turning up the fire ...

rolling up the proverbial sleeves and getting to it ... feeling all kinds of feisty and fired up ... first from this:

"— you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and the time to
create."

no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

- Charles Bukowski, air and light and time and space

Then there is this: 

ah, Mel ... how do i love thee? let me count the ways ...

I am a bit disheveled from the explosiveness of it all ...

a drawing a day ... showing up, as myself, every day ...

but in a good way.  In a way that is hearing the mermaids singing, is recovering the lost stories within ...

My heroine is taking shape ... 

I can't say much more ... superstitious I suppose, but I don't want to scare away the magical ones.  

Yes, I am clearing my path forward through the brambles, the heather, skirting the poison ivy and seeking the honeysuckle. Tally ho!  Feeling the vibrations of Beltane in the air ... rabbits playing tag in my yard, mourning doves screaming as they fly.  I'm all 50-shades of whirling dervish ... I attribute it to the excellent company I find myself keeping these days ...



 

Hang on, it's going to be a wild ride!
  

has blogging died?

The vitality of blogs and blogging is a topic that has been floating around the matrix for quite some time.  It is something I have been chewing on and bemoaning as I find some of my favorite bloggers drifting away from their creations, for various reasons.  Perhaps it is rattling just me and my old fashioned ways, which is humorous as blogging is coming to feel more like letter-writing habits of an elite class of 18th or 19th century thinkers when considered alongside Facebook or Twitter or the general habit of texting versus - gasp! - real emails!

I am a relative juvenile when it comes to blogging.  This little habit of mine has been in place for 3+ years, begun well after what seems to have been some kind of golden age of blog writing.  Do you remember when you would find a new blog writer whose words or images or life snagged your attention?  How you would then spend hours pouring through their archive of posts, like reading a serial novel a la Dickens in reverse?  Piecing together how the blogger arrived at the point when you first joined them, as if unraveling their narrative would perhaps shed light upon your own?

Call me antiquated, but I still love a good blog.  Not the flashy, highly edited and styled blogs that exists as storefronts for online businesses (and I have a version of that myself, so I'm not throwing stones here) but blogs that are like someone's kitchen or dining room table in that they reveal whatever is currently central in a person's life.  Yes, that may mean loads of sappy poetry-prose illustrated by equally vintage-golden photographs of flower arrangements, kittens, sunsets or flower arrangements (check, check, check I've got them all!) but I rather like the idea that anyone can post whatever they deem of value in their lives and for whomever they are hoping to communicate with because at least there is an intention to share and maybe, just maybe, communicate.

I can look around my home and see evidence of bloggers' influence.  The first blogs I read were knitting ones, reviving and augmenting my forgotten yarn skills.  I can pick up any number of hats, scarves or sweaters and tell you which blogger introduced me to the pattern. If I was a motivated blogger, I would share photos of those pieces with links to the original spaces where I discovered them - another aspect of blog reading I enjoy: the experience of discovery.  Alas, it is late and I am being a lazy but honest blogger so I'll spare you the trip down knitterly lane.

I am grateful to the group of bloggers who shared their adoption journeys so candidly and publicly, for it was those stories that gifted me the ability to know something about the process and to envision and believe we were capable and indeed eager to pursue it as a means of creating our family.  So many new perspectives, creative ideas, books, philosophies on living and family, along with a sense of community have come about due to this thing called blogging.  

I know the discussion has raged on about sanitized blogs: people carefully constructing the image of themselves and their lives that they want others to believe.  Isn't that another form of fiction and if we don't see through the ruse,  doesn't the artifice eventually become wearying and we move on?  Yes, there is the whole comparing-my-life-to-that-prettified-life-and-finding-mine-lacking hazard, but honestly, I never stay long at those kinds of blogs anyway.  I mean, they are like Glamour or Elle magazines and I don't buy those either (except when needing collaging materials.)  Maybe the Martha Stewartesque crafty blogs warp my sense of what is achievable but even those I know only photograph the cleared table with said project, ignoring the chaos behind the camera (count me guilty as charged!)

 


Here's the thing: I know we all edit and select what we want to publicly share but hasn't that always been the case?  Friends come over and I shove the clutter of mail and papers into a drawer, stash my bins of supplies in a closet and give a quick wipe to the countertops.  And maybe I am just quirky, but what I choose to blog about is not so much what I want you, dear reader, to see and know about me as much as it is what I want to explore and understand about myself.  

A friend recently asked me how blogging differed from keeping a journal.  I've been chewing on that question for awhile now as I realize I much prefer my blog to anything I've scribbled in my journals.  In fact, I consider my blog to be a more accurate reflection of me and my life.  When I write in a journal, there is no audience so I should be free to express all my thoughts, dark and light, crazy and mundane. Maybe it is because I write for only myself, I never push myself to fully develop my ideas, thoughts, opinions as I do when I write for this space.  The knowledge that someone else will read my words compels me to gather my thoughts and work my way towards some kind of understanding or perspective.  I force myself to clarify what is often murky when I start out writing.  A kernel of a thought or idea brings me to the laptop and as I write, I dig into the jumble of my thoughts, seeking to uncover some deeper meaning, seeking to understand what it is I truly know and believe about myself and this journey that is my life.

 

That any of this would be of use or interest to another, well, I don't know.  I hesitate to say "I don't care" but truly I do this for myself and if it amuses or benefits another in some way, wonderful.  Still, I show up here for myself.  This space is a place of accountability. It is my form of mindfulness I guess.  It is a lot of work.  If no one reads my words, would I continue?  I would like to believe I would because I do this first and foremost for myself. The historian/academic in me does this with a thought towards the future and the possibility of these words enduring so that some kind of snapshot of the life and mind of one 21st century Joy Warrioress mama/artist/dilettante will be visible.  I do this so my girl may know her mama in a way that I never was able to know my mother.  

All pie in the sky, I'm sure but I also joke that I was attending yoga classes back when people wore sweatpants (no Lululemon techno-intelligent fabrics back then!) and I will still be on my mat when the herds have moved on to the next trend.  And while the world lives in the sound-bites that is Facebook and Twitter, probably morphing into space-age virtual texting via brain-graphs, I probably will still be here blogging with my lap blanket, pot of tea and the fading afternoon light reminding me it is time to get up and back into the life that so compellingly caused me to pause and wonder and write.

I now return you to your real life.  Thank you for viewing my brain lint!

 I was just interviewed by a dear friend, fellow Joy Warrior, sister-of-my-soul Jane Cunningham for her series SHEros which you can read here.  Of course, Jane is my SHEro and she continues to inspire me with her work, including a new e-course for 2013: Choosing True Over Nice as part of her Women's Soul Workshops.  Thank you Jane for so lovingly witnessing me.

Scrying (future perfect)

You love your kids way too much to ever feel safe again.  - Anne Lamott 



Once in a great while - usually when I am distracted by something mundane like boiling noodles or sifting through the junk mail - I will glance over at Cowgirl and in a flash see the young woman she is slowly drifting towards becoming. 

It is a bit disconcerting but also thrilling.  Kinda like coming upon a wild animal and experiencing that frisson of awe and instinctual fear.  The image jarring in that the memory of her needy, wispy-haired, mouth-gaping-in-perpetual-want, baby bird self is still very vivid for me.  


But here is the evidence of my girl slowly orbiting away from me. The separation not yet visible, but imminent.  

Her being is as close to me as my racing pulse; at the same time she baffles, excites, delights and frustrates me to no end. 


I was talking with a friend I had not seen in a long while.  This friend is someone I view as a mentor when it comes to mothering.  A professional and a professor, she has a resumé long with achievement yet her focus has always clearly been centered upon her family.  So I was surprised by her reaction when I relating to her my struggle to determine what it is I wish to cultivate within my life.  I was telling her how I admire people like Julia Child (did I throw you with that one?) who so passionately devote themselves to something they believe in and how I have been seeking my whole life to find that one thing - my thing - for myself.  I enjoy too many things I explained to her and I feel the pull to go deeply into something and see where it takes me rather that continue to graze upon the surface of my life.  


The gist of my friend's response was "You are a mother and that occupies your time ... isn't your child your thing?" For a split second I could feel the relief of slipping into that belief.  To heap upon tiny shoulders the responsibility for my meaning and purpose.  It is a tightrope walk - to balance upon a thin wire of being  totally present for and focused upon my child while maintaining our separate identities, our separate needs.  I do not want to make my child a vessel for my longings and aspirations.  I do not want her to believe she is to fulfill the dreams I was too fearful to pursue.

I want her to be her own person and to be able to hear, trust and follow the urgings of her own heart, her own mind.  And as painful as it feels to me now as I witness these first forays into independence, I want her to slip into a life of her own choosing free of any  guilt over pleasing or completing me.   


I tried explaining this to my friend.  I told her if nothing else, I want my daughter to see me as a complete person empowered by knowing it is within my ability and my right to seek that which brings me joy and fulfillment.  When she is in her adult life - a race car driver or a paleontologist as of this week - I want Cowgirl to think of her old mother as an interesting if somewhat eccentric person.  

And perhaps she is witnessing clues to my future self for her school essays about our family always read "My mother likes to paint. I like her paintings."

 

 And so we both grow.   A thrilling if somewhat dangerous and uncertain process. May we always hold space for the other to be who they dare to be.   

today (easter prep)

today I sit, coffee cup between my palms seeking some warmth on yet another cold, drizzly day.

(I don't mean to sound bitter, but everyone's images of Spring in full throttle are depressing me; I seem to have developed an unrequited love for the sun. I call my girlfriend up on the phone, she says "hello?" and I simply sigh. She always knows it is me.)

today I walked the dog and tried to imagine myself in Ireland, the soggy greens of Spring that deep, that moist ...

however, this stale cup of coffee is not refreshing me like a good cup of tea, luv.

today I long for a day outside of time luxurious space to dream, think, remember and then play.

today I must:
-take the dog to the vet's
-grocery shop
-buy eggs and dye
-jelly beans and peeps
-make a card for a baby shower







and god, cook another dinner.

(It is not the cooking I find overwhelming; it is determining what to cook, the weekly meal planning and trips to the store a stone I repeatedly roll up hill. It seems I've misplaced my gusto, the joie in my vivre.)


today I receive unexpected guests, memories descending upon me, snippets of songs clouded by time: Easter services, family dinners, pastel print dress and buster brown shoes, my godmother singing "Hey Jude" on the organ with a samba beat.






today I awoke longing for a respite, a mini-vacation if you will, not an escape, but a bubble of time suspended - allowing the emotional snow fall within my snowglobe to settle.

today I want to luxuriate in books and words - yours and mine
today I feel closer to my truth, fingertips brushing the velvety surface
my senses know what my mind can never grasp.

today I sit here and dream while one eye keeps tabs on the clock; my morning slipping away

Time
a cat stalking me through the high grass.

my list grows, preparations must get underway:
a bunny village to erect
details tidied
life, reorganized.

today I will remember this weekend is about hope, birth after death, rabbits and resurrection, creativity reanimating the world

another chance to align myself with my expanding heart, each beat, a mantra

i am i am i am ...

the seeds of my salvation reside within me; within the simple truth of goodness - mine and yours -

and innocence







seeing the world through wide eyes alert, open, receptive to magic and miracles and a heart willing to take it all in.

today I step gingerly over the wet dog, wrap a sweater about me and take in the wonder of robins fat from the bounty of worms

and await the return of the sun.

lost in dreams - a plea for real books

Something exciting happened to me yesterday. Writing my final piece for my story telling course, I was so deep into the process of retrieving memories and giving words to them, that I lost track of time and was late picking Cowgirl up from school. Only a couple of minutes. But I had been so immersed into this other world, it was a shock to lift my eyes and see how much time had passed.

This stepping out of time and into a realm beyond time is what I love about art making, writing and reading. In college, I remember my first art professor explaining how there is this more medieval experience of time when we make art and it does not conform to minutes, hours, or even days. It is like taking off on a space ship, journeying far and wide and then returning to earth to find everyone has aged but you have not. Maybe that is the secret allure of making art: it is the magic elixir of youth?

This experience got me thinking about the other times in my life when the pace of the outside world is only faintly perceived. For me, the best way to lose - and yet expand - myself is through reading. Curling up with a good book is something I learned from my mother. Growing up, our house was filled with the piles of her books: on coffee tables, on the nightstand, on the floor by her armchair, and all over the kitchen table. My mother loved to read and she devoured books on pace with her consumption of shoes and handbags.








She would read to me every night before bed and being a budding bibliophile, I would continue looking, if not reading, my books under the covers and with a flash light. To their credit, my parents never told me to turn the light out and I argue with The Husband about Cowgirl's new habit of asking for the hall light to remain on, her door cracked open "a little bit more" because I know she is moving to the end of her bed and reading after we tuck her in. I will not deny her her books.

I remember the summer my mother read me Charlotte's Web and we both cried. I asked her to read it again and she gently, but firmly, told me I could now read it myself. And I did. Over and over and over. I also re-read Stuart LIttle and all of the Little House books. I would wake up early and stay in my bed re-reading these favorite books, lost in the world with their pages.








One summer, when I was 11 or 12 with very little to do, I would walk the mile to our public library to pick out books. I would return home and spend the rest of the day reading. I averaged book a day. I was an avid fan of Miss Marple, Sherlock Holmes and anything by E.B. White. I remember the thrill of my first library card and the sense of arriving when I could move upstairs from the Children's room to the Adult section of the library, trading in my peach card for a light blue one. I would wander the stacks, pulling books down and scanning their pages, looking for something that would fit my mood. I read some pretty inappropriate material as a kid: Jacqueline Susan's Valley of the Dolls being one book I knew I probably wasn't supposed to read. But I discovered many authors through my meanderings. There was no greater thrill than finding a good book and discovering the shelves held additional works by that author.

As an adult, one of my greatest pleasures was to get up, make a cup of coffee and then climb back into bed to read. With Cowgirl around, that pleasure has been put on hold for a few years. I have introduced her to the joy of reading in the bath. Her school is sponsoring a reading month, everyone reading the same book and the request being families take time to read out loud together. It is a little advanced for Cowgirl, so reading an 8 page chapter a night takes us some time as I have to pause to explain or describe things in more detail. So we draw a nice bubble bath and relax as we learn more about about Emma, her black pony Licorice Twist, and steamship travel up the Mississippi river.

I remember certain times and places by what I was reading. Jane Eyre while in Scotland; Milan Kundera in Ireland; the life of D.H. Lawrence in Sedona; Harry Potter in China; Eat, Pray, Love during our first family trip to Cape Cod. And there are the books I return to year after year: Ann Lamott's Traveling Mercies; Natalie Goldberg's Long, Quiet Highway; John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meanie. The Mists of Avalon. Women Who Run with the Wolves. Old friends I revisit, finding something new with each return.









So I made a trip to the library and have a new stack of books awaiting me. A few new titles and one old friend - Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time. I want to clear my day of all tasks, make a big pot of tea and hunker down on the couch with a bag of snacks and my pile of books. I want to slow down my experience of time.










And here is my plea for real books - books you hold and turn the pages and find on the shelves of bookstores or libraries or in your friend's home - they carry more than just the words or images on their pages. They carry a history of readers who turned the pages, left crumbs, marked favorite passages, creased the corners or otherwise used and valued them. As much as I understand the benefit and convenience of kindles and other devices to hold hundreds of books within their lightweight casing, they do not allow the kind of discovery and connection one has when browsing through stacks of books. Come visit me and you will have access to my library; you may pull down any book and from it discover something new for yourself. But you will also learn something about me and the worlds I have visited.








There is nothing quite like holding a new book in your hands: the smell of the paper, the act of smoothing the pages down, flipping ahead to look at the pictures, and peaking at the end of a chapter when things feel too tense and you just have to know what happens. But the best part of having a real book in your hands ...








... is the pleasure of sharing your joy with another.

(A heartfelt Thank you to Natasha and all the fearless writers in The Stories You Will Tell for inspiring me to discover a love of both writing stories and reading good ones. And now, excuse me as adventure calls ...)

Monday Inspiration Celebration: Healing Hands

I am surrendering to the craziness that is my life right now: a dog who decided eating a whole loaf of bread would be a good thing; winds blowing thoughts and trash all about; a child insistent upon play, um, NOW and other clutter unmentionable (all internal, of course, my house is immaculate I promise you - on Saturday I massaged Inspired Action serum over my face and waited to see what the muse would ask of me. It is a sad state of affairs when one's muses tells you to clean!) So I am sharing a piece I wrote over the weekend as an exercise for The Stories You Will Tell. The prompt was to write about a part of myself that I love. It's a great exercise - I encourage you to try it. Here is my raw, unedited piece. Call it "lisa, unpolished."

I have my mother's hands. For the longest time, that seemed to be the only part of her I could see in me. I have my father's eyes, nose, smile, and his teeth including the front bottom tooth that stubbornly defied 4 years of braces and drifted back to its original location. Now I see a bit of her nose in the bridge of mine and the infamous "Moore Family Bottom" pear shape which has ripened as I've aged. But I always knew my hand were exact replicas of hers.

Wrinkly knuckles. Veiny. Lined and decorated, a map of my past and my future. Smooth, dusty nails. She keeps hers filed to a soft point, just a little bit of white showing whereas I keep my nails blunt and short, a habit from when I played piano. Now my short nails are practical, easy to wash away paint and dirt, won't snag on yarn.

My husband once picked up my mother's hand and in amazement declared "It is like holding your daughter's!" After that, I became aware of the sensation of knowing myself by holding her hand. My fingers experiencing the feel of their own substructure. Bony and smooth. Delicate but solid. Like holding a bird; aware of the intricate latticework of tiny bones and sinews woven tightly together. Cool to the touch.

This is what I remember as a child: the reassuring touch of my mother's hands upon my skin. The chill of her palm upon my fevered forehead; her hands circling the surface of my stomach, as if to brush away the pain within; firm knuckles racking across my cheeks, smearing away salty tears.

And now a mother myself, I know her secret. What empowered her hands was touching and knowing the comfort of one's child beneath them. The heat of that flesh burning into my palms, brushing over skin sleek and silky as a seal"s. A perfect union of warm and cool, tough and tender. Balance known through touch if only temporarily.

Hands feeling their way to meaning. Placing my palms upon the window pane, I sense the weather outside. I thread my fingers through the thicket of my hair as if to grasp myself in this moment. I slide my hands over the fluff and fur of my dog, brushing the backs of my hands against the velvet soft of his muzzle. My fingers linger in the luxuriousness of his dense ruff, glide over the ovals of his paws, imagining the worlds he travels when I am away. My hands guide me through my day. Smooth river rock in my palm soothes me. Fingertips brush tree bark like reading Braille, the natural history of a place mine to decode. I rest my hands upon the earth and feel her breath. Spongy ground of Spring pulsating with life. The hard ground of Winter reminding me to travel inward for strength and nourishment.

The hands carry the energy of our hearts out into the world. My palms rest on the hollow between my daughter's shoulder blades, alert to the pulse of her heart, the movement of her breath, the flutter of her angel wings. Through touch, I feel love. With touch, I send my love back.

Hopefully, I will have a little lull tonight to pick up my crayons and scribble away. Yes, I am even behind on my 5 minute-a-day Sparkles course. But I am enjoying my clean floors.

writing fun (how i describe me)

Excuse me ... you'll have to speak up, I have trouble hearing over all the voices in my head ... Have we met before? Because you look familiar and I am terrible with names ... but somehow I became the collective memory of my family, the keeper of all secrets, the street sweeper puttering along at the end of the parade, tidying up the messes ...












I am Alice's White Rabbit perpetually late and leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in my wake ... I am a snake obsessively shedding my skin - devotion or compulsive behavior? I don't know which ... I am prairie fields vast and still, infinite in subtle tones of gold and brown; I am prairie fields whipped wide [i meant to write wild, but there it is] by the sudden storms that inevitably pop up when conditions become extreme ...








I am dangerous when threatened and the one who often threatens myself is me ... I thrash and I crash ... I've been broken but I believe ... my knees are bloodied by prayer ... I cry when I laugh ... I slobber when I cry ...











I journey in deep, touch my vulnerable self and try my best to love her ... I am curiosity and the cat, but hopefully I have 8 lives to go ... I am love all sloppy and extreme, a puppy that cannot help itself ... I am whomever I choose to be in this moment and funny, I still choose me.

So, tell me something about you ...

(This was an exercise for the amazing course I am currently in - The Stories You'll Tell. I have been repeatedly shocked by the words and images tumbling out from my imagination. Each exercise I wonder how will I dredge up something original but the prompts, the guidance, and the feedback from Natasha have unleashed a torrent of ideas. And I am enjoying the simplicity of a writing practice: just me, a cup of tea, my favorite medium point blue ball point pen - una penna italiana molto bella - and the page.)

Weekly Reflection (Week 49): nuturing our talents

As I was cleaning up the dinner dishes, Cowgirl plunked herself upon a stool at the kitchen island to do some coloring. As an art historian, I cannot help but notice my daughter's work moves through distinctive phases. First, there was her Blue period followed by a Rainbow period and then a Dinosaur period. Now she working on a Transportation series. There are her Train pieces utilizing an Asian scroll-like format (many sheets of paper taped together) and more recently, Truck Books (incorporating staples - a new favorite rivaling her love for scotch tape.)

in "Blue Thunder" the artist draws upon her previous exploration of the expressive power of blue, incorporating a new investigation inquiry into speed and power as exemplified by the truck and car.

She was drawing away while I busied myself with the dirty dishes, pots and pans (perhaps a Kitchen Series is coming?) Then she asked us to help her spell out the words "Once upon a time." This is a typical scene:

Cowgirl: "Mom, how do you spell Once?"
Me: "O"
CG: "Got it!"
Me: "N"
CG: "Got it!"
Me: "C"
CG: "Got it!"

And so on. (The husband and I argue about the pacing of our spelling out loud. He fires off the letters while I wait for her "got it" before going on to the next letter. I find my brain seizes up when people recite letters or numbers quickly. The worst is on answering machine messages where I have to replay over and over, the numbers always getting transposed in my mind.)

Before long, The Husband had taken a seat by her and together they completed her story book. Cowgirl dictated the sentences, while daddy helped edit and then write out the words. Watching them together, my heart melted. It is such a joy for me when Cowgirl takes an interest in doing art with me and I saw the same pride and pleasure on The Husband's face as he assisted his daughter. You see, I forget that the husband teaches writing (screen writing) along with film production to university students and that, in fact, he is a writer. And in that moment, I realized we are a family of writers.

cover art for "The Orange Car"

"The car used fire rockets to go fast and not get hit."

"Then the car shot back at the bad suns. They were hit and shrunk until they were gone. The car was happy and jumped on a bump to fly away. The End."

When Cowgirl first came home at age 23 months, she spoke just a few words of baby babble and possibly simple Cantonese. Her first English word was "Woof" followed by "Up" which had an Italian inflection to it as I taught it to her saying "Uh, Uh, Pah, Pah" and so it become Uh-Pa! She didn't say much more and we actually discussed whether we should be concerned about her speech. Of course, we are a talkative couple and - you guessed it - quickly we had a very chatty child on our hands.

We are also a family of readers, so it should come as no surprise that Cowgirl is interested in writing her own stories, making her own books. Her first full sentence was "We like dogs." (By now I am sure you are noticing the theme here ... again, no wonder she refers to herself as "C Dog.")

And now she has a number of her books filling the tables in our home. She is becoming more adept at reading and writing words by sounding the letters out and with this new skill, her talent as a story teller is blossoming. I am proud of her joy and sense of accomplishment as she works on her creations. I am also coming recognize the importance of my sharing with her the thrills and pride I experience in my work. In thinking about all this, it is dawning on me that among other things, I too am a writer.

I'm not sure which is harder for me to say - I am a writer or I am an artist? In my heart, I know I am both, but saying so feels awkward and presumptuous. But if I want my daughter to be comfortable embracing her talents, I need to become comfortable doing so myself. I need to practice acknowledging the gifts and the talents that I take great efforts exercising. And it is effort; I know that talent is not a matter of total ease but of perserverence, commitment, passion and practice, practice, practice.

Also essential is taking time to celebrate and appreciate our accomplishments. To do so gives momentum to continue on. As the year draws towards its conclusion, I look back over my list from last January of "Things to Do in 2010." I am stunned to see so many items on my list have been realized or are well on their way to becoming a reality. Some are rather mundane: sew an apron, knit Cowgirl a sweater, wear more dresses. But some are pretty major: attend Squam, be involved in a big creative project (21 Secrets), take a painting class (BIG), skinny dip (at Squam in a frigid lake!), start a women's circle, and connect with some of my "idols" (classes with Marisa, Sarah, and Susannah.)

Connection was a major theme and intention for me in 2010. Another goal was to have my writing and images appear in places other than this blog. And today I am proud to announce I have a guest post up on The Mortal Muses blog for the theme "where i live." Having my work appear in other blogs is like having someone want to hang your art work in their living room. It is one thing to display my pieces in my home, but to have my work accepted into another's space is a huge form of validation. I realized this morning that I have had my work appear in four other blogs and that is a feat I would never have imagined myself capable of achieving. And I don't mean to say that my work isn't worthy, but for me to put myself out there and ask another person "would you read this?" or "would you consider this piece, this image?" is a HUGE accomplishment for me.

In fact, I have another dream project that just received some positive encouragement. I cannot go into the details just yet, but it is an idea that involves art, photography and underprivileged young people utilizing these formats to validate their perspectives, their experiences. I write about this because I almost let my idea whither away. It came to me last summer and I wrote to a couple of people about it, asking for advice on how to proceed. I got no feedback and over time, I let the doubts and the obvious logistical challenges damper my enthusiasm. Then I was in contact with a person whose organization I had hoped to contact for this project, but for a different matter. I was sending an email and it hit me I should mention my idea to this person and ask for feedback or a name of someone who I might contact. I sat at my desk, the angel of enthusiasm and passion shouting "write it! write it!" and the devil of doubt and self-effacement whispering "You can't do this ... you don't have the skills ..." and the most insidious of them all "now is not a good time ... wait until you are more ready for this." I wavered for an instant, and then I typed out my idea and hit the send button. The next day I got a response that my idea is great and she wants to discuss it at the January planning meeting with other departments in the organization.

The story I all too often tell myself is "what I do isn't all that important or big." I am coming to realize, I cannot maintain that lie any longer. For beyond anything I might achieve for myself, there is my impact upon my daughter's life which becomes more apparent every day. She moves her hands like me, she uses similar verbal inflections and facial expressions and now there is her sense of herself and her identity which is directly related to how I think and express my sense of self.

apparently, i am also an ice [cream] truck

Hello, my name is Lisa and I am a hard-working, passionately engaged, and dedicated writer, artist, and mother.

How do you describe yourself? Is it a nurturing or a destructive description? Who do you aspire to be?





(Thank you for the inquiries and well wishes into Moose's current health challenge. He has been doing much better and while we still do not know the cause of his stomach ailments, he is responding well to medication and a convalescence's diet. That said, he has had cravings which lead him to devour the top 2 inches of Rick's boot! So he is recovering from the effects of shoe leather moving through his system. And in a twist of either poetry or perversion, I found myself paying for his last vet's visit - a barium swallow test with x-rays! - and thinking "there go my new black boots." Well, someone got a black boot!)

Weekly Reflection (week 44): stories

Did you know today is StoryCorps National Day of Listening? In our home, telling stories is a favorite pass time for Cowgirl. Rides in the car, bath time, waiting in line and of course bed time provide the time and space for Cowgirl to demand "tell me a story!" Daddy's are the best stories (he does teach screenwriting after all and is slavish in his adherence to plot, character development and narrative flow) in that they are wildly creative. A current favorite is an Egyptian mummy hero called Fun King Awesome (say it really fast and you will also understand The Husband's sharp sense of humor.)

The stories I tell are not fiction, but a recounting of our family's history and fall into the domain of StoryCorps project. When Cowgirl wants details of her life, she comes to me. "Tell me about the time there was a noodle in my diaper" is one favorite (with details I believe you prefer not to read) and generally any story that involves her making a mess that we had to clean up.

Learning about the storytelling project, I am reminded of a project I've put on my "to remember" list: an art journal/scrapbook recounting the important stories from my life with Cowgirl and the things I want to tell her from my heart that right she may be too young to fully understand. A book of my wishes and wisdom if you will.

So I find myself considering What stories do I want to preserve for my daughter? And for myself?

Some of the most powerful memories and moments for me were from our first weeks as a family while in China. Those weeks were an intense and accelerated process of getting to know, understanding, trust and bond with each other. As a new and adoptive parent, each and every sign of attachment was a celebration. Mealtimes were often the settings for our greatest victories.






Now, if you have children, image taking a 23 month old out to dinner every night in a restaurant for close to three weeks. Add to that the fact that you and said child are still on unfamiliar territory: this little person is packed to the brim with well formed notions of what is acceptable and what is an affront to their very core. What will upset and what will calm them is still a mystery to you. A side complication: one adult is a vegetarian and the other a more adventurous eater while the child will spit out anything deemed offensive (and you have yet to determine which foods fall into that category.)

Taking all these factors into account, the victory of a quiet dinner with plates cleaned can be fully appreciated. One such night was a dinner in a Japanese restaurant. It was a rainy day and we decided to stay within the hotel complex for dinner. The restaurant was fairly empty and so we figured we would not be bothering any other diners should an Event occur. (One such Event ensued when I took a plastic cup emptied of cheerios away from Cowgirl - she had been chewing on it and I worried the edge of the container would cut her mouth - and she promptly erupted into shrieks that froze a full room of diners as they watched our hasty retreat.)

Cowgirl's favorite foods while we were in China were noodles and fried rice. She became something of a connoisseur of fried rice: she sampled Chinese, Thai and Japanese versions of the dish. Initially distrustful of the Japanese style - it had bigger chunks of vegetables than she was used to - I put her on my lap to try to feed her. There is nothing more comfortable and comforting than a child on your lap. Their little bodies seemed designed to slip perfectly against your torso, they heads resting against our hearts. That night, she was my snuggle puppy nestled into me and like a baby bird accepting bite full after bite full of fried rice from my chopsticks. Odd were the french fries that were part of her dish, and she conveyed her displeasure by jerking her head away from the offending items. She loved her little container of a yogurt drink and sipped carefully from the straw as I held it up to her mouth. She ended the meal with a favorite new treat: Cheerios. Essential to our well being in those days was to always have a stash of them on hand.

Towards the end of our meal, another couple was seated near our table. Occasionally I would see them stealing glances our way. As we left, the young man asked us how long we had been a family. When we told him six days, he was shocked. He went on to explain how he had told his girlfriend we must be back to celebrate the anniversary of our adoption. He had no idea how comforting his comment was and how his observation confirmed what we had been feeling: we were a family.

What stories do you cherish? What memories stir your heart and light up your soul? How do you preserve and share your history, your life? Recognize the stories we tell celebrate the value and meaning of our everyday life. Love is there, in all the glorious details.

Inspiration Friday: Scratching my creative itch!

The first steps of a creative act are like groping in the dark: random and chaotic, feverish and fearful, a lot of busy-ness with no apparent or definable end in sight.... You need a tangible idea to get you going. The idea, however minuscule, is what turns the verb into a noun - paint into a painting, sculpt into sculpture, write into writing, dance into dancing. (Twyla Tharp - The Creative Habit)

The habit that Tharp uses to approach her blank page she calls scratching. Like scratching a lottery ticket to uncover your prize, or as Tharp explains it "It's like clawing at the side of a mountain to get a toehold, a grip, some sort of traction to keep moving upward and onward."

I love this notion of scratching. What gets me started on a piece or project? How is a seed discovered and then planted? How do I coax creativity out of its dark cave?

As much as I tend to be an orderly, organized person, I am discovering my need for some sort of controlled chaos in order to free up my creative juices. My own personal scratching technique is to be sure I have a couple of projects ongoing to turn to when inspiration strikes. If nothing else, in those seeming lulls of creativity, I have to remind myself to do some prep work. Using this means readying my materials like gesso-ing some journal pages or postcards, shifting through my photo files and uploading pictures to Flickr, or cleaning out my materials bins and discovering new scraps of background papers, magazine clippings and other ephemera that I have collected and which may spark an idea.






When working, I like to move around from project to project striking when inspired. Often when I am working on one piece, I have an idea for another piece and while something is drying or when a piece is marinating, I then move over to a second or even third piece. I am finding my postcard paintings are fantastic vehicles for scratching an idea or image or color scheme that may move into a larger format later on.

Other ways I scratch or stretch out my creative muscles include drawing up inspiration from nature:





Children's books are great sources for inspiration. An image, character or technique pops out at me while reading to Cowgirl and I secretly stash that book away in my art space to peruse and explore later on. (Oh yes, I steal freely from Cowgirl's collection!) The illustrators of children's books are some of my favorite artists and their imagery and styles appealing to the child in me.






Paying attention to Cowgirl's stories is another way I mine for artistic gold. Her imagination and spin on the seemingly ordinary always has me rushing for my journal to jot down ideas. A series of images based upon the antics of our otherwise lazy dog Moose has been particularly fertile ground. Cowgirl has a wonder spin on language: reading the weather section in the paper, she will inform us "Today is sunny, tonight is moony ..." She loves me "all the numbers" (which means a lot) and is wise to the times when I am trying "egg her up" (her interpretation of "buttering someone up.") Lots of good visual puns there!






Any kind of movement - taking a walk, free form dancing, yoga - are all ways to shake off the cobwebs, get the blood flow moving to the brain and stimulate some fresh thinking. Tharp writes about this and it is amazing how I can begin my yoga practice with my mind all cluttered, confused and tied up in knots. Even 15 minutes of movement and focusing upon my breath has the incredible effect of resetting my mind so thoughts flow freely and easily. (Yup, got my bit in for 21-5-800!)





Of course a huge place to scratch is here online. You all are some of my favorite sources for ideas, challenges, and projects. I sometimes wonder if my best pieces of writing are over in someone else's comment section! But as I read and write in others spaces, I often find myself typing my way into a new topic to be explored here and in my written journal.

My absolute favorite way shimmy into creative flow is to watch How To videos. For a mega-normous dose of creative juiciness, any video from the always inspiring Connie of Dirty FootPrints Studio has me humming and buzzing with art making potential.







Oh yeah, can you feel that?! Aren't you ready to hop to ASAP? (And if you feel inspired but intimidated, then I encourage you to check out Connie's newest e-course offering entitled BIG. I'll be there along with some super wonderful art lovelies painting our hearts out this July. And just to be clear, Connie does not know I am posting her video or writing this. I have grown so much as an artist - there, I said it, I am an artist! - and a huge dollop of gratitude is owed to the generosity of Connie as a teacher and as a fellow traveler on this crazy path of art and yoga. Okay, love letter over ♥)

Anyone who meditates will tell you, once you start scratching, the itches become endless. Not what you want when sitting on the zafu trying to focus on the breath, but hallelujah YES! when surrounded by paints, pencils, paper and pen.


What ways do you scratch for creative ideas? Thinking about your scratching habits, it is useful to have your list handy so the next time the paper seems especially white, you have your habits ready to move over the hurdle of that blank page.

Meanwhile, I ask you: Isn't ecstasy supposed to come before the laundry? I'm just wondering where mine went ...