Neoteny

Low Batteries Won't Stop Me

2011-11-07T22:44:00.000-08:00

Yes, I've been making a pretty every day, however, my camera batteries won't be found to prove it.

#3 Saturday we had some friends for a pasta chicken supper. The napkins sported white ribbon. We turned the lights down low and talked, cried some, laughed a little, and collaborated on one stanza of Nancy's poem that had a hitch in its giddyup.

She brought me a bouquet of tulips and some specialty daffies to hurry and get in the ground. Thankfully there are only a few. Brita and I outdid ourselves last fall.

#4 Sunday, I made a paper collage of two chubbly, ragamuffin girls getting their toes sandy at the beach. Pails swinging, hats askew, and happy hearts.

We just found out two weeks ago that she has pancreatic cancer. Something cheerful in the mail doesn't change that, but it might make the day brighter?

She has been saving for retirement only a couple of years away, but life changes in mere moments. Everything is different now. She has always lived like she believes this isn't all there is, so it is all good. Healed now or later. It will be a grueling time ahead. I see much love already being boomeranged back - many of us have been loved well by her.

We are both beachy girls - most content by the ocean. I want her to be there in her happy spot, at least in her mind's eye. With me.

#5 Today, I wound all my ancient lace on tubes so I will be able to use it. It has been tangled and stuffed in a bag in the linen closet for years. I forget about it in the dark. Loverby made a rack for all five of the finished ones to hang on the wall. They are finally accessible and approachable.

Tug is Gone

2011-11-04T16:14:00.000-07:00

My brother's black lab died last week. He'd been sick a long time. Old age and a tired heart claimed him. Tugboat adored his master and mistress. Going hunting was his joy in life. He was synchronized perfectly with my brother, they worked together as one. He was a noble fellow. Our entire family will miss him. I think he is slobbering profusely as he runs full speed into the water making a big, big splash.

Day #2. Facing a blank white piece of paper is terrifying. Always. This is Tugboat's Tribute.

Making Pretties Day #1

2011-11-03T21:31:00.000-07:00

Every day I'm going to make something pretty, take the best picture I am able to, and post it. I need to create and play and participate with life right now. Too much passive spectating and admiring other's work can keep me from producing anything of my own. On purpose creative play is my current RX. Let's see how long it lasts. I'd love to see what you've been making too. Show me please.

Going through my vintage textiles I have come across pieces that could be thrown away, but instead I'm trying to save them by re-purposing/altering them. Lime green and cream batiste flowers today.

Gunkholing

2011-09-25T15:13:00.000-07:00

We did it before hearing the word spoken. We lived it before we knew there was such a word. We experienced it before we knew the definition.

Gunkholing. Racks of books by several authors exist about it along with a plethora of blogs and forums devoted to the subject. Who knew? It was waiting right outside our back door all this time, but we had to step off the porch and onto the deck of a boat to experience it.

For years we have explored our San Juan Islands by ferries carrying us in our car to favorite spots. We take a map and pack a picnic basket. Once a year we honeymoon on Orcas Island. We have seen the wonders of the Puget Sound and gloried in the fact that there isn't a Sea World fee bracelet to wear. Nor are there hot lines of disgruntled people pushing and shoving bruises into our flesh as we ooh and aah over the salty treasures presenting themselves for our pleasure.

We were content with our explorations until gunkholing last week. I'm afraid it has ruined us. There are islands public and private that aren't accessible by ferry. Gunkholing is the answer. Gunkholing on a sailboat is memorable, although the deep keel on a sailboat presents a challenge for the navigator. A map of the Puget Sound faced us as we sat on the toilet each time we visited the head. One more chance for the red marks warning of dangerous rocks to become engraved in our minds waking and sleeping.

Gunkholing: Find a little cove to head toward after an afternoon of sailing. Hitch up to a mooring ball, or anchor in the mud and gravel that holds well. Untie the dinghy. Row to the nearest beach. Tie it fast. Follow the trails to myriad discoveries. Sunken ships. Lighthouses. An old one room school. Lime kilns. Historic Company Towns. Seal rookeries. A safari island with exotic animals transplanted to our rainy PNW. The water is too shallow and the coves are too small for the big boys. One night we had a cove all to ourselves. The quiet attached itself to our pores, breathing with us, inviting us to disturb the sacred.

The oven/stove in the galley was gimballed. It swivelled as the boat rolled. I learned to brace my feet and sway while making coffee or hot chocolate. A few times we pulled a meal together while under way with a topsy turvy galley, a few bruises, and creative second and third options considered. I reveled in the challenge of preparing tasty food under difficult circumstances. No spills. No mop ups.

The first time all three sails were up and full, my throat swelled with gladness as I looked up. It reminded me of when I sat under the music of a massive pipe organ for the first time. I felt the vibrations through the wooden pew, wooden floor, and all along the wood paneling on the walls. When the sucking wind heeled the boat on its side it looked like water would rush the deck. It recovered and righted itself each time. I got the rush instead.

The Kookaburra effortlessly did what she was made to do. Catch wind and fly in its laughing face while porpoises raced along side.

Book Fun

2011-02-25T06:04:00.000-08:00

I made this yesterday. The quote I used is from August Rush. I know, I know, it was a sappy, sentimental movie - but I liked it anyways.

This is what inspired me: Nancy mentioned she had won this paper house garland from Kickcan and Conkers. Her lovely and inspiring sight brought me to the artist and creator of The Button Book. My uterus lurched a bit at the thought of giving birth to anything so darling. Ahhh, the creative trail leading to a fun day. That's how it happens. If you would like this little book, I'd mail it to you. It is no bigger than 2" X 2" Making it was the fun part.

Full Cup

2011-02-24T15:46:00.000-08:00

My dear friend Susan took a status I posted on Facebook some time ago and made it touchable and tangible. What a gift. I have it in front of my computer on my desk - to remind me when I don't feel so.

Drive By Shooting

2011-01-13T09:39:00.000-08:00

During our Idaho vacation, mom and I came upon this ice sculpture unexpectedly. It was on a farm out in the middle of nowhere. We had to stop and take pictures. Afterwards we paused and let our astonishment suck in the beauty till the chill wind drove us back to the car.

A creative, playful sort of farmer had turned a sprinkler on an unsightly, common pile of brush in his front pasture. Layer by layer it was growing ice crystal branches. Before our eyes it was being transformed into art.

Farmers are busy with chores. This one took time to play in between work. He and his family had quite view from their picture window. He gave us a memorable gift. Free. On the fly. A drive by shooting. :)

The Collected Works of You

2010-12-14T22:45:00.000-08:00

Nestled in between the books I love - are your stories. Keep writing!

Learning Collage

2010-12-13T19:01:00.000-08:00

Last spring a friend sent a surprise in the mail. This is what it looked like.

I started trying to learn art journaling or soul collage as some call it. Somerset Studios magazines compels me. I took Maureen's gift as inspiration - unwrapped it from its original form and opened it up. I glued it down onto the back of a large calendar after whose pages had all been glued together for thickness. I wanted a thick base. A few more pieces of my own heart and thoughts were glued on - it was beginning to be a collaboration. Seven layers of mod podge were coated over the top.

This is it in halves as it was too large to scan whole. It is a bit flat and lifeless still.

And a close up photo.

But here's where it started getting fun. Gesso. Gesso is my newest friend. Gel, hard body, smooth, fiber, clear, black, white - any type. I love gesso! Smooch.

One rough layer. Let it dry. Then I used acrylic paint, pearl powders, and distressing dye to finish the layers. In between each I mercilessly scrubbed, scraped, and sanded it. The dimension and textures are fantastic.

What I loved most was the scrubbing off to reveal what was underneath part. What's underneath is always a surprise. iLike that. Thanks Maureen for the continuing education ....of me.

This is the finished piece. It was beyond fun. I dance. I do.

Try clicking to enlarge and see the details if you want. Many things changed or got covered up ~ or uncovered as it evolved.

Tea Invitation

2010-12-08T13:31:00.000-08:00

A dear friend invited me to her annual Christmas Tea. It was the first time meeting her circle of friends. High Tea allows girls of all ages to be princesses for an afternoon. Everything was made from scratch. The lights welcoming us inside drew us to a table decorated with the finest setting. My eyes feasted on the vignettes in every corner.

High Tea is about careful details, ritual, and reveling in all things feminine. You want to be your best and enjoy it to the fullest. Gratitude abounds because of the invitation. Ugly can't come in the door. Every woman around the table seems to become more and more gorgeous as the conversation blossoms.

My hostess's deceased mother Helen, was mentioned several times. As I asked questions, it seemed like she was the common thread among them. Her influence had effected each of one.

One of the stories made a deep impression. Helen kept her table set for tea at all times. Her hospitality was framed in a tangible, enduring way. She was expecting you, hoping you would come and be served delicacies from her heart and hands. A magnetic woman ~ drawing other women to allow themselves the luxury of being nourished.

These are old photos of Helen's welcoming table.

She also wrote and sent cards to friends all her life. Many of the women there not only had kept each one, but had adopted the habit themselves and were leaving their own legacy.

One precious woman had enjoyed the set table herself so many times, she has been doing the same thing in her home for years.

She drank tea from a cup she had given our hostess many years ago. It was bittersweet for she is ill. Each year she is at the Christmas Tea is a gift, like each day she wakes. Full circle.

I think we have to experience a thing before we can absorb enough to have the wherewithal to give it away. Receiving it like a sponge is the only thing to do in these cases.

We were all reluctant to leave the magic. It was uplifting. The tastes and flavors lingered on our tongues like the memory will in our hearts. One afternoon of respite. One afternoon of nourishment and nurturing. One afternoon of such a gift spills over and drips on everyone and everything around us. It multiplies. I left wanting to pass it on, pay it forward.

Little girl tea parties are as playful as big girl tea parties. As I drove home I felt blessed to have been in the room with so much collective wisdom and luster.

Thank you ever so much for inviting me Kathy.

Cracked Open

2010-11-11T17:30:00.000-08:00

Our heels crack from weary walkabout.

Minds crack and shatter wanting to fold.

Hearts crack without tears.

Skin cracks and peels from lack of moisture.

Heads crack against buttresses impenetrable.

Our bones crack from heavy packs.

Finally, our very souls crack open

wetting cracked lips.

It's the only way to find our voice.

Take courage my friend. Being cracked open lets your story out. It is still being written.

Bird Below

2010-11-11T16:50:00.000-08:00

White bird
circling high
above the valley
weaves a bouquet of
mountains together
below me

Waimea Canyon, Kauai. November 2010

Playground for Light

2010-11-06T18:06:00.000-07:00

End of season fluff

used to be harvested

by tribal prairie people

for diaper filling

and women's flow.

Bed mats too, softening

sleep on earthen floors.

Soft cotton free and plentiful.

Disposable?

Recyclable?

Renewable?

Back then?

Farmers hate it like

gardeners hate dandelions.

One strong gust spreads

millions of floating seeds waiting

to root. Blackbirds roost and

nest in cattail marshes before

deciding to strip a field of

sunflower seeds.

"But wait, please don't kill the cattails" ~ I pled.

My first firefly show

happened here

long ago.

The glow of it

has yet to dim.

Gallant Loverby

got wet catching

one buzzing light ~

a love trophy for

me, his new bride.

Captured magic

~love's light~

magnified in

a mason jar.

This fall, Loverby stopped to let me take a picture at a thriving cattail colony in the slough. It was still there in spite of planes spraying for complete eradication all those years ago. I had gone crazy when I realized they were systematically trying to rid the prairie of magical places where fireflies played. When I came stumbling into the house sobbing because the planes were spraying overhead with a vengeance - my mother in law held me and cried with me. She explained that the blackbirds came in hoards like locusts and cleaned out the sunflower fields. The cattail sloughs were their breeding ground. They would have no harvest to harvest if something wasn't done. I hated not being able to offer an alternative.

I was an idealistic young woman raging against the destruction of the place where cotton batting grew free, and light played and lived.

I still don't notice blackbirds.

Cellar Remains

2010-11-06T16:52:00.000-07:00

Playmates won't slide down this cellar

door. It is gone like the house above.

Rocks split on the grain

were dry stacked flush

by hard hands.

An artist holding hammer

and chisel raised the puzzle

one row at a time.

Small rocks

fill empty spaces

between

big ones balancing careful

until corners meet

woven and strong.

This cool dark hole

preserved harvest well

until the long winter was done.

Homestead wives

went down stairs outside

to the store around

the corner

underneath

their porch.

Barefoot Heart

2010-09-14T10:53:00.000-07:00

Comes a time

a wintery time

between summers

when my

earth widened

sun browned

barefoot heart

has to squish

expansive parts

unwillingly

back inside

uncomfortable

tight spots

constrained by

framed by

culture

no air cleansing

no water cooling

no sand tickling

earthiness

no circles

only rows

no love feasts warm

celebrating at the table

of friends

only

clacking plastic

grating against shiny

metal holes passed somber

with

baskets of crumbs

dead and dry and tasteless

unable to breathe

or wriggle free

monstrous waves

of panting panic

attack

until ties are loosened

buckles unfastened

restraints kicked

off and away toward

the preferred

expanse

of summertime's

intended

green

freedom

where

no blisters rub

my barefoot heart

raw

Maureen encouraged me to join in the fun happening over at One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday. Even though I feel quite shy about it, playing with others and learning from them is good. Poetry only recently found me. I'm most thankful.

Pretending

2010-08-24T14:42:00.000-07:00

The pile of end cut two by fours tempted me. It was fire wood for camping, but playing with it wouldn't hurt it any, would it?

As I stacked two north and south on one layer, then two east and west the next ~ it grew quickly. The kids gravitated to the tower making. Soon they branched off with their own creative plans leaving me with a tiny midget of almost three years.

When I had to start lifting her to put one more layer on, we decided to started another small tower just her size. She promptly stuck her legs in using one side for a seat, the other for a table. With me squatting on the ground outside her 'house', we had a tea party. Sticks were scones, dirt was sugar, leaves were saucers and cups. The cream had to be poured out of thin air.

After a bit, she became concerned with the lopsided hospitality and insisted that I join her inside her 'house'. At first she had trouble understanding that my large body simply would not, could not fit. Puzzled, she looked around trying to solve the problem. Her eyes hit upon a wooden crate not far away. Leading me by the hand, she showed me my 'house'. She lit up with delight as we both took our places at the table and set out another, fresher tea party. It was very refined, and delicious. It felt like I had taken a turn into Neverland for a few moments. Tea parties with my girls were quite some time ago ~ mixing the memories from then into now ~ was sweet. It was a relief that I still remembered how to have a proper tea.

An older and wiser little girl of six or seven came over to see what we were doing. She didn't understand the laughter. She didn't see the tea party accoutrements, the steam from our cups, or the lemon curd drizzling down the scones.

She asked us what we were doing. A puzzled look scrunched her face as I told her, showed her, invited her. She shook her head no. I asked her if she ever played pretend. Again, she shook her head no, saying it was weird. As the grown up little girl walked away, I wanted to catch her up in my arms, and beg her to stay and play.

The shortest sentence in scripture is: Jesus wept. So did I.

Passion Play

2010-08-02T06:31:00.000-07:00

Need Fire was one of the Celtic bands playing at the Scottish Highland Games in Enumclaw this weekend. They took turns sharing one of the stages with The Wicked Tinkers.

Little Michael Purser plays the didgeridoo and the fiddle for Need Fire. At the end of the day, I noticed his fiddle bow was nearly shredded. I asked him if this was a common occurence. He shyly hung his head and admitted that it was. If a fiddle bow could look happy, that one did. Completely tired and happy.

Since I was without a camera or phone to record the evidence, I asked Lauren Madison if she had any pictures of it. Turns out she is a photographer and gave me permission to dig up and use any she had taken of Michael.

Both of these celtic bands have pipers and drummers who send primal shivers down your spine and entice you to shed your inhibitions while you listen. What happens the Highland Games stays at the Highland Games......

At the end of life, I want to be shredded from being passionately used. Used long and hard and joyously.

Shredded passion ~ unstrung ~ then restrung only to be shredded once again by the music maker.

Play me.

Coupling

2010-07-30T09:43:00.000-07:00

This is how trains do it.

Loving Family Food

2010-07-12T11:33:00.000-07:00

Overweight and morbidly obese are defining words for me. My 76 year old mother came to visit last week along with Lisa, my baby sister, and two of her youngest.

One afternoon it was so warm that the batch of sourdough bread I was making for supper had to be baked early. The neighbor kid smelled it, as did Loverby as he arrived home from work.

Hot bread doesn't have a chance. We all hovered in the kitchen where we demolished a large pan of buns slathered with butter and peach freezer jam. Appetizer course before supper. We were breadless for supper, no apologies.

The next night, mom was delighted to discover the freezer full of blackberries. She is famous for her pie.

She baked two lovely, flaky berry pies. Dessert was a french vanilla ice cream dollop on the side melting away from the warmth of the crust.......

Food feels like eating love. Swallowing, chewing, drooling love.

Fast food, prepackaged food, Costco crap, processed and refined foods don't tempt me.

Real food made with loving hands and passionate hearts, plated and served with joy; irresistable.

Family, friends and food just go together fantastically. Right? The last 'f' word is FAT. Unfortunately.

My chin has tripled and my stomach is splayed out across my thighs as I sit. I have no lap at the moment.

I am unable to walk, jog, or bend over, but perhaps I can waddle out to the garden and water?

Driftwood Day

2010-07-01T21:07:00.000-07:00

The heat was nearly turned on today. Once again, I reclaimed my practical nature and put on socks and a cozy sweater instead. One more sunless day.

Our lawn looks like a pasture that needs cut and baled. The peas are leggy. Two rows of spinach bolted before they became edible. A rhubarb bed collapsed in on itself with rotten pithy stalks. A bed of peppers and basil haven't grown an inch since I planted them long ago. Pretty midget garden.

We have a generous crop of fungus popping up everywhere. It is equivalent to cancer for the garden and yard. I have no ideas for chemo or radiation treatments. They don't resemble anything you buy in the store, so I believe they are poisonous. Why can't they be $15.00 a lb portablellos?

All of our walls inside are either red, dark green, or a rich butter yellow. As I sat cross legged on the couch feeling like I was in a dark cave, I considered painting everything white before next winter. A crying jag erupted at the thought of sterile walls. White walls make me itch.

Craig came home during this breakdown. When he figured out there weren't any hopeful dinner smells coming from the kitchen, he quickly went to plan Q. Plan B, C, or D weren't even considered.

Plan Q includes many things. First, he dries my tears as he leads me to the bedroom. The door is locked. I get tucked gently under warm down quilts. We snuggle skin on skin until life starts flowing in. Endorphins start flooding. Love blooms. Relief and release of real and imagined worries fly away.

The afternoon seemed brighter somehow, even though the sky was dripping still.

We got a wild hair to go out to a local beach and look for driftwood for a project we're working on. Maggie and I climbed around on heaped up, beached driftwood of all shapes and sizes. I filled a few bags and the back of the pick-up bed with treasures.

I recovered my equilibrium somewhere between the sheets of our marriage bed, balancing on piles of castaway wood, and take out pizza. Grey is never nice, but it does sometimes have delicious texture.

Spent

2010-06-21T05:54:00.000-07:00

After blossom is gone,

delicate bones remain.

Evergreen clematis blooms early.

Empty pods reminding

me at a glance ~

what once was

might be possible again.

Fragile skeleton memory.

Mother Things

2010-05-27T20:19:00.000-07:00

Here is a valuable piece sifted from Ruth Riechl's book, Not Becoming My Mother...and Other Things She Taught Me.

She is the editor of 'Gourmet' cookbook.

The following excerpt from the book is a letter from a man who wrote to the author's mother after spending time with her one evening. It seems like he was older and wiser, nothing romantic. He saw so much potential in her that he couldn't help but write her a note and encourage her.

Go ahead into life, full-blooded, courageous and leap for the adventure. But you must do it soon---before the summer of your youth has cooled into caution. You are magnificently charming--and you come like a torrent. But you will be spent on the futility of little things. You are not a watercolor. you are carved out of life--and there can be no petty hesitancies about you.

(This was passed on to me via my friend Emily. She reads cookbooks for fun. Marcella Hazan easily trumps Jamie Oliver and Julia Child both; when Emily has her apron on.)

Gently Used

2010-05-25T21:58:00.000-07:00

Quilts are pieced together with with forethought and love. The more they are used, the softer and more puckered they become.

I'm sure if they had a say in it, they would choose to be cuddled until the colors blended and wore through. Tight hand stitching keeps it together even when the fabric gives way.

I love scrapbag antique quilts best. Re-purposed fabric from clothes. It seems like they whisper a better traveler's story.

Someone said, 'we should be completely used up, poured out and worn to a nubbins when we die'. Or something like that.

I concur. :)

Spoonin'

2010-05-25T09:51:00.000-07:00

These are called love spoons. I found them in Wales. It was impossible to pick only one. I was smitten with the handcrafted artistry.

Traditionally, when a young man started courting a girl, he began the process of carving his first gift to her. Maybe he was admired for his craftsmanship and his choice of wife? Perhaps she was admired for being worth so much effort and symbolic care?

Girls? We still want wooed. Pursued. Won. Courted with creative words and actions of love.

Loverby still makes me feel like this, after 21 years. It doesn't look like a spoon ~ one bursting gift of creative inspiration to seal the getting part.

It looks more like tender hearted loving kindness in action. Whenever it is now. He decides ~ day after grueling day to generously and continuously help me feel chosen, like Johnny Lingo's Eight Cow Wife.

Some days it must be a most difficult task. Carving a spoon with only your fingernails would seem easier, I'm almost certain.

Thanks for your steadfast, forebearing, never failing, stout heart, Loverby.

iLike. iDo.

Finding Rest

2010-05-20T20:56:00.000-07:00

This is an old, water damaged lithograph from the turn of the century. It hung with a companion piece in my grandma's house since forever ago. I keep it in our bedroom. If you'll notice, the STALLION has all his anatomy present and is using all that testosterone well. Noble beast.

Tacked unceremoniously underneath is a simple quote from John Eldredge's Wild at Heart ~

There under the shadow of a man's strength, a woman finds rest.

It reminds both of us what our best roles are.

Craig's is to initiate and use his strength on my behalf. Mine is to simply respond.

And when a woman is relaxed, rested, protected, fought for....you never know what else he might initiate that she'll want to respond to.

All Tangled Up

2010-05-19T21:10:00.000-07:00

Love is nice to hold on to.

Clasp it tightly, without a choke hold.

It can look messy. Tangled. Meshed. Interwoven. Impossible.

It's a good way to climb. Nice support for each other.

It makes a seriously tangled mess.

Beautiful love knots tied to an irrevocable trust.

Succulent

2010-05-12T18:02:00.000-07:00

Tulips are lovely. Delicate creatures.

This one danced too long, finally succumbing to the wind.

It blew her down. Apart. Fallen comrade. Bruised.

Fragile. Short lived.

She is busy making bulbs down below ground.

She will bloom again, with her offspring; but it will take a year.

These are succulents.

This plant family is rugged.

If a leaf is plucked off, an entire plant grows from it.

It doesn't need much water.

Roots will form without being buried properly.

In fact it likes the cut places to dry out. Scabs are good.

They are prolific and need split up regularly.

Given away. Shared.

They will live happily in harsh

places, cold winters, bad soil, rocky reaches.

They squirm into unlikely nooks and crannies.

Hot sun, rain, shade ~ it's all good.

They don't need cosseted.

Succulents stay juicy with life, storing their own moisture.

They don't need prime living conditions, they adapt anywhere.

They are an independent, forgiving plant.

I like tulips, but would rather be succulent.

Kaelee's Bridal Shower

2010-05-10T06:57:00.000-07:00

We hosted a bridal shower yesterday. Kaelee is a sweet girl. Ingenue would best describe her personality. She was a good sport as we tortured her by dressing her up in jewel incrusted breastplates, white gloves, frilly apron, leather motorcycle jacket, lacy collar, and princess crown.

We all sighed and cried as she recounted how they fell in love. They have a good start on marriage because they have a solid base of friendship. Romance comes and goes. You can't swoon or gaze into each other's eyes all the rest of your life. Friendship is needed. Useful. Priceless.

She found herself surrounded by love and memories and well wishing. I hope their life goes well also. But this isn't the best thing. The best thing is that they'll know and fully experience intimacy with their Creator. Together and separately. Mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

My gift to her was standard bride's fare. The CD and book, Sheet Music by Dr Kevin Lehman. I give it to every engaged couple, hoping they'll educate themselves for love's sake. A monster bubble wand with bubbles to remind them to play. A bunch of glow sticks for the same reason. And night lights with red bulbs in them, because they make the boudoir and the sacred things done there, glow.

Unsolicited advice? The important things sift out to only a few. Sleep naked. Play together. Pray together. Be learners. Stay friends. Have friends. Laugh. Make memories instead of buying stuff. Stay out of debt. Make love often. Travel. Read. Eat real food, made with love.

And remember to be, rather than to appear.

Maid of Honor

Bride's Maids

Jumping for Joy

Gifts

Worn Out

2010-05-07T21:52:00.000-07:00

Bluest ever sky. Whitest ever cloud. Perhaps a heart shaped one, framing us. Noticed.

When the seat drops out, decorate it. Whimsey.

Grandma died a couple of years ago at 106.

Still wanting to dance. We found this in her things.

She had saved them, unused.

Saved for a special day that must have never happened?

I want to use and enjoy my pretties.

Wear them completely out.

No Jelly

2010-05-05T21:50:00.000-07:00

This is a fitting excerpt for this blog's intent and purpose.

When my friend Susan and I used to write letters back and forth twenty some years ago ~ or rather she wrote 5 to my one ~ this was a handwritten plea to tempt me to find and read the book. I did. Back then, I was determined NOT to let this hideous thing happen. I wonder if it has, without me noticing?

"...Death is not the enemy; age is not the enemy. These things are inevitable, they happen to everybody. But what we ought to fear is the kind of death that happens in life. It can happen at any time. You're going along and then, at some point, you congeal. You know, like jelly. You're not fluid anymore. You solidify at a certain point and from then on your life is doomed to be a repetition of what you have done before.

That's the enemy. There are two kinds of people walking around on the earth. One kind you can tell just by looking at them at what point they congealed into their final selves. It might be a very nice self but you know you can expect no more surprises from it. Whereas, the other kind keep moving and changing. With these people, you can never say, 'X stops here' or 'I know all there is to know about Y'. And that's the kind of person I hope I shall be always.

I said, 'but if there are always changing & moving, couldn't that mean they are unstable?'

Far from it. They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young. They are the only ones who are still alive.

And how will I know if it starts to happen to me? I asked.

Well, if you wake up one morning and think: another day to get through, that might be a danger signal. Though not necessarily. Everyone has dreary interims. You just have to distinguish between a dreary interim and the onset of jellification. However, if you catch yourself becoming complacent, I'd say that was a bad sign. Or repeatedly choosing the old, familiar routine rather than rousing yourself and striking out for new territory, whether it's mental or emotional, or actually going somewhere new.

If you ever feel it coming, she said, you must do something quickly. The best antidote I have found is to yearn for something. As long as you yearn, you can't congeal: there is a forward motion to yearning.

Now, my thoughts go forward to meet hers. I know something of life's betrayals and stupidities myself. I know the ashy taste of not living up to some part of your dream. I even know the necessity for making constant adjustments to your life story so you can go on living it. But I also know something else that I didn't know then. As long as you can go on creating new roles for yourself, you are not vanquished.

Excerpts from The Finishing School by Gail Godwin

Thanks Sue, for uncovering it again. I love organized friends who find good things to share and remember how to retrieve them later.

Spring Fever

2010-05-03T07:58:00.000-07:00

A friend I only know from Twitter and Facebook sent this exuberant collage in the mail.

In the mail with a stamp and a handwritten poem note.

The envelope was hand written too.

I haven't met her in person, but this was close.

Hand made with love and thoughtfulness.

A delightful gift that splashed sun rays all over my day.

I think she must have had fun putting it together.

Being creative with

textures and color ~ using our imaginations ~ tends to have that result.

Hand to pen

ink to paper

mind to heart

to heart

Thank you my friend. The east coast and west coast are not so very far apart after all.

Princess Crown

2010-05-02T14:08:00.000-07:00

Jenny is the music teacher in a previous post. It's her birthday. Her friend Jan, made this for her. She is the playful sort who wants to wear it out in public. It's why I love her. She is the source of much inspiration.

The quintessential princess.

It is wonderful that Jan took time for a personally creative gesture such as this. Jan and the Crown Princess epitomize play. They are both much too old to be engaging in such frivolity. Or are they?

Priceless

2010-04-29T19:58:00.000-07:00

In between these two collages is something true.

A reminder from me to you.

For females only.

Girlfriends, daughters, sisters, and mothers.

The first one is a frame of sorts.

Put your face in it, like you're looking in a mirror.

Look deep into your own eyes.

Your eyes are beautiful and shine with love.

These eyes notice the lovely and good.

You have a yes face towards the world.

When you invite and offer yourself to others,

they bloom from the watering.

You add color and texture all around you.

Who you are becoming is part of where you've been.

Your essence leaves memories.

You are priceless.

Breaking Bread Not News

2010-04-29T09:05:00.000-07:00

The thrift store lured me in. The siren call of my book addiction slammed the brakes on and turned the wheel. It's fun even if I leave with an empty basket. A look-see, just in case there is something I'm missing.

I saw an astonishing thing this trip. A long shelf packed with bread machines. Some years ago, everyone wanted one. Had to have one. They weren't cheap.

Bread is a passion for me. There is a sensual pleasure in making it that touches all the layers inside. If a meal includes a warm free-form loaf of bread, the experience and memory is a good one.

I have recently returned to making it after a couple years off. We forgot how satisfying it is. How it compliments even the simplest meal. We had homemade chicken soup with crusty hot bread the other night. Each of us felt nurtured and nourished by this homely combination. It was plain, but satisfying.

My sourdough starter is about fifteen years old. Before going to bed I put a dab of starter in a glass bowl with water and flour. The sponge bubbles and gurgles all night working, eating, and stretching the gluten. In the morning, I add salt and enough flour to gather a ball together. In the bowl, I knead it a few times to smooth it and let it rest till the afternoon, covered. It gets punched down and shaped into a baguette or rolls. By supper time, it is ready to bake in a hot oven.

I dream of a wood fired brick oven in the back yard, but they are quite the investment. Those who have one are fortunate in my opinion.

Lord help the person who cuts my hot crusty loaf. Breaking it open is the only way. Rough. Rustic. Sensuous bread. And curses on the poverty stricken person who would contaminate it with merely margarine. Horrors. Butter is the true companion ~ a love match.

If the previous owners of all those sad, washed up, unwanted bread machines only knew the joy and ease with which familial happiness could be had.

Play. Do. Play.

2010-04-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

Snoqualmie Falls

2010-04-25T19:04:00.000-07:00

Saturday Craig took me to Snoqualmie Falls. In the spring, the force and power plunging over the rocks plucks your soul like a metal banjo string. Your whole body feels the strum and happily hums in ripples.

We tested out Craig's new knee, taking the trail down to the river bed. It works! He is doing well and is grateful to be without chronic, acute pain.

On the trail he stopped and pointed out a small puddle with a bubbling spring feeding it from the bottom before trickling and spilling over. It was enchanting; small simple joy always is.

At the bottom of the river bed it was clear how high the mist was bouncing up. We welcomed the fine spray.

We met two guys who were finishing a photo shoot at the base of the falls. Craig helped them get the gear over the railing to the trail. The young man showed me part of a video he was working on. The shots were stunning; he was happy with what he had accomplished, but had no idea how amazing it really was. It was refreshing. He was doing what he loved because he loved it. The interchange was a gift. Serendipitous. Artists creating are a treat to come across.

Hiking up the steep grade, Craig had to wait for me to catch my breath. I've been lounging way too much this winter! A mountain climber/telemark athlete whizzed by without breaking a sweat or panting,
right when I was clutching a fence post and gasping asthmatically. He cheerfully told me to take smaller steps locking my knees each time.

Surprise! It worked better. We made it to the top and peeked over one more time to take home some more vibe.

Hans Christian Andersen

2010-04-23T12:30:00.000-07:00

He's my new obsession. It's Rumer Godden's fault. And the Goodwill's. I found Rumer writing about Hans at 50% off. Couldn't pass them up for $1.50.

We grew up with a giant Fairy Tales with illustrations by Benvenuti. The pictures transported me as wind on the wings of the words. I have never tired of the Tales.

As an adult, reading about his life is almost as good. Against all odds isn't a cliche for him. His life epitomizes it. He is Denmark's most beloved artist and son. Against all odds.

This is what Rumer Goddin writes about him in Hans Christian Andersen. Forgive how long it is. I think it was my need that compelled me.

His father started it on his deathbed by admonishing his mother, "If it's the silliest thing in the world, let him do it." She let him leave home very young to begin a new life in the big city. He had nothing except the contents of his broken ceramic pig and an imagination. And his perpetual answer, "I shall be famous." This seemed preposterous given his humble family beginnings.

Hans was ungainly, uncomely, gawky and given to tears. He was unsuccessful at learning a trade and studying in general.

Once an older friend gave him some flowers to take to a woman friend and said, gracefully: "It will please her to get a bouquet from a poet's hand."

Hans Christian felt as if he were on fire. It was the first time anyone had called him a poet.

"I really loved these people in whose society one is made better....that which is dark passes away and the whole world appears in sunlight."

When Hans was happy he soared to dangerous heights, dangerous because in his happiness he boasted and showed all his naivete.

So much of a writer's life is inextricably woven with his work that it is hard to tell what is dreamed and what is reality. Hans was then the young student poet of the story, leaning on the sill, gazing while the moonlight shone over the houses: he gazed until the chimney-pots seemed to change to mountains and the gleam of the canal was a river winding far away. The whole world came to him there, through the moon, which said: "Paint what I tell you, and you will have a fine picture book."

....there was a change in him; in his years away Hans had grown a mind filled with judgment and knowledge, and his quiet suffering under much bullying had given him dignity, a queer legacy to have come from Meisling.

People thought it was conceit that made Hans read aloud; it was not, it was necessity. A poet cannot tell the effect of his poem until he has heard it, seen it effect on an audience. It was the same later on with the Tales; as he read them, he was listening acutely, waiting to see where they lost pace and flagged, where they needed more weight, and afterwards he would go home and correct them.

"My hardships are over," he said. It seemed that all he had to do to be happy was to write and earn a little money, and that was charming because it was writing that made him happiest of all.

Then he had a letter from Ingemann; the poet warned Hans against frivolity. Ingemann knew that a social life is death to the artist, and he begged Andersen to give it up, and not to care so much for other people's opinion, but to be true to himself.

What is wrong with sophistication? Nothing, if it does not take one's sense of values away. Hans ended by knowing this very well.

....he had to live, and that for an artist is always the difficulty, how to balance dreams and living.

It is not wise for a writer to challenge his critics, except by working steadily on......

"Memories are like amber beads," he wrote, "if we rub them, they give back the old perfume."

Hans was the perfect traveler; he had an open mind, a quick eye, a capacity for picking up conversations and little scenes, and a breadth of vision to wonder at great ones.

....he had always this uncanny power of bringing things alive, darning needles, tin soldiers, pots and pans, fir trees.....

If he seemed unquenchable, it was partly unconscious; he was still very naive; if anything was beautiful to him, he said so with enthusiasm; he thought his own works very beautiful and believed in them with his whole heart; and that heart was so big and vulnerable, it could be wounded at once; then he cried out bitterly. He knew this was not good, but he could not help it.

It was not vanity. It was because he had been made to feel inferior for so long - a poor workman's son, charity child, beggar, ignoramus - that he was so thin-skinned, thin-skinned but not really vain; really vain people like the silliest flattery; Hans disliked gushing admiration as much as he liked genuine appreciation.

If it is tiring to read about the continual tears, the wild happinesses, it was far more tiring to experience them; Andersen was often worn out with his own emotions, flagellated by them. A book was published in 1927 considering him as a psychiatric case, carefully considered from a doctor's point of view, but the way a poet lives is on his emotions; the soaring hopes, the deep despair are normal for a poet; for him life is very bitter or very sweet.

Hour after hour he sat in his room holding his head in his hands, while the paper was blank in front of him or scribbled over with writing that was sterile, immature, ill mannered, still straining to be a Walter Scott or Heine.....still, still not Andersen.

Hans, they said, could never tell the color of a woman's eyes; "He only sees the soul in things."

"Oh dear me, one need only let the heart speak to be a good poet!"

When Andersen was sent the first bad reviews of Agnete, Hans rushed with them to Thorvaldesen, who, when he had read them, spoke seriously to the younger man. "Never let this sort of thing touch you," he said. "Feel your own strength. Don't be led by popular opinion. Go quietly ahead. Peace of mind is essential to creative work. You are unfortunate in needing a public, but this is something one must never be aware of or one becomes the prey of its whims."

The kind of women he wanted hardly thought of him as a man.... they were fond of the child in him. It was the price he paid for his gift; one of the qualities of Han's writing, the one that makes it impossible for anyone to imitate him is its purity of feeling, its innocence; it is like the pure clear voice of the choristers he had heard in Dresden, who had given up their manhood to sing.

"But the poet knew it was only God who made the poem...." And God, in life, has a way of giving you what you want in such a curious fashion that you do not recognize it.

Hans said of his Tales, "Really I should drop these trifles, and concentrate on my real work."

The Andersen Tales spread quickly......But they were to be more than a fashion and soon they were found on the grownups' tables as well as in the nursery. That is what Andersen had meant: I get hold of an idea and tell a story for the young ones," he said, "remembering all the time that father and mother are listening and we must give them something to think about too."

He was completely bewildered when he brought out the third collection and they were declared the best things he had written.

He was not only mystified, he was a little annoyed.

People who have not read Andersen may ask, with him, what there was in these little tales that has placed them where they are. What is it that makes them so different from Perrault or Grimm? The answer is "everything."

To begin with, they have a perfection of form that none of the others achieved. Each story has the essence of a poem, and a poem is not prose broken into short lines, but a distilling of thought and meaning into a distinct form, so disciplined and finely made, so knit in rhythm, that one word out of place, on word too much, jars the whole. In Andersen we are never jarred and it is this that gives the Tales their extraordinary swiftness-too often lost in translation-so that they are over almost before we have had time to take them in, and we have had the magical feeling of flying. The children, he remarked, always had their mouths open when he had finished; that is the feeling we have too.

They were not written swiftly, were not the happy accidents that some people think them; anyone who has studied the original manuscripts from the first short draft of a story, through all its stages of crossing out, rewritings and alterations in Andersen's small spiky handwriting, the cuttings and pastings together, until the last draft was ready for the printer, can see how each word was weighed, and what careful pruning was done, what discipline was there. Even the discipline was skillful; Andersen never let it kill the life in his style.

In the Bible we are told that God formed man out of the dust of earth and breathed into his nostrils....and Man became a living soul. Without irreverence it might be said that Hans did something like that too; he formed his stories of the dust of earth: a daisy, an old street lamp, a darning needle, a beetle, and made them live. His breath was unique; it was an alchemy of wisdom, poetry, humor, and innocence.

He was adult, a philosopher, and a lovable man; his stories are parables and have meanings that sound on and on-sometimes over our heads-after their last word is read. He was a poet and knew the whole gamut of feeling from ecstasy to black melancholy and horror. People call him sentimental; in a way he was, but in the first meaning of the word, which is not "excess of feeling" but an abounding in feeling and reflection. He was a child; children have this godlike power of giving personality to things that have none, not only toys, but sticks and stones, banister knobs and footstools, cabbages; it dies in them as they grow up, but Andersen never lost this power. "It often seems to me," he wrote, "as if every hoarding, every little flower is saying to me: 'Look at me, just for a moment, and then my story will go right into you'""Right into you," that is the clue. The daisy, the street lamp, the beetle-they are suddenly breathing and alive.

.....Even though they did not understand the whole; they were not mean to; all Andersen wanted was that they should love them; presently, as they grew up, they would understand; to stop and explain-as conscientious mothers do-is to spoil the rhythm, the whole feeling. Let the children wonder; these are wonder tales.

A poet is unpredictable even to himself; he never knows when or how his ecstasy or melancholy will seize him; it has nothing or little to do with outside circumstances; the same people, the same place, the same things can fill him with joy one day, misery the next.

Just as most people do not have transports of happiness that make them throw their arms round trees and kiss them, so they do not know this black melancholy. A poet has to learn that he is in the grip of his own moods, paying as it were for his gift, almost to diagnose himself, and this is hard to do; Andersen must often have looked round on his equable, sensible friends, serene with that tough and cool serenity which seems to flourish in the North, and wished that he were they.

There was another recognition in these years, one that meant more to Andersen than anyone would ever know; he met Meisling, his old rector, in the street. He had suffered more from this man than from anyone else in his life, been driven almost out of his mind by fear of him; now he looked down on a fat shabby little man with a red nose, whose breath was rank with drink. Andersen was on his way out to dine, groomed, with clean linen and a fashionable coat, hat and cane. As he looked at the grotesque figure of his old master, certain words must have rung on the air: "Your verse will end as waste pater...and you in a lunatic asylum."

Meisling trembled and held out his hand. "I must tell you," he stammered, "that I know how wrong I have been." He could barely get the words out; they were unmistakably sincere. He knew he had been cruel and how much he was below his old pupil; if Hans would only forgive......Andersen would not let him finish; he took the little man's hand and all he felt was gladness that the strange inexplicable hatred was gone, that and sorrow that his old tormentor should be so derelict.

In The Staunch Tin Soldier a quality shines out that might be called the soul of Andersen; a little fantastic, and so gay and crisp that one almost forgets the steadfastness that is the point of the whole story. It was staunchness that molded the one-legged tin soldier, at last, into a glowing tin heart, and steadfastness that was beginning to make the scattered, complex Andersen into a whole poet.

This is my tribute to poetry month and the poets in my life. I'm thankful for each lovely thing you write.

Shock the Pink Lady

2010-04-15T21:06:00.000-07:00

Who will show them how to pull a bleeding heart blossom apart to expose the shocked pink lady taking a bath?

How will they know to pick a dandelion and smear a friend's chin with butter?

Will they shell a pea? Pick daisies?

If they don't get to help plant a garden, how will they understand the natural law of sowing and reaping?

Who will make a daisy chain for them? A flower crown? A May basket?

Will they learn how to make a hollyhock lady with crinoline skirts?

Will they ever see a cow milked or butter made?

Will they be able to hold a chick or gather warm eggs?

Who will build a driftwood fire that makes rainbows in the dark?

Will they taste a s'mores roasted on a campfire?

Will anyone take them tent camping?

Who will let them iron hankies? Give them leftover pie crust to make tarts? Let them have a hunk of bread dough to knead and watch rise?

How will they learn to sew a button on? Make jewel toned jelly? Gravy?

Will anyone lay with them and beg for falling stars? Show them cloud pictures?

Will they understand wheat, milk, and meat isn't bad for us, it's how we alter it that makes it so?

Will they see animals mating, the miracle of birth, and the pure sweetness of nursing young?

Will they know what words like yeast, yoke, plow, harvest, reins, and honeycomb mean?

Will anyone care that the swallows return every year and there are places where monarch butterflies stop to rest each migration?

People want to save the world - keep it green they say. Might as well just color it a virtual green for us children who are only virtually experiencing it. Spectating instead of participating.

X-box, Wii, Farmville, Bejeweled Blitz, FB, Twitter, Smart phones, Laptops, and every other electronic thing is powerfully stimulating and at times addicting. Even useful!

But soul satisfying? Refreshing? Restorative? Playful? Intimate? Satisfying?

Excerpt

2010-04-02T15:10:00.000-07:00

Excerpt from The Goings on of Ordinary People ~ By Tessa Overby (a work in progress by my daughter, who makes me laugh on a regular basis)

"Before trying to sound cool, I've found it's always best to watch/read the rest of the story.

In this age of movies and music, the coolness factor is measure by how much you can quote. I have always strived to be one such afficionado, only to fail on numerous occasions by a fumbling tongue and lack of lightning speed wit.

We all know how it is when you have the biggest crush on a boy. I get a hand cramp from googling the last three lines of his favorite song at warp speed. This, so he might see how witty I can be. Never mind the let down he'll get when he actually marries me and finds out what a doof I am.

Let me confess; I've seen and done it all. Sometimes you learn when you're trying to impress a guy, not trying is better.

Our country's most beloved TV show for young adults is Friends. There's an episode where Phoebe (me) changes her name to get back at her husband. She changes it to Princess Consuella Banana Hammock. I laughed so hard at this, and didn't think I needed to watch the rest. Mistake.

I smiled to myself and decided to text the love of my life at that time. He didn't hardly know I breathed the same air as him. The text message read something like this; "you may now call me Princess Consuella Banana Hammock".

There was no reply to this seemingly witty message. A side note ~ this boy I was trying hard to win was on swim team.

I decided to text the same message to one of my girlfriends to see if it wasn't as funny as I thought. She replied,"do you know what a banana hammock is"? I said, "no". She then told me.

Nothing could ever describe how much I wanted to change my name and run to Morocco. I wish I could say I never tried to foolishly impress a boy again, but the truth is, I'm human. I am learning to watch and listen to the full episode or song before trying to seem like another Gilmore Girl with fast comebacks and witty humor.'

Play Money

2010-03-23T13:24:00.000-07:00

Gold and silver coins. Paper money. Currency. Tradeable. Exchangeable. Highly sought. Killed for. Fought for. Greed and jealousy stick to it sometimes.

I have found another kind of currency. It may fill pockets, but always hearts.

I count my days with this other kind of currency. Play money for the game of life from the Banker.

Monday was a three eagle day. Tuesday looked up twice towards falling stars. Wednesday was filled with seal conversation. Thursday rained pennies from heaven. Friday startled me with a double rainbow. Saturday tripped over heart shaped rocks. Sunday gave me a swing, the hammock of His hand.

Each trip has currency. On our last trip to Hawaii, I heard the mountains roar and spit fire, melting the sea. Once in Mexico I heard the rocks sing. My eyes have taken in grandeur that my heart didn't have the capacity to fully enjoy - yet. My body has felt love that was so deep, I felt taken from earth.

This kind of currency helps me keep afloat when the load seems extra heavy. As I pick up the pack for the day, I remember all the pockets of my heart are stuffed, not with heavy weight, but helium hope. Lifters. Baby joeys wriggling away in my kanga pouch. Every now and again a foot or a head pops out so I remember life is wonderful and I am grateful. I am the recipient of great goodness. Pregnant with it. A carrier.

Yet again, I come both boldly and shyly to ask for more ~ "Open up the vaults of heaven". Greedy. Needy.

A Good One

2010-03-21T19:43:00.000-07:00

When I went to Westport last week, a large tote of books came with me. One of them was Where the River Ends by Charles Martin. When a novel breaks my heart good, and causes the tears to run, it's worth passing on.

Here are a few quotes that found a permanent page in my journal, I need them:

"What you got inside you is...is a well that bubbles up from way down deep. It's sweet water, too. But, sometimes wells run empty. If you ever get to hurting and all you feel is ache ~ you reach down and find your well empty, nothin' but dust ~ then you come back here...dive in and drink deeply."

"This river's taught me a good bit. Probably why I don't leave here. It winds, weaves, snakes around. Rarely goes the same way twice. But in the end, it always ends up in the same place and the gift is never the same."

"Some live well, some die well, but few love well."

"To love well ~ that's something else. It's a choosing ~ something done again and again and again. No matter what. And in my experience, if you so choose, you better be ready to suffer hell."

"If you want to make great art, something that can reach beyond time and space, find someone who isn't beautiful and show them that they are. Paint the broken, the unlovely...and make them believe."

Not once did they (her parents) think to ask Abbie, "What are you passionate about and how can I pour myself into your vision of you."

"You don't have to be beautiful to be beautiful." "Breathe."

"But time does heal, not like we think it does, not like we would ~ from the front~ but more from the back or side or someplace we can't see it coming. It bubbles up beneath and ruses all around. All of a sudden I dried my eyes long enough to look up, look beyond myself, and discovered my pain had become the sinew that hel me together. I stood on the bank, stared out across the vast epicenter of me and faced a choice ~ do I risk the river? So I cut the water, paddled out of my own black hole and discovered that the river was not one, but many, and like it or not, they all merge. Each turn, each bend, led to something beautiful, something whole, something worth remembering. Why? How? I can't answer that, I just know that."

"Tides ebb, rivers flow crooked, and love uses pain."

"Lord, Son of David, I want to see."

Charles Martin

Finally Barefoot

2010-03-19T15:07:00.000-07:00

Clinched around sand
buried deep in pleasure
indulge again child

remember freedom

crave it enough
to shake off pack

rid care tied heavy
a breaking burden

trade in for moments
when cool sand
moist at first then dry
tingles

clings
tickles
falls away weightless
cleansing debris free and away

nature nurtures a cure
moves upwards from curled toes

to soften heart
bend mind
heal soul

Never underestimate the power of something as simple as sand between your toes. Pedicures are nice, this cure is nicer. Guess how I know?

This was prompted by Bridget's hilarious post about dual his/her pedicures. I was out at the river barefoot for the first time, horrified at my winter feet and simultaneously delighted anyways, in spite of them. :)

Spring Scrabble

2010-03-18T23:40:00.000-07:00

Birthday Book by Sue

2010-03-16T10:15:00.000-07:00

Susan made this wonderful chipboard book for my birthday.

I want to share the loveliness.

She is an artist. Also a poet, although she doesn't know this yet.

We have been friends since we were nineteen. We are both 50 now.

We are complete opposites in every way; this is good.

We are committed to being girlfriends forever.

Seeing

2010-03-12T20:46:00.000-08:00

Simply ask to see?
I did.
I do.
I will keep asking this one thing.
Help me see.
Grass has little fuzzy hairs along its edges.
I never knew this until today.
Today, again, I saw.
Thank you, my Love.

My heart also saw beauty in something plain.

Driftwood

2010-03-10T20:26:00.000-08:00

Driftwood speaks

a seeing story

pictures look back

telling tales of

journeys not chosen

thrust upon her

travel such as this

makes

rough edges smooth

sharp corners round

skin of satin

she gathered

strength to

float the storm

resilience

permanently

ingrained

resting while waiting

sometimes looks

as if

beached

it is not so-

take her home

a treasure
now wanted
the story

not wasted

Playing Chase

2010-03-10T15:42:00.000-08:00

With Cream

Thick velvet foam

frothy leavings

churned by a wave

crashing against

solid

buttress of rock

morning latte's

signature topping

proffered gratis

on the house

generous

talented

barista

Playing Chase

Spreading over

sheet cake

relic

left over from

giant

sand castle

play

creamy frosting

comes

oozing thick towards me

tricking me

soaking me

playing chase

before knowing

a game had started

tagged!

looks like

I'm

Will my shadow

sit or run?

Sand Dollars

2010-03-08T13:45:00.000-08:00

There

is a place

where

sand dollars

are found

resting whole

gently

washed by waves

others wear

broken beauty

still lovely

while

slowly being

crushed

into

sand

Found Joy

2010-03-08T13:39:00.000-08:00

What

I hold in my hand

often brings simple joy

soft edged joy

glistening joy

found joy

before I open

my hand to

let it go

one last

caress must

tickle my cheek

a soft touch

engrave

the memory

stretch

my heart

to carry extra

joy for the desert

places

rations to live

rations to give

Spring at Hand

2010-03-08T13:37:00.000-08:00

Pussy willows~

like lamplighters

putting out darkness~

give winter

the boot

trumpeting

spring

face scrunched

in surprise

fur mussed

night cap awry

yawning at its

abrupt

burst

into tangy air

Flustered Sparkles

2010-03-04T17:27:00.000-08:00

The lens in my soul

caught what I

and my camera

failed to

Light

skittering

bouncing

skipping

dancing

skimming the surface

with joy and freedom

Flustered tears

made prisms

on the edge

of my eyes

hindering

even more

My heart

remembers it

clear and crisp

playful as

a newborn calf

leaping

springing

imagine it

with me

please try

The Gift of Drew

2010-02-28T22:48:00.000-08:00

Jenny is a brilliant teacher. Beloved. She has a sterling reputation in the county. Her soprano high notes are clear and sweet. A few years back she directed Godspell and gave so many of us the opportunity to grow and shine. She sings with Seattle Pro Musica - an elegant, classical choir that surely causes the angels to applaud.

Jenny makes Italian food infused with goodness and love. She crams 38 hours into a regular day. If you want something done, call her - it will be a glorious success. Her passion, intelligence, playfulness and generous heart have dripped on all of us. We are blessed to call her friend. I do not think she will fully know the influence she has had on these children, or us - at least in this life.

The ripples go out forever.

I asked her to retell this story. It moved me greatly when I saw the pictures last week. Thanks Jenny.

I’ve had the pleasure of teaching thousands of children in my 21 years. I don’t think there is a type of student that I haven’t taught. Each child is special and unique in their own way. I have enjoyed learning how to make these children into musicians - some easier than others - some not so easy, but worth all of the effort. I’ve loved them all, even the ones that thought I hated them because I was too hard on them. They have all inspired me through my career to learn to be a better, more understanding and caring teacher. Sometimes, my strong, passionate personality is not well-received.

Lately, a present student of mine has had a lot of attention due to some pictures I posted on Facebook. I’d love to tell you about Drew – probably one of the most unique children I’ve ever taught.

Drew is a 10-year old student at my school. I’ve taught him since he was a little first grader. To me, Drew has always been a puzzle that I haven’t been able to solve. He comes across as very emotional and at times secluded little boy. Many times, it seems as if he’s not paying a single bit of attention in class. There have been many times over the years where Drew has gotten in trouble in my class for not paying attention, social issues, personal space issues and not following directions. There have been many times when Drew has cried, been extremely sensitive and dramatic. He goes in cycles. Over the years, I’ve come to know the times of year when he is going into his more difficult modes.

According to Drew’s mother, he was an almost silent baby. He never spoke until he was nearly 2, when he looked at a women’s room sign and spelled out the word “W-O-M-E-N.” He also attended pre-school for 3 years because of his silence.

1^st and 2^nd grade were tough for Drew – not academically, but socially and maturity-wise. I think many people have tried to put a label on Drew. His mother said that he’s been labeled “Autistic” by a doctor. I think many of us have drawn up a “diagnosis” where Drew is concerned. He is truly unique. But Drew’s mother refuses to attach a label to her son and let’s Drew be Drew. She does recognizes that he is different and has made some “unpopular” decisions where her son is concerned.

Drew has been in the Highly Capable program at our school. In second grade, he had a teacher with whom he worked well. Drew’s mother decided to keep him in that class for 3^rd grade, as well. She thought that this would be best for his maturity. This did not mean him repeating second grade, however. Instead, Drew worked independently on a 3^rd grade curriculum in his 2^nd grade class. Because of his brilliance, he also attended 5^th grade math classes with a teacher who had a particular interest in Drew.

Drew is a genius. On his ITBS tests, he scored a perfect score. All of his teachers have said that he is the smartest kid they have ever taught. I think we expect so much out of him because of his brilliance. We expect a certain maturity level to be associated with someone this intelligent. He is very articulate, well-read and at times…..ok….most of the time, is quite “puffed up” when it comes to his intelligence level.

Drew’s mother decided to have him skip 4^th grade this year. People found this to be odd since she chose to hold him back maturity-wise the year before. We all questioned how Drew would be able to handle a 5^th grade environment. How would the kids react to him? Would he still cry at the drop of a hat? Would he be able to handle the curriculum? Ok...none of us really questioned this…..but I did when it came to music. For me, this meant that Drew would skip two years of music. How would he be able to keep up with kids that have been reading music more fluently than he was being asked to in his 2^nd grade music class?

I started a violin program this year. I don’t play the violin, but wanted to put a higher level instrument in my students’ hands than a plastic recorder. Drew was particularly taken with the violin. There were days in the beginning when he would cry - because he would make a mistake. There were days when the class would be independently practicing what I asked them to practice and Drew would be done with that and go on to his own activity. One time, he called me over and said “Hey Mrs. Price, I think I’ve figured out Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” And of course, he had. I knew Drew was enjoying the challenge of the violin, but I guess I never realized how much until 2 weeks ago.

I had 30 students play their new violins for the board of education. I tried to pick a variety of kids for this presentation. Drew was in this group. I think he liked the challenge of being with kids who were picking up on the violin like he was. I prepared the kids for that performance that afternoon and then had them back that evening to play.

The kids did a fantastic presentation. I was so proud of them. They showed the audience and the board so much…so much of what is good in children, what is good in school and what is good within the human spirit. They were so poised, proud and so sure of themselves-at least it appeared so.

At the end of the presentation, I asked the audience to ask the kids questions. Our superintendant asked the kids “What is it that you love the most about playing the violin?” Most kids gave great answers…but no child gave a more passionate and heart-felt answer as Drew. Drew said “Well…..it’s just so much fun..and I love it so much and I look forward to playing it so much…and I just wish I had a violin of my very own.” The audience smiled and sweetly moaned a happy moan at how sweet this little boy was. I too, was charmed by the young Drew. But I also giggled at his somewhat “over the top” dramatic tone….one that at times made me wonder could this kid be for real?

Later that week, I found out how “real” Drew was where the violin was concerned.

The next morning, a staff member who attended the board meeting emailed me and asked “Jenny, who was the little boy on the end?” I told her who it was. She asked “Does he really want a violin?” I answered back, “I believe he would love one.” She asked “How much does a violin cost?” When I told her that a case, shoulder rest, bow and violin cost about $200.00, she wrote back and said “Tell me more about Drew.”

I told her about him. Her email back said “Boy, can I pick ‘em or what!!?!! Yes, I’ll get him a violin.” I was shocked. I didn't expected that kind of response from that performance. I never expected Drew’s answer to have the kind of reaction that would compel a person be moved enough to buy a violin for a student.

Throughout this meeting, all I could think about besides my kids performing well, was that I needed to sell myself to the board. To sell music. To show them how important music is to these kids so they wouldn’t dare consider cutting our music program at such hard economic times.

Little did I know that one of the reasons for that performance was so a little boy could be given a gift -and a benefactor could give of her heart - to make the difference in the life of a child she didn’t even know.

I learned a lot from that meeting!

I called Drew’s mom and spoke to her of this generous gift. She was so excited. I could hear the tears in her voice. She shared with me a story about her older son who had just gotten a bunch of hockey equipment from Craig’s List. Mom had also been looking online for a violin for Drew, but was having no luck.

Drew sadly said to his mother, “Isn’t there just a little bit of extra money for me so that I can have a violin?” When she told me this, my eyes filled with tears.

I called Drew down to my room to tell him of the generosity that was being shown to him. He was in shock….cried……excited…….. We discussed being gracious and not sharing the story with everyone, so that other kids didn’t feel slighted. He understood.

Drew’s violin showed up this Wednesday. I called Drew out of class and had him come to the office. I pulled Drew’s violin out of the box and unwrapped his precious gift for him. As he walked into the office, he burst into tears. The office staff and I watched this young boy hold his greatest treasure – his first violin.

He sobbed as we cried along with him. Drew hugged his violin saying thank you over and over as big crocodile tears fell from his eyes. I could barely hold my camera still as I tried to take pictures of him. I hoped that the camera would capture what my eyes had just witnessed. What a beautiful moment Drew gave me.

For once, I didn’t put up my hand and tell Drew to “turn off the water works – it’s not going to work.” Instead, I let him cry all that he needed to cry.

The secretaries asked Drew to play a song for them. Since Drew is a beginner, he needed tape marks on his fingerboard so his hand could be in first position. I wondered if he could handle finding those pitches without the tape being there. Why I even questioned his sense of pitch, I do not know…but I was fascinated at how his little fingers adjusted the pitch when he was slightly out of tune - a proud moment for his extremely pitch-sensitive teacher.

My violin assistant – a community member who is a string player and helps me teach violin - took Drew aside the next day and told him that she would give him lessons if he promised to practice. Something tells me, Drew will do nothing else.

This Friday he took his violin home. I wonder how big his calluses are on his fingers! I will probably hear all about it on Tuesday when I see him again.

I have learned so many things from this experience. I’ve learned what it is like to work with a young, sensitive boy who takes pleasure in the simple joy of loving music. What a beautiful thing. I’ve learned about being a benefactor to a complete stranger and what a gift that can be. I’ve learned to be a better and more understanding teacher. I’ve learned that I never quite know what it is that I will teach, that will reach even the most unique and challenging students. Maybe it took me taking on a violin that could reach someone like Drew. In any case, I’m glad I took that step…because in the end, it made the difference in the life of a child.

Thank you for that lesson and for this experience, Drew. I don’t think I’ll ever forget you over the years. And maybe someday, when you are in some major symphony, you will think back to the day you received your first violin and will share the story with someone else.

Contagious Flamenco

2010-02-26T11:33:00.000-08:00

Before I started writing this , it was a temptation to google, study and read about this subject. I declined my inclinations because I wanted only speak from my heart, instead of my head.

Our oldest daughter took Flamenco dance classes for 2 years. The first year it was one on one. The second it was with a famous teacher here in the PNW.

I have been to a few Flamenco performances and watched many practices.

We have a young friend who plays flamenco guitar. He was an exchange student in Spain for a year. While there, he had the good fortune to be invited to experience a flamenco gathering with the locals. It was in a cave-like place with real artists, not the caricature of talent performing for tourists. As he described it, it affirmed what this dance is about.

At these gatherings, often the young girls will perform first. Flamenco is very interactive. The audience participates with appreciative gusto using their body, voice and hands. Clapping is refined innuendo. The guitarist has full stage presence with the dancer. The circle is all inclusive. Overlapping. Symbiotic. Synchronistic.

This warm, intimate circle of feedback and encouragement goes on and on. No one becomes fatigued. Often, the best is saved for last. It is usually an older, wrinkled crone. Grey hair skinned back from sharp cheeks and a round body belying the gift she is about to give.

She is the most deeply honored and revered person in the room. Completely at odds with the shallow, airbrushed way we compare beauty in our culture.

Her elegant hands mesmerize. Strength and gracefulness mesh as one, from the top of her noble head and proud breast, to the repetitive strikes of her heals reverberating the windows and floor. The very air vibrates with passion. She takes your breath away.

There is nothing more magnificent than this matron of honor. Yet, if you are able to take your eyes off her, there is nothing more magnificent than the crowd with shining eyes pushing her beyond herself to duende. If your eyes come back to the stage, you realize confusedly, that the lone guitarist is really the one to whom all honor is due. What a gorgeous thing to be confused about.

If you see flamenco with a male and female dancing together, bring a cup of ice to rub on your neck and keep a fan in your lap. It makes me want to do the thing that leads to families. It makes me want to live...... full throttle, until I birth something grand. Passionate artists create desire in us to procreate.... art.

It is possible to be drunk without alcohol. A community of artists causes me to wake up blinking and find myself pregnant with ideas, fresh thinking, new insight and passionate inspiration. The circle never ends.

Don't be afraid of drinking the water. Do. Great gulps of it.

This is a tribute to the lovely souls who support, endorse, applaud and stand shoulder shoulder in the ongoing effort to encourage and inspire one another. You know who you are. Thank you.

Sex, Lies and Religion Book Review

2010-02-23T14:19:00.000-08:00

The book I just finished is Sex, Lies and Religion by Randy Elrod. The acknowledgments at the end of the book made me weep with envy. The good kind. He has an astonishing group of friends supporting and surrounding him while he bravely proclaims a truth and uncovers lies. As I finished reading, I felt included; lifted by these witnesses.

Dr. Kevin Leman, who wrote Sheet Music, is the only other Christian author I've read, who pounces on the subject of our sexuality with playfulness, humor and an easy way of dialoguing. Both of these guys are unembarrassed. I stand with them. Unashamed and unembarrassed by the invitation to this wild banquet we've been asked to attend. This table is filled with wonderful things beyond our imagination - we don't have to starve. I can joyfully eat my fill. Crumbs and berry juice, butter and honey dripping from my chin.

For years, I've wondered if it is hard for men to comprehend the wonder of being 'the bride of Christ'. Being men, how could they? Men enter, they don't receive. I think every man can explore this metaphor and easily relate. Finally.

Is it pornography or art? The discussion here leaves no doubt where the dividing line is drawn. There is a wide, black demarkation line making a huge difference between these two opposites.

Long ago, someone was puzzled when I shared how beautiful I felt when Craig desired me, wanted me and pursued me. We had a different paradigm. My paradigm spiritually and sexually matches what Randy is sharing. I kept saying yes and yes as I read. Someone put into words, beautiful words, how I feel as a Bride and as a bride.

We invite Him into the sacredness of our bedroom, locked in, locked into a 3-way embrace. Randy is the first person who says it out loud. For this, I'm grateful. My little voice is shouting along with his big voice. Join in, we'll raise a ruckus and make the mountains rumble. Tumbling the lies to rubble.

Here are some quotes from the book:

"Our Creator alone earned the right to act as our ultimate authority and thus is worthy to receive the reciprocal gifts of intimacy and wild abandonment. He desires both our soul and body more than our religious minds can comprehend."

"Could it be, as one writer puts it, that every knock at the door of a brothel is actually a knock at the heart of God?"

"Aquinas writes in his magnificent work....that three things are needed for beauty: harmony, wholeness and radiance."

"When the elements of beauty mysteriously connect the artist with the viewer, there is a sense of satisfaction and revelation. The wholeness, harmony, and radiance provide the viewer, as Luigi Galvani calls it, 'an enchantment of the heart'. But this is vastly different from the act of viewing pornography."

"These pornographers trivialize and exploit the naked body and sex act as merely selfish entertainment and choose to ignore the potential for sensual and spiritual intimacy and healthy love."

"....engaging the power of mutual imagination in sexual intimacy should send us soaring in the heavenlies, wild and free."

Since I don't want to spoil the rest of the book, this is my last quote and my favorite; the shivering, tingling favorite:

"Without imagination, there is no understanding. But with it, there is every possibility we can imagine and more. It is power. It is potential. It is transcendent. It is wonder. It is replete with unexpected gifts. Unless we use our imagination, we are not fully alive. Wendell Berry says it this way: 'The imagination is our way into the divine Imagination, permitting us to see wholly - as whole and holy-what we perceive to be scattered, as order what we perceive as random.' Imagine the possibilities if we expanded the power of our imagination to utilize sexual fantasy as a bridge to a deeper and exciting relationship with our lover and with God."

Play Emily's Way

2010-02-21T22:09:00.000-08:00

The intent of this spot is to engage others to share how they play. Emily is a young mother of two daughters. She is a homemaker - a homesteader at heart. Her home is peaceful and full of grace. She makes brussel sprouts that taste like candy. I will even eat them. She lives in redemptive time...chooses it.

Last week I needed to get out of the house and play. I wanted space. I wanted nature. Not concrete or plastic. Which meant (sorry kids) no park today.

I loaded up my two little girls and we started driving. Looking south in the rear view mirror, I could see the blue sky. Usually, we chase the blue sky...but it was stubbornly situated over the concrete~and I was stubbornly headed into a downpour. We kept driving. Finally, we found a quiet beach to play on.

We didn't have a plan. I didn't pack a picnic, a blanket or beach toys. Rocks, saltwater and driftwood seemed to satisfy us all. It didn't rain on us. The cloudy, grey sky gave the softest light for a few great pictures of two little sisters.

Growing up, our play was usually too complicated for my taste. My parents would plan a 'vacation' and they would argue all morning while we were packing and trying to leave at a certain time. Lists were made so that we wouldn't forget anything. Late night shopping sprees were made to the grocery store the night before and someone would always be up late (or all night) getting everything ready...just so.

I still remember the feeling of driving away from the house with everyone in the car and the trunk packed wondering, "Isn't this supposed to be fun?" There were actually times when 1 or more of my siblings would decide to stay home...I didn't understand. I still don't.

Here are the happy memories. The memories that keep me playing and seeking adventure...

My dad used to take us backpacking. We would disappear into the mountains for days at a time. We'd carry all that we needed on our backs. Once we got to a spot to set up camp, we could fish, rock climb, lay and read a book, swim in pristine mountain lakes, or (my favorite) explore! No schedule. Invited to live simply for a few days. One time we almost got lost. The trail came to an end and we were miles from the car. But instead of turning around, we bushwhacked our way for a couple of miles and I heard, "Just over the next hill!" about a dozen times.

Instead of fear setting in, I felt invigorated. Excited. This is what "playing" is all about for me. Exploring. Adventure. Spontaneity. And (please!) simplicity.

Author Emily Hamblen

My Drug

2010-02-20T20:21:00.000-08:00

The intent of this blogspot is to invite, endorse and promote other's thoughts on the subject of play. It is a bit elusive at times. My friend Bree took me up on the offer. She manages a fine coffee shop. She is a gifted barista. Here is her contribution today:

I didn’t laugh enough today, I can feel it in my countenance. That’s kind of like saying I didn’t breathe enough today. You see, last weekend, God showed me or rather reminded me, what it’s like to laugh, play and have fun. Since, I’ve been trying to incorporate that lesson into my everyday life.

I learned another lesson today, it’s more fun to laugh and play with some people, than others.

Today, work started out really great~I didn’t have to be there till 8:30. I prayed most the way. When I got there everyone seemed in a good mood~a great day in the making! It started getting busy. The guy on the register started getting flustered. The gal leading the floor didn’t get enough sleep last night~so she wasn’t really deploying people properly~chaos began to set in.

I requested to be parked behind the espresso bar so that I could just concentrate on being fun; trying to lift spirits. Then came “ohhh I wanted that extra hot” after I had already steamed the milk. I made playful fun comments to employees to invite them to playfulness at work, only to be shut down by their bad attitude.

Our registers then went down, which created even more chaos. I still tried to stay light hearted shouting out to the line that we were going old school and getting the abacus out to add up their orders… I got a few chuckles.

Now, had the people I really enjoy playing with been there, there would have been soul-deep chortling going on….but not from this crowd. With one last ditch effort, when the registers finally came back up, I belted out a “yeeee haw” and only got strange looks from everyone.

I sit at home now, alone, longing for that someone who makes me laugh at a day like the one I had today, laugh until it all goes away…melts away into what WE want to laugh about. Before I know it we’re giggling, chortling and loving one another and I’m ready for whatever the world has to offer, once again.

I’m going through withdrawals…from the very thing that makes me WANT to breathe.

Bree Mills

Surely Goodness

2010-02-20T12:51:00.000-08:00

The sun was out framing the bluest sky yesterday. Craig walked in the door to a pile of jackets and blankets ~ Maggie and me waiting to pounce on him or pummel him into saying yes ~ before he knew what he was saying yes to.

He said yes to the invitation; make it to the bluff under the Deception Pass bridge before the sun set. We stopped at a little cafe and ordered a picnic in boxes.

We kissed.

We layed our blankets on the velvet moss with wild flowers blooming all around us. Far below us the tide was coming in, as the sun was going down.

We kissed.

Sure enough, my big daddy sea lion showed up to entertain us. A few calloused, fishing boats shot through the current under the bridge. The captain waved.

We kissed.

The sunset was stunning over the Sound.

We kissed.

I saw 2 shooting stars before the night was over; blessed indeed.

We kissed goodnight with full hearts and souls, dripping with goodness. Simple goodness. Free goodness.

We heard a conversation drifting down from the bridge, "Honey look, we could do that - come with some bread, cheese, wine and bring the dog."

It made me wonder if they'll do it. I hope so - and soon. Free memories like this can't be bought. They can only be had.

Have one on me.

Full Sail-Full Steam

2010-02-14T20:54:00.000-08:00

These are some of my favorite quotes from Seth Godin's latest book ~ "Linchpin".

Part poetry, part balm, it gave me a push towards being resilient again. The quotes in bold gave me life giving mouth-to-mouth CPR.

I am so thankful for his words of life. I forgot what I knew; he reminded me to play again. Create again.

There is a fresh wind in my sails. I don't feel like this anymore; all washed up.

(Photo ~ courtesy of my friend ~ Jim Martin)

"If you are deliberately trying to create a future that feels safe, you will willfully ignore the future that is likely."

"...money is a poor substitute for respect and thanks."

"Not only must you be an artist, you must be generous, and you must be able to see where you can help, but you must also be aware. Aware of where your skills are welcomed."

"...Instead, there's an ever-enlarging circle, a circle where gifts are valued and passed on."

"The most successful givers aren't doing it because they're being told to, they do it because doing it is fun. It gives them joy."

"The intent of the giver and the posture of the recipient are critical."

"Artists don't give gifts for money. They do it for respect and connection and to cause change, so the best recipients are the ones who can reciprocate in kind."

"Every artist I've ever met wants to build bonds, wants to cause connections to be made."

"For some artists, the benefits are all internal. Creating art is an intrinsic good, something they enjoy. They don't want anything, don't see anything, and if they're particularly resolute, won't get anything.'

"It is possible to destroy an artist by refusing his gifts."

"Some people are gift givers by nature. They love their tribe, or they respect their art, and so they give, not for an ulterior motive, but because it gives them joy."

"A priceless gift has been given, one that can never be valued monetarily or paid for or reciprocated. The benefit to the artist is the knowledge that you changed in some way, not that you will repay him."

"If I give you a piece of art, you shouldn't be required to work hard to reciprocate, because reciprocation is an act of keeping score, which involves monetizing the art, not appreciating it."

"A surplus always creates a surplus as it spreads."

"Art is a gift, a gift from the artist to the viewer, the listener, the user. The moment it ceases to be a gift, some of the art is lost."

"There are many forms of equity, and few of them involve cash."

"When you invest time or resources into someone's success or happiness and your payment is a share of that outcome, you become partners."

"Real gifts don't demand reciprocation...the best kinds of gifts are gifts of art."

"When we meet a stranger, we do business. When we encounter a member of the tribe, we give gifts."

"It's difficult to be generous when you're hungry. Yet being generous keeps you from going hungry. Hence the conflict."

"You best give a gift without knowing or being concerned with whether it will be repaid"

"The people who have experienced this and fought back-by quitting when they were stuck, tell me that the feeling of liberation and new potential is incredible. Suddenly, they can get back to doing the work, to making a difference, and to engaging with a community."

"There's not a lot to fear when you're stuck in the dip, not a lot that can threaten your standing."

"When you set down the path to create art, whatever sort of art it is, understand that the path is neither short nor easy”.

"So it's just a matter of throwing myself under the bus and crawling my way out."

"It takes crazy discipline to do nothing between projects."

"Where did your art go while you were tweeting?”

"Anxiety is needless and imaginary. It's fear about fear, fear that means nothing."

"Letting silence into your day gives the daemon (genius) a chance to be heard from."

"Embrace the itch from the start, but don't scratch it. To do otherwise is to lose all perspective."

"The quiet strength it takes to withstand the urge to flee builds confidence in those around you."

"Waiting isn't easy, which is precisely why it is so effective when engaging with other people."

"...over come your fear of creativity, brainstorming, intelligent risk-taking, or navigating a tricky situation...sprint."

"It takes preparation and effort to set the world up so that your ideas are more likely to ship."

"The brevity of the event is a key part of why it works."

"When it find a useful crutch, a loser's limp, the resistance will milk it for all it's worth."

"Play only for people you like, with people you enjoy. How can the lizard brain object to that?"

"The resistance is working overtime to be sure that you won't actually do anything remarkable."

"Power used to be about giving, not getting"

Hey Playmate Where Are You?

2010-02-12T20:51:00.000-08:00

Eve Ensler was quoted at TED today as saying "I hope girls will learn to play, not please." I don't know what she stands for or what her talk was about. But, there is some truth to explore in her quote. Do I endorse her ~ I'll get back to you. Endorse this quote~YES.

Playfulness is enticing. Sauciness. Flirting. Teasing. When did the cart come before the horse? I know women who live to please their husbands, making both miserable.

I've gone through all the myriad hormonal seasons of child-bearing, PMS and now menopause. As I age, I want to fight becoming crotchety,cranky, bitter and cryptic. It would be sad to end up flat and shriveled up inside too. This is 'NO' to becoming dull and brittle.

Why did we ever begin trying to win their approval, instead of simply enjoying life and playing with them? We had their approval in the beginning, already. They were pleased when they chose us.

There is nothing more attractive than an enthused woman. Sparkling eyes alive with interest are magnetic. Having fun and laughing costs less than a face lift or cosmetics. We do all this stuff to our hair, skin and bodies trying to look airbrushed, but miss being his playmate. And I'm not talking the puffy tailed- rabbit eared kind. Sensuous and romantic is about so much more than sex. It's about a way of living and seeing. It's a way of experiencing life in 3D. Laughing raises endorphins and a good hard belly laugh is almost as good as...

The irony is, if we're playful, there is nothing that pleases more. Men seem easily pleased. It's why they married us - then we change, forget, get serious, scared, resentful and dutiful. I think they miss the playful girl they fell in love with.

Remember that song when we were little~ "Hey hey hey playmate, come out and play with me..."

Happy Valentine's Day - See you on the playground girlfriend.

My Valentine

2010-02-09T21:11:00.000-08:00

Our girls are longing for a mate, a companion. This is natural. As we talked the other day, I asked them to consider a list of ten things that were really important to them. Equally yoked spiritually, is a given.

They randomly thought of things to put on their list. I then asked them to pick only two which they could not do without.

For one, it was a combined love of and appreciation for music and someone who is comfortable with affection.

The other is still coming up with hers and narrowing it down.

Mine before marriage? I wanted and needed someone who would play with me. I also couldn't thrive without physical touch and affection. Both easy for him.

His wanted a woman who offered warm food and a warm body. Not unique for a man. Simple and both easy for me.

Craig and I are total opposites in every way. We are the cliche; he is weak where I am strong and vice versa. But we have our two necessaries met. Everything else is learnable and doable because we care about each other. When we fail, the two necessaries hold us steady and remind us we belong together.

This doesn't make love all smarmy and electric, but our basic needs are being met, which allows us to focus on the other areas of living, loving and learning.