Infinite Acorns

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it takes to be an artist in terms of creating a work and then sending it out into the world.  My amazingly talented friend just completed a beautiful project designed to let ten random subjects know they were noticed in this life.  She devoted endless hours and her personal resources to painting full size oil paintings of people she encountered in her daily life.  Eight of the ten portraits landed in the hands of the subjects.  The last two portraits remaining on the streets where she placed them did not.

In the days before these portraits disappeared I desperately wanted to protect them for her and their intended recipients, first from weather and then from people who wanted them for themselves.  Another talented friend and I were prepared to pull a heist ourselves to save them from a relentless rain.  We let it ride after meeting up with the artist.  We wanted to let the project be seen by passersby.  We let go, a little bit.

Nicole Bourgea has done an amazing job of letting go.  She hopes the people who took the last portraits had some profound reason for taking something that clearly did not belong to them.

I have had a hard time letting go.  This project and these last two paintings in particular moved me.  They moved my family.  My little girl ran her hands across the thick paint of a portrait of a surveyor, she kissed the bottom edge.  I've spent the past few days walking my neighborhood with eyes wide, searching, hoping that one of the homeless people I know has squirreled the treasure away.

Today I realized that my inability to let go was keeping me from my own art.  I have my own little squirrel to thank for this realization.  She led me into the park and spent two hours reminding me that it is all as easy as collecting acorns and spending your time finding as many pleasing uses for them as you can.  I had big plans of hiking as vigorously as you can with a three-year-old, but she was determined to stop in the place that had the most acorns and refused to budge.  Everything she needed was in that spot and she didn't waste a moment.  Constantly creating and enjoying her moment in time.  It was contagious.  Suddenly I was sketching acorns, gathering more, photographing her and little berries I would have breezed past to get to the trail.

If we linger too long on the life of art after its creation we are choking out the art that is waiting to be created.

In short, Ta-Da! We can pick more acorns!

Fall, Because I Want To

I don't know if it is my cultural training or my squirrel instinct, but when fall falls, I feel the need to reinvent myself through a new wardrobe and intellectual pursuits.

I've become a scholar of cuisine in the past weeks.  I've been cranking out pasta from a recipe I dreamed up and soups because I've grown weary of summer salads.  I've taken to books on photography and have revisited math from days gone by.

I love what I'm learning, but what I love even more is the desire to learn.  I'm a summer girl, born in June and  I've always owned my months of summer.  As I've evolved I've taken ownership over all of the seasons.  There is something magical and important in each one.

Summer allows for the shallow end of my stream, where cold brook water pools over ancient rocks and I thrive, chasing butterflies and catching crawdads.  Fall brings out my apple-picker self, my acorn collector, my veiny leaf admirer and slows me down.  This is where I am at right now.

As much as I want to wear my strapless dresses of summer on these hot fall days I feel like I'm a butterfly who missed the migration.  I want to camouflage myself in tones of dying leaves, plaid and woolen.  I'm  sniffing the bindings of yellowed books in search of an intellectural drey that will keep me safe through winter.

I will nest, I will rest, but not until I've learned enough to move on.

Dear BBQ Chicken,

Dear BBQ Chicken,

            You have been on the pedestal of joyful moments.  My birthday meal, is there a greater honor?  Dad mixing his beer bbq sauce, the sound of metal slowly scraping circles on metal as he stood on the wooden porch.  Dry summer air, heat and sunshine, charcoal and lighter fluid burning in the belly of the black backyard grill.  Pabst Blue Ribbon—a ribbon on every can!  Dad, snapping back the tab and the cracking escape of carbonation as the thin gold bubble stream trickled into the dark red thickness and fizzled a revolt.  My brothers and I barefoot and moving easily in the freedom of summer, walnuts hidden in the prosperous green grass growing a little longer than regulation, clothes hanging, waving flags in celebration of the sun.  My birthday, a celebration of me.  The passing of a year, always looking forward.  Cake and presents, swimming, running, playing, exploring, dreaming, living, being, happy.  Youth.  A family.  A time that felt like forever.  You were there, BBQ Chicken.  We feasted on you.  Dad, master of BBQ chicken.  He left you on the grill until the moment of perfection and then he grasped you between tongs and placed you piled on yourself on a platter.  We feasted on you.  You were the one meal that we were allowed to eat entirely like pigs.  We ended the meal looking like survivors of a massacre.  There weren’t enough napkins in the world.  We were animals.  Everyone loved you.  You were delicious. 

            Lately your great grand children have been hanging around a little too close.  I’m talking about the ones who’ve gotten piled on the platter before they’ve even been plucked.  The factory farms started moving in around my family farms in 1990.  They are shameless and they stink.  They are filled with disease, sick poison, vented out through fans on steel sheds.  Chicken against chicken fighting for space while their feet take root around the wire of the cage.  The smell of all of that is interfering with our barbeque.  That smell is making us run inside when we should be perfectly content to stand outside in the summer sun and the glory of our family farm and dip you in beer bbq and grill you to perfection.  At least the city folks can still enjoy you.  

Another Helping

Dear Meat,

            I can’t let you go without taking the time to remember all the moments that earned you a place as happy food memory.  You were there, but for what reason?  Things happen for a reason and it’s undeniable, our paths have been intertwined for a long, long time. 

            You were there for my great-grandparents when German still rolled off their tongues in the new country.  You gave them a way to survive, to succeed, profit and pioneer, O’ Pioneers!  I come from agrarians and entrepreneurs. 

            The business of this new world is based on the barn yard.  If you can keep animals where you live, hunting becomes shopping, less dangerous for you.  You begin to live longer, grow taller and discover leisure time.  But I don’t need to tell you, right Meat? 

            I’m going to step in and share some stories with you because I know your family isn’t around to get you in the know.  You used to belong to a wild creature, one that had equal footing in the universe, one that tried to survive.  The wild was bred out of your line. 

            Don’t worry Meat, I’m not so short-sided that I am only looking at the domesticated you.  I know your more free roots, too.  I know fat corn-fed deer that leap at great lengths to avoid death.  I know feathers with hollow bones riding the wind and landing on a wee pond that have met their end for the love of water.  I have seen you swim in schools, alive and breathing water, falling for a hook.  I know your type—the one with a shell that protects against some things, but not against meat. 

            Please, take your time to let this all sink in.  I’m not going anywhere—not until we say goodbye together.  And who knows about after that.  I’ll try to help.

            I’m going to have to address some of your various forms individually, Meat.  It just wouldn’t be right to leave out the details.

Dear Meat,

Tonight I rediscovered some writing I did a few years back.  I've decided to share it with you bite by bite.  Bon Appetit!

Dear Meat,

            I have given up meat for Lent and in the spirit of pausing, focusing, making change, and taking action I have decided to pick up the habit of writing with discipline (I have a wooden ruler next to me and I will use it).  This is day three of one and day one of the other.  I have to think it out, be the detective, and crack the case of why I eat meat.  This isn’t a permanent cease fire.  In the spirit of open-mindedness I am taking this meatless adventure as it comes.  Who knew lent could be such a county fair of surprises and tiny thrills!  I’m not making any judgments on the carnivores or herbivores.  I’m being here, right now and right now I am putting off what needs to be done.  I need to say goodbye to meat. 

Tell me about highschool...

Hello Friends,

My last post was the intro to a YA book about a girl who didn't see herself in the literary offerings in the teen section of the public library.  She's not a vampire-wannabe, not suicidal, not gay, not the victim of bullies, so what is she?

I think she is going to experiment.  What did you experiment with when you were in highschool?

Please give my character a little help.  Add your comments and help her negotiate in a world that is not magical.

Bookmark: A New YA Book Project

I used to love spending a rainy afternoon in the library when I was a little kid, so I gave it a try today.  I found the tiny corner reserved for teens, dressed up with a second-hand black sofa and a leopard print beanbag meant to simulate a cool place for kids my age.  I checked out the book display and realized that according to the publishing industry and the librarians I was supposed to be either a vampire-wannabe, gay, or suicidal.  There was one more option--victim of bullying, which I'm guessing, plot-wise is probably a result of the first two and a leading cause of the last.

I opted for the free bookmark on the coffee table that lured me in with mustachioed rubber ducks and then schooled me on the dewey decimal system on the flip-side.  I sunk into the beanbag and turned the book mark from duck to dewey and tried to figure out where I belong if the only thing I can relate to in the YA section is a bookmark.

Becoming a Writer: The Competition is ON!

I became a writer when I was in second grade.  I sat next to Adam in Mrs. Newbern's classroom, and he said he had written two pages of a bunny story and bet me that I couldn't write more.

Second grade was the year the school system convinced me that I was there for more than a social reason.  All of a sudden they wanted me to take spelling tests seriously and there was this new thing called "Reach" that if I tried hard enough they would include me in.

I didn't care about any of it until Adam challenged me on that bunny story.  I forced myself to try harder and write more pages than him.

I liked making up stories and I wrote page upon pre-lined page about that bunny.  I found what was worth competing for.

Isn't that what a career choice comes down to--what you are willing to compete for?

I don't get discouraged when people criticize my writing, because that is what is most important to me. I am always looking to improve.

So somewhere along that bunny trail from second grade to adulthood we find ourselves in the constant quest for improving on that bright little light that deserves our attention.

If you are unhappy in your career, or you have been sidetracked into a career that doesn't make you feel the joy of competition, maybe you need to reflect on second grade or whatever moment struck you in free-form to find that spirit that made you want to compete because it was so worth it.

Get paid for your passion.

Summer Dresses and a Song, Any Song

Today, a four-year-old very sincerely complemented me on my summer dress.  It is easy to dress a little girl because every dress is a magical costume without thought to body image.  I took her compliment and embraced it.  I let every little misgiving I had about wearing a summer dress in my less than perfect form and realized that I was wearing a dress under the glory of the sun and that little action is the stuff that makes a season.

In that vein I gave myself completely to the magic of sunshine.  I let myself dance freely and songs came to join the dance steps that my feet decided were appropriate.  Happiness is there for the taking, just listen when Ellie tells you she likes your dress.

Good Egg, Bad Egg

Easter is over and we still have two eggs at large.  As the temperatures will surely rise the need to discover the missing eggs becomes of greater importance.  As the hunt continues I'm drawn to evaluating the season and it all comes down to good egg, bad egg.

When I was a kid my mom made a behavior chart and posted it on the fridge.  Our holiday plans included a trip to a hotel with an indoor pool.  If my behavior merited enough bad eggs I would lose my swimming privileges.  I loved swimming above all else, but I couldn't curb my bad behavior.  Black eggs started appearing on my chart in lieu of colorful good behavior eggs.  I couldn't help myself.  No matter how much I wanted to swim I also wanted to misbehave.

When the final tally was taken the black eggs outweighed the pastels and it came down to a discussion with Mom, the decision maker.

She was often accused of being soft on us kids, but I like to think she gave a lot of thought to what we were experiencing in the life of children.  I shed many tears, because the idea of being so near water and unable to swim was unbearable, but I also knew I had done wrong.

She did relent and I am still blessed with the memories of a six-year-old's back float looking up at a dome over a pool, snow falling in an apocalyptic Iowa April.

Good Egg, Bad Egg.  It is hard to judge another.

Happy Easter!

Three Squares and a Light Snack

Yesterday I woke up hungry for exercise.  I wanted to hear the sound of my heart pounding in my ears instead of people asking me for things.

I started with a cardio warm-up that tingled my senses like a citrus punch.  I rolled out my mat like strips of bacon in a pan and sizzled into a pilates floor routine.  Finally I was full of happy energy and nothing but positive thoughts, and I hadn't consumed anything but a tall glass of milk.

I sat down in contentment with some yerba mate to plan the rest of my day.  While I sipped from my bombilla I had the crazy notion of taking my exercise like meals--three squares and a light snack.

For lunch I packed a picnic and ran off into the park.  I alternated walking, jogging and sprinting for five miles with a break for a leisurely lunch and commune with a barn cat and some horses.  As I started the jog back home I knew I was doing the right thing.  What a brilliant idea!

For my light snack I took a brisk walk through the neighborhood (about a mile and a half roundtrip) in conjunction with the daily chore of food acquisition.  This was turning out to be the best day ever.

When I arrived back home I started planning the evening meal and my next physical challenge.

At this point you might be assuming that I am in peak physical condition.  I'm sorry to admit to you and myself that this is not the case.  That is probably why at this point the pilates came back to me like indigestion.  I suddenly felt the ache of all I had done and I knew I was full of exercise.

It was a great idea and one I plan on trying again.  Exercise should not be feast or famine, but a steady nutrient-rich staple of daily life.  Lesson learned.

It was still a great day.

From Trees to Leaves and Back Again

Have you ever been lucky enough to find a decaying leaf in the fall and really study it?  Did you see how the tiny flaking fragments fall away and reveal an intricate web?  Did you suddenly understand textiles?

This is one of my silent actions, a ritual that allows me to accept the death of summer.

Summer is dawning in days too soon to come, but tonight, in this early spring, I looked up at the spiny black branches against ambient light of the city streets and found that same pattern.

New buds etching out what will become a full and glorious skirt of green, but for tonight they are patchy pieces of new life.  Just as many gaps as their fellows of fall on a larger scale, allowing my eyes to see through. 

The Top of the Stairs

The top of the stairs, wallpaper peeling and thread bare runner leading me up in the warm yellow glow of the exposed lightbulb, into the quiet of family history.  I was an archaeologist with domain over a site that I could sift through as foul weather allowed me respite from my various and vigorous life out of doors, year after year with my perspective changing like candles on my birthday cakes.  

I could count on the rest of them to leave the site undisturbed—all of the artifacts en situ.  An upholstered trunk, faded floral print, mainly blue, held my grandmother’s silk slip and blue satin night gown, my mother’s baby dresses and my grandfather’s faded pinstriped baseball uniform.  I didn’t open this trunk on my own because even though I was a tough little girl I remained a bit jumpy about encountering mice and knew enough to avoid their havens.  

Next to the trunk stood a green painted bookshelf a foot or so taller than its neighbor.  This was my limited library, but one I patronized frequently.  The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, Mama’s Bank Account, The Three Little Pigs Golden Book, Kidnapped, and Hans Christian Anderson’s Fairy Tales, there were others, but these are the titles—the timeline, that come to me now.