman. Left alone to cry on an island, she didn’t let that experience keep her from eventually finding her feet on Mount Olympus.

There are a million versions of these ancient myths to be found, you might easily find this tale told in a variety of ways, but I use this version here to illustrate the fact that we never know what life is going to throw our way, who is going to abandon us, and who is going to find us after that. But there is one thing to be sure of…there are those who preserve towards a dream, and those who simply talk themselves out of dreaming and settle for whatever comes their way, because that is, of course, easier. And so there are those who are bold, and those who are not, and who waver somewhere in-between.

What do I want the most out of life? I take a deep breath, and I turn to my friend.

“I want to be bold, always,” I respond. Even when I’m watching for sails on the horizon.

Let it all unravel...:-)

2011-01-09T03:38:00.000-08:00

I’m an avid knitter, but yarn is expensive for this artist-poet-writer-teacher’s purse. So I've taught myself how to unravel sweaters and recycle the yarn to make new things. I had heard of workshops on this but they aren’t free, and I thought, heck, how hard can it really be? And so I bought some 50 cent sweaters at a thrift store one day and gave it a try. After all, I’ve unraveled and re-structured my own life enough times that I should be able to unravel a simple garment, right?

Well, it's exciting to learn something new, to see the reverse structuring of a sweater, which I haven't been brave enough to try to knit yet, and also it's soothing, very calming to the mind. I can do it anywhere - while my son plays, while I wait on the kettle to boil for tea, while I sit at night and wait for that elusive thing called sleep to finally come...and when I finished unraveling my first sweater, I had what amounted to about 5 skeins of yarn, for only 50 cents and a few hours effort. And I also had the pleasure of knowing I'd done something productive in time that could have just been spent idle.

Well, I was unraveling a sweater at a cafe the other day when a stranger approached and asked me what I was doing. When I explained to her that I was taking the sweater apart to reuse the yarn, she seemed aghast, almost offended somehow. "Why on earth would you do that, it was a nice sweater," she said, basically meaning 'why try to make better what already seems to be pretty good?' I thought about this...yes, the sweater was nice as it was, but do we always have to settle for things as they are? If something is already nice, does that mean we shouldn’t aspire to better it somehow? I explained to her that it was a whole process, and that I wanted to learn the skill not only for financial reasons, but also because there is a personal pleasure in creating something, in taking this 'nice' thing someone else made (or more likely a machine made), unraveling it, and creating something new, something that is your own, that's not to be found on a store rack by the dozens, but is a direct product of your own mind and vision. "You mean you're going to make a sweater? How?" She asked. I explained to her that I like to knit, and once again her eyebrows furrowed. "Why on earth would anyone in today's world spend time unraveling a sweater, then knit a new one when stuff is not really that expensive to buy? You must just have loads of free time," She said, shaking her head. Then her order was up and she was out the door, not even a second glance back in my direction. I was left with her words hanging in the air. And I wondered for a moment, why am I doing this? And that being said, why am I doing any of the things that I do? Why does anyone do – or not do – a creative thing?

This lady was, most likely, a person who had never actually made anything other than dinner since childhood. Most likely she did not know the joy of finishing a creative personal project, whether it was a painting, a poem, a knitted garment, a refurbished automobile or a coffee table made by hand. She did not know the peace and clarity that comes to the mind from spending time doing something one loves. And unfortunately, so many people in the world are this way...they associate creativity with having loads of free time, and why make anything that can be bought? Why bother to write a poem when you could just buy a Hallmark card? And take it a step further, why bother at all to think deeply or soul search when hey, we have cable television to watch, and that is much more interesting than anything that could come out of our own heads! We're overworked, we're tired, we don't want to do anything else that might take thinking or effort...and so we tune in to television and tune out our lives, putting off what would most heal and nourish us in order to blindly rip through our days, taking our pleasures from outside sources and never realizing that we can so easily tap into our own spirit to find real joy.

Sometimes it can sting, this rejection of the creative by other people. It makes you feel like people think you are less than them somehow. I had a friend make fun of me for hosting a knitting group at my house on Saturday nights. “You’re like a bunch of old ladies or something, sitting around of a Saturday night knitting,” he said with a laugh. “But what do you do on Saturday nights?” I asked. He shrugged. “Go out to the bar with the guys, or just watch television.” Ah, yes, the productive things in life that bring real joy, going to a bar or watching television. “And how is that working for you, is it bringing you happiness?” I asked, and he looked at me blankly and responded, “What do you mean?”

There are just going to always be people like my friend and the lady in the cafe, people who will choose to mock the creative, because they’ve never seen the value of doing anything deep, anything below the surface or beyond the obvious. But in the end, the lives we create for ourselves depend solely on the effort that we make to be a participant, not just an observer. I'm not saying that everyone needs to have a creative hobby to be happy, but it certainly does help. It gives you a connection with yourself, what you can do, what you are capable of. It helps you be a better person, because most creative things are done in a sort of solitude that gives you time to think and process what is happening in your life. I associate every thing I create with what I was feeling at the time that I created it. Even things I knit. And so I'll forever associate the yarn harvested from that sweater with the lady in the café asking me why on earth I’d make an effort to do something creative, when it could, so easily, just be bought? And I’ll send up a silent wish for her, and for my friend, and for everyone who seems to cruise along on the sidelines of life without ever really jumping in…I hope that you never unravel.

Beautiful Woman

So…I am not your idea of beautiful?

I am
soft curves,
braids in a hand-knit cap,
goofy earrings for the fun of it,
tangerine polish on my toes

You want
hard edges,
teased, tortured hair,
diamonds for the expense of it,
acrylic inserts on top of real nails.

So…I am not your idea of a woman?

I am
independent,
strong as the trees that I hug,
secure in my abilities,
whole.

You like
dependence.
Strength is your role.
Security is yours to provide.
Nothing without you.

So…I am not your idea of a beautiful woman?
So what?
I am my idea of me.

This article, and many more, can also be found at www.thump-greenwood.com, the Greenwood area's leading magazine on arts and entertainment.

Forcing the issue...

2011-01-02T12:03:00.000-08:00

I wake at dawn to the clatter of pouring rain, a thousand tempos beating down all at once outside the window. Different sounds clashing as drops of rain fall onto different surfaces, a symphony of sorts, one that I find greatly comforting. I may come from a land of sunshine and heat, but I love waking up to a cold, rainy day. There is something cleansing about it, something soothing about not only the sounds, but the slick wetness of the world outside, the way everything slows down a little, the way our minds somehow slow down with it. It’s even better when we don’t have to go to work or school or out into the weather for any particular reason, because a rainy day seems to give everyone a perfect excuse for not so much ‘doing,’ but for resting, for sitting back, observing, and being. It’s a great time for not forcing anything out of ourselves, but rather to take the world in for a change.

I had a delightful conversation with a friend over coffee last week, one of those lovely conversations that seems to hit on every subject while lingering on none at first, then coming back around to the most interesting topics and exploring them a little more in depth. From making things and writing poetry to the different paying jobs we’ve had; from Scandinavian cultures to raising children in Spain; from knitting circles in the Ukraine to the tricks and techniques of recycling sweaters into yarn…we seemed to hit every topic that was near and dear to our hearts, including life itself. How it’s happening all the time, how it passes by us while we’re busy doing other things, or wanting other things, or trying to be other things…we lingered quite a while on the topic of life lessons, mainly being open to what unfolds, and not trying to force things into being the way we think they should be.

The thing about life, the wonderful thing, is that is has the great and delightful potential to surprise the daylights out of us from time to time. Of course, not all surprises are good, or even welcomed, but all the same, they come, reminding us that no matter how carefully we try to streamline our lives into what we think they should be, we aren’t really in control. And this isn’t always a nice feeling, even if what surprises us is a beautiful, wonderful thing, because sometimes the good can still throw our equilibrium off, make us feel like we’re losing balance somehow, like we can’t predict our lives anymore the way we could so easily before. Being open to what unfolds is not always easy, and not a concept every person can wrap their mind around. What does this phrase even mean, really? Is it new age hype, or a real and honest way to live life?

Simple – to be open means to live in a state of not trying to force into being what we think should happen, but doing instead just what the rainy day is inspiring me to do…sit back, relax, enjoy, observe, be…and let go of the idea that you need to know what lies around every turn. To be open to what may come is about allowing yourself to be surprised in a good way from time to time, and loosening the stranglehold on your psyche that a need for control can create.
Life is like the weather, really. It’s a force of its own, something we might can predict and try to prepare for, yes, but something we have to actually experience to know. How many times have we cancelled plans because a storm was supposed to be coming, only to step outside into sunshine hours later and realize the weatherman was wrong? We don’t tend to think of this, rather we think of all the times sudden, unpredicted rain poured down on our parades. It’s much easier, after all, to be pessimistic, because a pessimist never gets let down.

Trying to force our lives onto a certain path is as futile as trying to control the elements…it simply can’t be done. But our thoughts are powerful things, and they help to create easier journeys on whatever paths we choose. With our thoughts, our ideas, and our dreams, we open doors for ourselves that can take us down new roads and into new destinies, because destiny does exist, life is not just a happenstance set of experiences that make no sense in the end. Even the most logical of brains can see that there is some order to all that happens, and, as some great thinker whose name I can’t recall once said, ‘often the greatest sense of order is to be found in what appears to be the greatest state of chaos’.

With writing poetry, we can’t force what we want to come anymore than we can force changes in our lives or changes in the weather. We must simply remain open, and remember the fact that we are always growing and that we are unpredictable, so why should we expect our lives to be so streamlined? Why do we feel that we need perfect order to create anything good? I have a friend who made a whole ‘office’ of sorts in a spare bedroom, with elegant furniture and the most state or the art computer available at the time, only to find that her best ideas still came from writing freehand in a spiral notebook late at night, lying in bed watching old sitcom reruns. But really, she knew this all along...she just felt that somehow it wasn’t right, because it didn’t fit the image in her mind of how she thought she should be doing it.

And so, as I close this, a new year unfolds, and the rain outside my window slowly comes to an end. The song of at least a hundred birds picks up from where the melody of the rain leaves off, and the sun peeks brilliantly from behind a cloud. An unexpected shift, a change in the elements, and what I thought would be a rainy day now suddenly becomes just the opposite of that. This next statement will probably make my boyfriend shake his head in wonder at me, as I’ve mentioned before he works for a company that develops tools and instruments for accurate prediction of the weather, but I rarely look at the forecasts. I use my own judgment instead, and I prepare for the worst, hope for the best, and remain open to whatever comes. If I’d checked the forecast this morning, I might have seen that the rain was due to taper off, and that the sun would come out after all…and I’d have never been open to the beauty and peace that lie in the sounds and sights of a rainy day. Instead, I’d have just spent the morning hours waiting for the sun to shine because someone told me it was going to.

Don’t try and control every aspect of the journey. Instead, remember that the greatest blessings often roll into our lives on the wheels of chaos, and the journey to achieve our dreams might not always be on the road most traveled...just prepare for the ride, buckle your seatbelt, and remember its okay not to know what’s around the bend sometimes.

A Tisket, a Tasket, We All Fall Down!

2010-12-31T03:10:00.000-08:00

A tisket, a tasket, we all fall down…

This seemed to be the mantra going through my head when I took my young son skating for the first time last week. You see, although I was once pretty graceful on wheels, it has been nearly two decades since I strapped any to my feet. I could only cross my fingers and hope it would be just like riding a bike. And that if I did fall, it wouldn’t be too bad.

The fear of falling…kids don’t even have this, really. They climb to the top of trees, jump out of swings, hang by one arm from the monkey bars. When they do fall, they typically bounce right back up like it never even happened. I remember skating as a child, how the fear of falling never even entered my mind as I whirled around the rinks. And yet now it is all I can think about as I strap my foot into the wheeled shoe and begin a slow, clunky ‘walk’ to the rink floor, my son leaving me in the dust, propelling himself forward like a rocket, falling and getting back up maybe a dozen times in the process. He hits the rink full speed ahead, despite the fact he’s never been on skates before today, while I step slowly out onto the floor, holding the wall, feeling pretty good about the fact that I’ve managed to stay upright for 5 consecutive minutes on the skates.

The thing about skating, however, is that the only way to really do it, the only way to really enjoy it, is to lose completely that fear of falling that makes you hug the wall or move at a turtle’s pace along the rails. The only way to feel the rush of air against your face, to feel the gliding motions, the graceful movements, is to take the risk that yes, it is entirely within the realm of possibility that you…might…fall.

We’re all afraid of falling. It’s embarrassing, it hurts, and sometimes, it breaks something in us. This fear keeps us clunking along on the sidelines, wanting to join in the skating, but hugging the wall instead. It is, after all, wise to be cautious. No one wants to be embarrassed, hurt, or broken. And even though we’d recover from all of these things, our minds wrap themselves up in how horrible it would be to lose our balance. Fear plants itself firmly in our psyche, and eventually, we don’t even take the chance that maybe, just maybe, we won’t fall down.

But falling down and getting up again are as much a part of life as they are of skating. We all fall, somehow or another. We all trust, and sometimes, we have that trust shattered. We all take gambles that sometimes don’t pay off. We’ve all, at some point, been gliding along confidently, feeling on top of the world, when suddenly our front foot goes in one direction, and the back foot goes another, and we only have a second or two to process what is happening before the world turns upside down…and there we are, flat on our backs. Fallen.

I envy the way children bounce back up from a fall like it never even happened. Adults linger in their falls. We stay down for a long, long time, often only rising back up when someone has come along to help us. But the thing is, no matter how long we lie there, eventually we do rise back up. As Robert Frost once said, ‘This is the thing about life…it goes on.’
Before confronting any new situation, I often stop and ask myself, what is the worst that could happen? And if the worst happens, can I survive it? The answer is usually yes. It might be embarrassing. It might hurt. But more often than not, we’ll survive the worst if it does happen.

What is the worst thing that could happen if I let go of my fear and actually began to skate with my son? That I’d fall. That it would hurt. Maybe I’d break a wrist or an arm. Would I survive it? Of course. And so I did let go of that wall, and I skated for hours without falling. But I was only able to skate after accepting the risk that the worst could happen, that yes, I could fall.

Writing poetry is like this. Putting words down onto paper can be such a liberating experience that it feels like letting go of the wall and pushing yourself out into the rink, especially if you choose to share what you write with others. Everything in life is a risk, after all. But when writing poetry, what is the worst that can happen, really? That someone may have a different opinion of your poems than you do? I think we can all survive that. Think instead about the best thing that could happen - that writing can bring peace, clarity and a sense of purpose to your life. That even if you write only for yourself, if can become a way of healing, of empowerment, of release. It can become a path to joy. So why hold back?

Happy Writing!

Poem for the New Year

The promised snow
falls now

I see it in the glow
of lights. It
almost rushes
from the sky
to the ground
melting immediately.

I have felt myself falling
these past few days
as a dream dies inside of me.

I cast it out
and like the snow
it rushes to the ground
but it doesn’t melt,
oh no…

It rises up
coiled like a copperhead
and strikes,
knocking me down.

I lie there for a long, long time
My tears melting into the ground.
I wish I could melt into it, too.

But I don’t.
Instead, I rise
and brush the snow off my coat.

I go inside, where it is warm
I leave the dream outside.
where,
on the cold ground
it slowly freezes.
Fitting, I suppose
since everything else is frozen
in that far away place
where the dream began.

But I’ve been struck
by copperheads
before.
And I know
that being knocked down is
not the worst thing that can happen
to a soul.

Freezing, I think
is a far more terrible
fate.

Letting of 2010...

2010-12-25T08:30:00.000-08:00

Tom Hanks, or should I say, Forrest Gump, coined one of the most popular catch phrases of the 90s when he sat down on a park bench in Savannah and slowly droned out to the lady beside him, “Life is like a box of chocolates…you never know what you’re gonna get.” People loved this, because we can all relate so easily to it. Life is unpredictable, in ways that are sometimes good, and other times, devastating. But while getting the yummy cream-filled chocolate is always wonderful, one has not truly lived until they’ve reached into the box and gotten the icky hard jelly thing, too. It’s a yin and a yang, a balance of sorts, but one we usually would just as soon do without.

I come closer to thinking that life is like a Chronicles of Narnia Movie. You’re just sitting around, doing the same old thing, when suddenly you open a wardrobe, expecting nothing out of the ordinary, and find yourself in a place you never even dreamed could exist. You get caught up in an adventure that’s so amazing, so magical, that you can’t even believe it is happening to you.

And then, wham, suddenly it’s all over. You’re right back where you were before, like the door had never been opened at all, wondering what, if any of it, was even real.

Love can be this way. To love another person fully and completely can be an amazing, magical adventure that you can’t even believe is happening to you. When you are loved in return, it is like standing in the sunlight. You have this other being whose soul connects directly to yours; who cares about you just as much as you care about them; who would move heaven and earth just to spend a moment with you. Nothing on earth is better.

But life is as unpredictable as reaching into a box of chocolates. You can be standing in the sunlight one moment, so warm and happy that you think you just might burst, and then, in the blink of an eye, a cloud passes over, and everything changes. You can’t see the sun at all anymore, and the world is suddenly a very cold place. You’re left alone to fight the chill, and you feel so lost that all you can do is stand before the wardrobe door, opening and closing it, hoping against hope for some sign of light…but days pass, and still all you see inside are coats and shadows. And your heart breaks over and over again, like delicate glass being shattered upon stone. Just as there is no feeling on earth greater than having love, there is equally no feeling on earth worse than losing it.

So you do the only thing you can… you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and you stop opening the door, because you know now there isn’t going to be anything on the other side. And it takes a tremendous will to do this, more strength than you have ever had to call upon yourself to have, because there’s nothing you want more than to keep looking for some sign of hope. To keep believing that the next time you open the door, you’ll be back to that magical place, back to the love, back to the sun shining on your face. But there is a part of you inside that knows you deserve much more than being left alone to wait and wonder. You know you don’t deserve the coldness that you’re being dealt. And this knowledge steels you, gives you strength to let go.

Letting go is excruciating. It’s like a birthing process, or a rebirthing process, I should say. There are tears and pain, yes, but in the end, you find your own sun, which isn’t dependent upon the affections of another person. You find that you can be your own source of light, and that no one can keep you in a dark, cold place unless you allow it.

Life is like a box of chocolates, and often we find ourselves holding the icky jelly one while every one else seems to be enjoying the good stuff. But this is all part of the journey of being human. We can build walls around our hearts that are impenetrable, yes, and that will keep us from hurting…but it will also keep us from living fully and completely. It will keep out the magic that makes life beautiful. And it will keep us from believing in, or achieving, the extraordinary lives that we are meant to have.

When we find ourselves back in that same place we were before our wonderful adventure, it’s quite an awful feeling. It doesn’t hold the same appeal as it did before, and it could never compare to where we’ve been. And so we make the obvious choice. We move forward, away from both places. That is the only way.

Don’t try to go back to where you were, and for Goodness sake, don’t stand in front of the wardrobe door forever, waiting on someone else to decide that you are or aren’t worth the effort. Embrace a new path. Embrace the knowledge that you already have, that anything truly is possible. You’ve known this all along. If someone else does not believe, if they can easily cast you aside because they are afraid or unwilling to put forth what it takes to have an amazing, magical adventure, then it is them, not you, who has slammed shut the wardrobe door. But they are really only shutting themselves out of Narnia. You’ve never stopped believing, which means, in time, you will find yourself in the midst of magic again.

Extraordinary things only happen to extraordinary people, and the extraordinary can’t exist without the belief first that it should. Most people don’t believe they deserve the extraordinary, and that is why most people lead typical, regular lives, dreaming of a Narnian adventure, but in the end, lacking the guts to actually pass through the wardrobe door when it opens. But magic is real. The extraordinary is possible. And the power to create it is here, among us, within us. It exists in the sense that we either believe in it…or we don’t.

The year’s end is a symbolic, powerful time for letting go of hurt, for beginning again, for following new paths, for dreaming and believing that yes, anything is possible. And writing is a powerful tool for capturing a little magic with words, for in the end, we create what is possible with first our thoughts, then our words, and then our actions.

As one year comes to a close and another begins, don’t mourn for what you’ve lost. Celebrate what you still have. Celebrate it with a poem, a painting, a journal entry, a song or a ceremony if you wish. But celebrate it all the same. There are other wardrobes, other adventures waiting, possibly even greater magic than what you’ve already known.
So as 2010 comes to a close, let go of those who so easily have let go of you, and you will find your own sunshine. Let 2011 be the best year you’ve created yet, and celebrate, celebrate, celebrate, because you are worth it. And what you will come to realize, in the end, is that the loss isn’t yours at all. Because it isn’t you who is closing the door on what is possible. Your doors are just beginning to open, because you still believe in magic. :-)

Hope

2010-03-25T03:03:00.000-07:00

There is always hope. Hope that even the worst of times can spawn the greatest awakenings of human spirit.
We’ve been plodding along our current trails so long the destination has become a blurred spot on the map. We’re equating making money with making a life, and with the economy spiraling downward we’re turning, ever so slowly, and making our way back to our centers, to our source. We’re jumping of the treadmill that keeps us running but takes us nowhere, and coming back to what really matters. Family. Home. Nourishment. Love. Laughter. Creating. What our ancestors knew. What so-called third-world countries around the world still know. After all, economic changes rarely affect those who live simply to begin with. I remember my own Grandmother laughing because her family never even realized there was a Great Depression. They were simple people. For them, little changed during those difficult times.
In order to survive, we must come back to what matters most. We must realize that a happy community might be a worthier goal than a global economy. We must realize that our homes are sacred spaces, our children more treasured than any possession. We must realize the value of nurturing those who love and depend on us. We must realize that less stuff can make for an easier life, and that there are greater goals to focus on than the material-driven ideals of the last two decades. Children are the future, and it truly takes a village to raise them. And village is synonymous with community, a lost concept in our current age. But all around the world, women still harbor this ancient knowledge. We still know. We still get excited over births and baby pictures. We still see promise in the swell of a belly, the smile of an expectant mother.
We haven’t lost our ancient knowledge. It’s just been dormant for a very long time. As the economy changes and we’re forced, sometimes reluctantly, to change our lifestyles and our expectations, around the world, we are remembering what others have not forgotten.
As women and especially as mothers, we must realize that we have to come together as a community to make it through. We have to listen to the soul of the earth the way our ancestors did, to know the cycle of nature, to remember that food doesn’t come from a grocery shelf, but from the soil beneath our feet. We have to remember those who lived before us, and those who will come after us. We must remember the wisdom that our grandmothers were taught, and pass it on to our own grandchildren. And we will. No matter how the great circle of life spins, for the sake of our children and those we love, we will come together and when we do, we just might see that this is where we were headed all along.
Back to center, to source.
Back to community. Back to family. Back to nourishment, love, and creation.
Back to what really matters. Back to looking into the eyes of our children and seeing the children that are still to come.
And remembering.

*I wrote this essay to accompany an art piece submitted to a show with the theme, "The Current Economy." Thank you Cassie for encouraging me to look beyond the obvious!

The Sound of Silence

2010-03-06T05:18:00.000-08:00

For many years I have craved an occasion of silence. Simple, profound silence. I have read books about monks who go for days without speaking, and studied temples dedicated to silence, sacred places where no human sound had ever been uttered. I have sought silence in the workplace, in the wilderness and within my own home. Now, as the mother of an exceptionally verbose five year old, silence usually eludes me until the quiet hours when my son is resting peacefully in bed. However, even this silence is interrupted by the sounds of modern life: telephones ring; cars race down the road; appliances hum, shake and rattle.
Some interruptions I don’t mind: the low calls of the Barred Owls; the rushing of wind through the leaves; the glugs of bullfrogs splashing in the creek. I even consider these to be a part of the silence I desire, which has lead me to consider what it is I am actually seeking in my pursuit of quiet time.
As a young adult, I discovered that silence could actually be found in a distinct place when a friend and I visited another friend in Alaska. Driving down a remote and winding road, headed nowhere in particular, we stopped for some sightseeing along a clearing. Miles outside of the town we’d passed through several hours before, the three of us were completely alone, and as we walked, our idle chattered died away as the awesome natural beauty of the rugged mountains came into view. Pretty soon, we were all standing quietly, wind whipping through our light jackets, in a speechless state that only the beauty of nature could invoke.
There were no outside sounds, no modern buzzes, beeps, or hums. Occasionally water from a small lake lapped along the banks with the wind. A twig snapped under a foot. Somewhere far off, a Bald Eagle cried to its mate. The mate responded with a more distant cry, and I realized that this was the quiet that my ancestors knew. This was what listening was like in the years before groaning car motors and sirens became etched onto our psyches.
That little nameless stretch of Alaska wild still feeds the hunger that stirs in my soul whenever I see a deer run across the road or hear a hawk’s cry. Some buried part of me wants to run with the deer, feel the wind beneath my own wings. I want to break away from this world and, even if it’s just for a moment, be a part of something wild. I want to spend a day hearing only what my ancestors heard.
When I see the news headlines about violent rampages and the price of gas climbing and how cell phone usage is destroying bee populations across the globe, I want to shake the shoulders of the first person I see and say “What are we doing?” But I don’t. Instead I quit reading newspaper, walk instead of drive whenever I can, and put my cell phone down, reminding myself that it was for emergencies only. And I make time for silence.
What I’m seeking isn’t actual silence, per se. It isn’t even the remoteness of a wild area. It’s something deeper ~ primordial, if you please, and something my ancestors felt each day. It’s the connection to this life-giving earth and all of its sacred beings. But maybe it’s more than that, too.
I won’t lie, I would rather suffer the hum of the rinse cycle than spend a day bent over the washboard, but just how much do the sounds of modern life buffer us from the natural world? And how is it that people can tolerate all manner of electronic whirs, beeps, and whistles at any given time, but let a cricket slip in the house and every family member in residence is launched on a death mission to stop the annoying sound? Meanwhile televisions blare, appliances rock and phones rings incessantly.
In the wilds of Alaska I was over a decade younger. I had yet to delve into any mysteries of the soul, or ponder such things as eco-footprints. But even in my youth, I knew that something stirred deep within me in that quiet place. Something awakened. This something is where I find my peace, whether listening to the sound of baby birds in the holly tree or drifting off to sleep to the sound of rain echoing outside the window. It is the connection to nature that I seek in quests for silence, that feeling of true oneness with the earth that my ancestors knew.
To lose your connection to the natural world is to lose part of the soul. We may wonder what is lacking, why we feel unfulfilled, and why a fistful of black dirt from our patio garden feels so good in our hands, but we already know the answer, because each of us is born with a connection to nature that is as prevalent as our umbilical cords. If not nurtured, however, this connection will recede away into the deep recesses of the soul, stirring on rare occasions, but never realized. And we’ll find ourselves lost and hungry, craving a silence that taunts us like the cry of a hawk.

The Absence of Anyone Else Chapter One

2009-12-06T04:59:00.000-08:00

The Absence of Anyone Else Chapter One

The nursery school is filled with toddlers who have trendy
names like Jalynn, Cheyenne, and Ryder. Their mothers are young,
bulging out of pre-pregnancy jeans, driving away in shiny compact
cars with Mardi Gras beads dangling from rearview mirrors.
They’re always in a hurry, it seems. They never notice me, the
woman with a toddler in one hand and basket full of books, paper,
and paint in the other, struggling make it inside. They pay
extra each week to have me come here, yet never take the time to
hold the door. Go figure.
I come to share the gift of art with their children, to offer
their young minds a creative form of expression … ideally. In
reality, I come to give the nursery school teachers a thirty minute
break so that they can sit down outside on the terrace, have a
secret smoke, and gossip about everyone else. They get this every
Wednesday in their schedules; I get forty dollars every Wednesday
in my pocket. Not much, but extra money always helps, especially
in the summer, when I am on vacation from my teaching
job and always seem to overspend.
I deposit my two-year-old son Samson into a playgroup with
four other youngsters and head for the three- and four-year-olds.
I read the group a story about colorful fish, then guide them as
they play with paints and brushes in an attempt to recreate the
story’s characters on paper. They giggle and squeal with delight as
they explore the sensation of paint between their fingers, little
round faces full of so much enthusiasm I can’t help but smile. It
reminds me why I chose art education as my college major all
those years ago. This is joy, I think. These children know genuine
joy in this moment. I laugh with them as they rally around me,
and I am not even upset by the fact that I have green and blue
handprints smeared across the brand new secondhand jeans I found
for three bucks yesterday at my favorite thrift store. Oh well, they’ll
be paint jeans now, I think, smiling at the little color streaked
faces around me. So what if they were designer brand and fit just
right?
As I am packing my supplies and preparing to leave, my cell
phone rings, and I know it’s Daniel by the Mariachi band ring
tone he assigned himself weeks ago. I don’t answer because Sherry,
the director of the nursery school, is talking to me about teaching
an extra session next week. Instantly it rings again, the sound only
mildly mortifying. Daniel is nothing if not persistent, so I slip my
hand inside my bag and turn the phone off.
Sherry and I agree on the extra session and say goodbye. I
collect Samson, who is sitting quietly in the toddler room looking
at a big board book. He’s not especially happy about leaving this
colorful place and squirms and fusses in my arms. On the way
out, I notice a large collection of small paper hands, all different
colors, arranged in the shape of one large hand on the window of
Sherry’s office. I pause for a minute to take it in. It’s oddly uplifting
and I try to keep a mental picture of it in my mind as I load
Samson into his car seat and jump behind the wheel of my station
wagon, silently praying, as always, that it will start.
Despite rails of protest over leaving, Samson is now singing in
his car seat, his mood shifting in that speed of light way only
toddlers seem to master. I sing with him as we head across town to
visit my grandmother, Nan, for lunch. Nan’s home is within easy
walking distance of my own, but the heat of a June afternoon in
Calvary, South Carolina, makes a midday stroll out of the ques-
tion. As we pull up in front of the shockingly purple Victorian,
Samson cries “Eat, eat,” a little mantra he always begins as soon as
he realizes where we are. We have spent every Wednesday having
lunch with Nan since summer vacation began, and she’s definitely
the most interesting thing this town has to offer on a sweltering
summer day.
“Ah, hello, my loves!” She smiles as she answers the door with
an exaggerated bow, taking Samson from my arms and swaying
down the hall as though he were her partner in a ballroom. He
laughs at first but then reaches back for me. He’s already sleepy so
we decide to eat right away.
“You’re in for a treat today,” she says to me as I settle Samson
into a booster seat. “Just wait until you try my latest dish! Had to
go all the way to Greenville to get the right sauce but this old bird
needs to fly the coop sometimes, right Sammy?” She winks at
Samson, who is pulling on his ears. He grins.
“Oh I hope it’s something he will eat,” I say as I scan the room
for a glimpse of what’s to come. Dining with Nan is always an
adventure because she thrives on the exotic. As she begins to lay
out the meal, I am shocked and delighted to see yogurt with cucumbers,
pita chips, falafel sandwiches and hummus. I have not
eaten this type of food in years, but once it was my favorite meal.
“Did you make all this?” I ask, more than a little overwhelmed
by the idea of someone being so versatile in the kitchen. After all, it
certainly isn’t the standard Southern fare of fried chicken, collard
greens, biscuits and peas that line her table for holiday dinners.
“I certainly did!” She smiles as she sits down, tousling my
son’s hair. He smiles at her and his grey eyes are momentarily lost
behind chubby cheeks. I watch as she carefully unfolds a linen
napkin and smoothes it onto her lap. It’s a simple yet elegant gesture
that I try to imitate, but Samson immediately grabs the cloth
from my lap and throws it onto the floor.
“So what’s the inspiration?” I ask as I retrieve my napkin and
place it far from his reach.
“Well,” she begins, “I was poking around on the internet, just
seeing what I could find, when I came across these recipes from
the Middle East. You know most of their dishes are vegetarian,
and I’ve been trying to go that route for years but could never
stick with it. Now I think I’ve finally found food I can give up
meat for!”
We laugh and I am pleased to discover that Samson enjoys
the meal as well. While Nan tidies up, I rock him to sleep in the
same chair my grandmother once used to rock her children, then
her grandchildren and now her great-grandchildren to sleep in. Nan
doesn’t believe in throwing anything away that is still reasonably
useful, even if it is battered, worn, and frighteningly rickety. “Sometimes
it’s the old worn out thing that works the best,” she’ll say.
“Shiny and new might be prettier, but prettier ain’t always better.”
I have always called my grandmother Nan, not Nana like my
sister and cousin do. I do not know why, but to me, Nan just
seems to fit better. I hope that when I reach her age, I have a
fraction of her eclectic style.
She has never cut her hair, preferring instead to wear it in a
long silver braid wrapped around her head like a halo each morning.
She dresses in flowing shifts and scarves, old copper and silver
bracelets—gifts my grandfather, a railroad man, picked up
out West—dangling along her thin wrists. He died before I was
born, but when Nan talks about him, she will finger the heavy
silver locket around her neck and say, “Your Grandfather, he was
perfection.” Inside the locket is a faded picture of a handsome
young man of about twenty, and even now, some thirty years after
his death, her blue eyes will sparkle when she talks about the man
with whom she shared three decades.
I like to think that I take after her, not only in appearance—
for I also have long hair and blue eyes—but also because in this
town, she is like a bird of paradise lost in a flock of sparrows, and
I think of myself the same way. I also thrive on the exotic, not too
readily available here in Calvary.
Nan’s large home is decorated with a mixture of family photos
and random assortments of quirky ethnic statues and masks that
she collects. They are not from travels but from a lifetime of perusing
garage sales and thrift shops, other people’s discarded souvenirs
becoming our family’s heirlooms. As I settle a sleeping Samson
onto the large black couch, I notice an unusual wood carving of a
hand with an eye cut into the center. I ask Nan about this newest
artifact as we sit at the kitchen table, coffee cups in hand.
“Isn’t it just wonderful?” She says. “I was told it represents the
Hand of Fatima.”
I look closely at the small sculpture, which looks like an exaggerated
Iris blossom. A hand, palm facing front, middle three fingers
raised, thumb and little finger bent down in arcs. In the
middle, a large eye stares dully forward.
“I love the Hand of Fatima,” I say. “I remember studying it in
art history. My professor said it’s used in the Middle East to mean
different things. It’s really beautiful.” I can’t stand it any longer. I
cross the room on tip toe as not to wake Samson, and pick up the
hand. It’s surprisingly light. Up close I can see that the carving is
rather crude, as though it were one of many simple sculptures
carved in a single day by some unknown craftsman, a world away,
his wares spread out before him on a colorful blanket at a festive
bazaar.
“Can you believe I only paid a dollar for it?” Nan’s voice is
almost a whisper.
“The Market?” I ask, and she nods, slowly stirring another
cube of sugar into her cup. “You just never know what you’ll find
there. It’s like an adventure.” She sets the cup down, bracelets
jangling. I painted her once as a gypsy, complete with a colorful
turban, layers of shawls and an upside-down fish bowl doubling
as a crystal ball. Hokey, sure, but it had been fun. Nan seemed
genuinely sorry when I no longer needed her to pose.
She has two great loves: the Internet, on which she spends
hours perusing random topics; and The Market, a large mish
mash assortment of yard sales that folks set up on Saturday mornings
in an old parking lot off Highway 25. Occasionally, when I
can rouse myself from bed early enough, Samson and I accompany
her. For nickels and dimes he can add to his ever growing
collection of small cars, and I occasionally find sweet bargains on
clothes that I could never afford to pay retail prices for. I make a
mental note to try and go there with her as my meager wardrobe
flashes before my eyes. I should really update it before school resumes.
I notice Nan’s silver earrings are also shaped like hands, with
little copper hearts and a small stone the middle of the palm. They
have a slight tarnish, obviously vintage, and I am smitten with
them at once.
“I love those earrings! Another market find?” I pour one last
cup of coffee, my only vice.
“No, these came from New Orleans, years and years ago.”
“You went to New Orleans? When?”
“Oh, gosh, let me think,” she chuckles lightly, as though she
almost can’t believe it. “Nineteen forty-four, maybe forty-five.”
It seems unreal to me that someone can have memories from
almost sixty years back, and I pause for a minute, wondering what
I will be reflecting on decades into my own future. Will I be wearing
a pair of earrings that I own now, discussing life over coffee
with some yet to be born child of Samson’s?
I come back to the present. “What were you doing there? Visiting?”
I ask, wondering why I seem to be surrounded by images
of hands today. I glance down at Nan’s for a moment, gnarled
from arthritis and leathery from years spent outdoors tending
her overflowing gardens. They seem almost holy to me, these
hands that have cared for so much and tended so many, from her
children and grandchildren to the delicate blossoms in her backyard.
“You might say that,” she answers rather cryptically, then rises
and walks over to her sink, gazing out the window as she rinses
her cup and places it on the wooden rack. “I was fifteen years old,
can you believe that? Hard to imagine that I was once that young.”
I am about to respond “No” when suddenly there is a rapping
at the door that awakens Samson with a howl. I collect him from
the couch as Nan opens the door for my uncle Johnny. He strolls
in, tool box in tow.
Johnny is a handyman, known around town for his ability to
fix anything in the world that could possibly break. He’s also an
aging hippie, forever clad in his lifelong uniform of a t-shirt and
faded denim cut-offs, long blonde pony-tail trailing down his back.
If you look through our family albums, you’d think he hadn’t
changed clothes in twenty years. He’s not a man of many words,
but a good man who raised my cousin Johnna alone after her
mother went out for cigarettes and never came back. He has something
of Nan’s spirit, just as I do. That he could actually be my
conservative mother’s brother amazes me.
“Grace,” he nods as he enters.
“Hey Johnny. Nan putting you to work today?”
“Somebody’s got to.”
Nan shakes her head. “That leaky tap again. I don’t know
why that thing won’t stay fixed.”
“Cause it’s older than you are, Ma.” Johnny winks at me and
smiles at Samson, who snuggles against my shoulder. “Hey
Sambo,” he tweaks my son’s cheek affectionately.
The clock in the hall chimes four. The hour is coming when
the heat will ease a little and being outdoors will be possible, even
pleasant if we’re lucky enough for a breeze. I say goodbye to Nan
and Johnny as Samson and I head back to our small townhouse.
After playing for a while on the terrace, we step out for a lazy
stroll through the nearby park. Pushing Samson along in his stroller,
I point out birds and butterflies and various other things, and he
eagerly searches for each of them, his eyes wide with wonder. At
the park we see several of my students playing and lounging about,
and they run up to us, alone and in pairs, curious about Samson
and smiling at me. I ask them all the usual “Are you having a good
summer?” questions and they all nod and say “Yes Ma’am.” Most
of the children in Calvary attend Calvary Elementary School, and
because I teach art to all grades there, I know every little face in
this town. Samson watches a few boys throw a ball back and forth,
which thrills him for about a minute, and then we head home for
our evening routine: Dinner, baths, bedtime for Samson, studio
time for me. After a full day, I can’t wait to spend a few hours
alone with my brushes.
My mind is on painting as our home comes into view. Lost in
my thoughts, I do not notice Daniel sitting on the hood of his car
until he raises his hand and waves. I remember the earlier phone
calls and that I completely forgot to call him back, so I smile as he
slides off the car and trots over to us. Samson, who is crazy about
him, squeals with delight, pointing and cooing as he gets closer.
“I was about to give up on you guys,” he says. “I figured you
were out for a walk when I didn’t see the stroller in back.” He
nods towards the station wagon, where I keep Samson’s stroller
when we aren’t using it.
“Stalker,” I tease.
Daniel rolls his eyes, leans over and lifts Samson out of the
stroller. “Hey, Sammy boy,” he says, tossing him high into the air,
a little game of theirs that gives me shivers. Samson screams in
delight.
“Stop it!” I say to Daniel, kicking his shin less than gently.
“You know I hate when you do that!”
“But I like it, and Sammy likes it,” he says, tossing Samson up
again, only not so high this time. “So you’re outnumbered Big
Mama.” He smiles as he puts Samson down, holding his hand
while I unlock the door.

The Absence of Anyone Else

2009-11-23T16:11:00.000-08:00

BOOKSIGNING ON NOVEMBER 28TH, WALDENBOOKS, GREENWOOD MALL 2-5pm

Grace Pruitt, struggling artist and single mother, paints into the wee hours of the night, hoping to numb the pain she's felt since fleeing her beloved Asheville, North Carolina, home three years before. Now back in Calvary, South Carolina, the fading textile town where she was raised, she aches for the exciting life she once led in the heart of the Great Smokies and wonders what, if anything, her future holds. When the terminally-ill estranged father of her son reaches out from the past, she finds herself in the midst of an emotional turmoil that is further complicated by the ever-growing stir of feelings towards her lifelong friend Daniel, a dashingly handsome graphic artist who seems unable to express his true feelings for Grace, despite having confessed to love her years before. Just when her plate of drama seems full, Grace gets a glimpse into the life she has only dreamed of when Cristofer Stanley, successful artist and gallery owner, expresses an interest in representing her art. Fueled by a steady stream of coffee, sage advice (and just a few secrets) from her eclectic Grandmother Nan, and the passionate desire to do what is right for both herself and her son, Grace finally finds the courage to let go of the life she thought she wanted and embrace the life ~ and love ~ she was meant to have.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Small town native Amy Loftis Alley is an artist, art educator, writer, mother, free spirit and tree-hugging lover of nature who resides in Upstate South Carolina. The Absence of Anyone Else is her first novel.
Link to order book: http://www.rockpublishing.com/AbsenceOfAnyoneElse.htm

Motherhood takes many turns...

2009-10-31T17:57:00.000-07:00

Driving down I-20, on my way home from a Columbia workshop, I’m searching the dark for something familiar. It’s almost 10pm and I’ve realized that somewhere along the way, I’ve missed a turn…or taken a wrong turn. While I’m somewhat certain that I’m still heading in the right direction, there is no physical evidence to assure me of it. Nothing but a starless night sky and endless miles of highway that may or may not take me where I need to go.

Ahead I see an exit for Hwy. 178, a familiar road. I come to a crossroad, where signs point right and left to towns I’ve never heard of. While I know the road is correct, I’m completely lost as to which direction to take. Which will lead me home, and which will lead me farther from the place that, at this moment, I most long to be?

And then, an oasis in the night, a lone beacon shining. To the right is a service station with a light-flooded parking lot and bars on the windows. While the bars are a little unnerving, signifying the need for high security in this place, the well-lit parking lot makes me feel safe amidst this darkness. Inside, a woman is busy mopping the floor. It’s almost closing time, but she stops and listens to my tale of woe, then pats my shoulder and leads me over to a map on the wall. I listen as she kindly shows me the way that will lead me home, and assures me that I’m not really off course at all. I graciously thank this lady whose polite nonchalance gives the impression that I am not the first wayward traveler who has sought her guidance in the darkness. I try to express my gratitude, the joy I feel for her being there, but she shrugs off my thanks and returns to mopping. It is, after all, near closing time and she, too, longs to be home.

Wouldn’t it be nice if, on the long, winding, and often dark roads that carry us along on our journey of motherhood, we encountered people like this gas station attendant: stranger-sages who could reassure us, with a smile and map, that we are headed in the right direction. That the paths we are taking with our children are, in fact, leading us to the exact place we’re hoping we’ll end up? However, what I have experienced more often than not is just the opposite: People quick to point out my child’s faults, my faults, and that how everything would be better if I would take the same roads that they had taken with their own children. Quick to imply that what worked for their children will work for all children, and would certainly work better for my child than what I am doing, they become like mucky places in the road, bogging us down, preventing us from moving forward. And so we sit, spinning our wheels, wondering if where we’re hoping to go is, indeed, the right place for us.

However, in the words of one of history's most famous sages, we must remember to ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ They don’t mean to pull us down. They don’t mean to waylay us on our journey. They are simply giving us the wrong directions.

Because I felt lost that night on I-20, I would have taken whatever advice the lady at the gas station suggested. Mothers often feel this way, especially when our children are doing or saying things that we don’t understand. Things that aren’t what we want them to do. When this happens, we often go looking for direction…we seek the wisdom of others because we feel lost. We feel we’re not headed where we want to go. And we listen to advice, nod our heads, and go home with the intention of forcing on our children what worked for the children of others, as if they are lumps of cookie dough and we’re the cutters. Even if we’re not sure it’s the right thing. But we’ve never been down these roads before. Nothing is familiar. And so we find ourselves taking whatever advice is offered, even if it is sending us down a road we don’t want to travel.
However, I’ve come to discover that, just like that night on I-20, even when I feel lost, I still have an instinct inside that is guiding me in the right direction. Maybe I still go a little out of the way at times, but the journey is filled with twists and turns, and I always find myself back on the right path. Now, whenever some well-meaning soul imparts their wisdom on me, I nod and smile – I’ve found that simple act can get one through a lot in life – and I continue down the road I’m on, in the direction I know is right for my son and I. Every child is unique. Every parent/child relationship is unique. And thank goodness one does not create human beings in the same repetitive manner of stamping cookies from a lump of dough.

I know there will be many more times along this road of parenting when I will feel lost, confused. Afraid of taking a wrong turn or missing an exit. Not paying enough attention to the road. But luckily, there will always be friends, family, and even stranger-sages, willing to offer direction. Some will be wrong. Some will point out all my wrong turns, all my missed exits. They will tell me I should go the same direction they headed when they were taking this journey. They will bog me down so that I can’t move…if I listen. But I won’t. I’ll smile and nod and remember that there are also those who are like beacons in the night, shining their wisdom, always happy to reassure a lonely traveler that yes, you are heading in the right direction, you’ve just veered a little off course. They’ll seek no praise and take no pride in their words. They’ll simply reassure me that, even though I am heading off into the darkness down a road I’ve never traveled, that I am on the right parenting path for my son and I. I’ll thank them profusely, or at least try to, but they’ll simply shrug and return to their mopping, or whatever duty they are performing, because they have their own journeys they are thinking of. And I’ll head out once more into the unknown, on a path that, while unfamiliar, my mother-heart knows is right.

Greenwood Music Festival is here!

2009-01-07T17:49:00.000-08:00

Please come out and support these events...and also have a chance to view my painting, Harmony!

Story From GwdToday.com.......
Greenwood Music Festival this Weekend
Posted on 06.JAN.09
The Third Annual GREENWOOD MUSIC FESTIVAL continues this weekend, January 9-11 at different venues throughout Greenwood. Stacey Robinson performs a concert Friday night, January 9 at 8:00pm at First Baptist Church of Greenwood, 722 Grace Street. He is a Greenwood-area native who has starred on Broadway in "Show Boat", "The Phantom of the Opera" and on an international tour of "Porgy and Bess" with Houston Grand Opera. He will be singing a program which includes Broadway songs, popular selections, and spirituals. Tickets are $15.00.
The children's opera "PINOCCHIO" will be presented by Opera for Kids! FBN Productions, at Greenwood Community Theatre on Saturday, January 10 at 11:00am. This marks the South Carolina premier of this opera in English, based on the popular children's story. The performance will last about 40 minutes and is perfect for the entire family! Tickets are only $3.00

The Bridge String Quartet performs a concert of Mozart, Schubert and selections from West Side Story on Saturday night at the Arts Center at the Federal Building. The concert will be at 7:00pm and tickets are $10.00. This Atlanta-based quartet will perform this hour-long concert in the beautiful Reception Hall at the Arts Center located at 120 Main Street in Uptown Greenwood. Finally, the Palmetto Mastersingers will present a concert on Sunday, January 11 at 4:00pm as part of Sundays @ Four Concert Series at First Presbyterian Church at 108 East Cambridge Avenue. Know as "South Carolina's Musical Ambassadors", the Mastersingers present sacred and lighter fare during this FREE concert for the public. This 60-80 member men's chorus will uplift your hearts during our finale concert. Tickets for all events are available at the Arts Center, the Greenwood Chamber of Commerce, and the McCormick Arts Center at Keturah (MACK), and also at each event.

Come and experience a weekend of wonderful music for the entire family!

Sisters-poem

2008-11-22T19:39:00.000-08:00

Copyright 2008

Eyes meet
Across cave fires in the time of the ancients.
Eyes meet
across crowded supermarket lanes today.

The message is the same.

I understand.
I understand what it means to be a
Daughter
Mother
Grandmother
Aunt
Sister
Wife
Woman.

I understand because I, too, am
Daughter
Mother
Grandmother
Aunt
Sister
Wife
Woman.

Maybe you are all of these roles
And I am simply one or two

By blood or choosing it’s no matter.
We are sisters
Not because we understand each other.
But because we are each other.

WELCOME

2008-11-01T21:57:00.001-07:00

Art has always been a priority in my life; I never decided to become an artist, it seems I simply always was. I create art because I must. A nighttime painter, I work when the moon is high in the sky and the world is quiet. It is in these few stolen moments of solitude with my brushes and paint that I create on canvas, but I am continuously creating in my mind. I paint pictures and write stories and poems in my mind long before I commit them to paper or canvas. I have juggled art and writing for many years, giving in to the pull of each as it comes along. I also enjoy creating jewelry out of found and natural objects, (most recently being tiny glass beads, corn kernels, and shells); sewing; reading; knitting; teaching art; playing with my son and drinking coffee! Mmmm, coffee…