Art Participation

                On Monday, a college student stopped by the house.  He asked me to edit a paper he had due for educational psychology.  About twenty years ago, I took the same type of class.  I forgot how fired up I can still get when discussing education.  I only taught for three years, but my passion still resides in my heart.  The topic of the paper was art.

                I believe our education system does a disservice to the discipline of any form of art: writing, music, painting, welding, and the list can go on.  Through all my years of art class and music, I was never taught how I can express the creativity in these areas for the remainder of my life outside the classroom.  Granted, I listen to music and sing in the church congregation, but I never learned the ability to play on my own or with a band.  I watched my son go through band and his teacher taught them to do just that.  In fact, one of my son’s classmates is excited for when he goes to college so the two of them can start playing their gigs again.  With my daughter, I am helping her learn by the instructor I hired.  She will soon be playing guitar for our church.  Hopefully both my children will continue on with music more then I have.

                Growing up, I always felt like a failure at art.  My entire educational career, I only once felt like I created something beautiful and that was a project we did with lines.  I actually received an A and it looked better then all my classmates.  Thus, when friends of mine comment that I am an artist, I laugh.  Not me.  I did horrible in art class.  Yet, if I am honest with myself, I am very artistic in interior design, gardening, and crafting.  Unfortunately, we are not taught to appreciate, succeed, or grow in these areas through the education system.  How did I reach my success?  I have watched hours of design and gardening shows on the Home and Garden network.  (I am sad to say that I don’t like the programming as much in the last five years.  They have turned to huge construction projects or buying and selling.  I like the easy programming that an amateur like myself can complete.)  They gave me the courage to try the work on my own.  I have had some whopping failures, but through those failures I have learned and grown. 

                Hum, that is another lesson I wish was taught.  We need to learn how to fail.  When I was young, I stopped participating in what I failed at or was mediocre at even if I loved the task.  I stopped playing basketball and volleyball because I was not athletic enough to make the teams.  I also feared criticism because I grew up with the impression that everything has to be perfect or it shouldn’t even be attempted.  Why do we have to be good/perfect at something to continue studying and participating in that activity/sport?

                The answer is we don’t have to be good.  I look around my house at the painting I have accomplished.  I see a lot of flaws.  I won’t be an interior design professional, but it will continue to be a major hobby.  Some people in my life delight in pointing out the flaws.  I either ignore them or make the statement that I saved a chunk of cash because I did it myself and had fun.  I also pity those people because they will never know the joy of accomplishing a project and seeing how they become better at the work as times goes by.  Other people compliment me.  I appreciate these people tremendously.  They are positive and see the value in the process.

                I have worked at teaching my children the value of attempting tasks and having a blast even if they are not very good.  Will my daughter play college softball?  I don’t know nor care.  I care that she plays on the city team when she is forty.  Will my son become the next Louis Armstrong?  It doesn’t matter.  I do want to hear him play when I am sixty.  Will my oldest become the next Bobby Flay?  Who cares?  I just want him to continue to enjoy his passion even if he burns a dish. 

Life is about the creative journey.  What is your passion?  Go out and participate!

Reflecting

                In my eternal study of the best way to forward my career, the other day I came across a statement.  The blogger commented, that as an author, the best practice of blogging is to stay away from all topics dealing with religion and politics.  Their logic was sound in that a writer doesn’t want to alienate their potential readers due to differences of philosophy in these areas.  Of course, after reading this, I have felt the urge to write about faith issues.  Will I push potential readers away?  Maybe.  But if my readers want to know who the real me is, they will discover that I am a Catholic Christian.  I love my faith because it has molded me and continues to help me grow as a caring person of all mankind. Am I perfect, heavens no!  I am also a conservative republican, but I try to appreciate other viewpoints because that is what makes our country great. 

Earlier today, I ran across this quote.  “Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.”  Cyril Connolly.  I am going to break the rule many writers follow and talk about faith to write for myself.

 

Being a writer and being Lisa, I reflect on my actions and the actions of others both in the present and past.  I also analyze where I have been, where I am at, and where I would like to be in my faith, life, relationships, and career.  During Lent, I do this even more due to the nature of the season.  Here is a quote I came across in my readings earlier this month.

 

“Some people think worst of me than I am, others better.  But Jesus knows what I’m up to – good or bad.  And he loves me.

If maligned (slandered, badmouthed) for doing right, I can take courage.  The Lord knows the truth.

                                If I get credit for things I don’t deserve, I must take heed.  The Lord knows the truth.

                Either way, I’m safest with the Lord.  He knows me better than anyone, and I know he knows.  No need to fake it.  And he loves me more than anyone.”

 

                As I stated, I reflect a lot.  I rehash the same negative scenes over and over wondering how I could have acted better.  I especially look at the relationships in my past that have failed in one way or another.  I contemplate my part and the other person’s.  Depending on my mood, I will either blame myself or justify myself.  In reality, it took both me and the other person to fail at the relationship.  This season, I specifically reflected on one bad association when I came across this quote.  I know because of the falling out “people think worse of me.”  But God loves me.  I know some of the people involved have gossiped about me either telling the truth or not.  God however knows the truth.  I am sure with some people I get all the credit for the situation being bad.  God knows.  I remain in the safety of my loving father.  He and I both know I am far from perfect.  I don’t have to fake it and he accepts me warts and all.

                Since I read and prayed over the quote, I have been at peace.  At some point, I believe I will repeat the scenes in my mind once again.  As a writer, the emotions are what makes for good stories.  However, I know the truth in that I have a constant companion in my journey that keeps me safe.

Hating March

                I wrote this post eleven days ago.  I usually let my posts rest for a day before editing them and putting them up on the blog.  I never accomplished this task because my body went into pain mode of a pretty big flare-up.  I would love to say that I have handled the set back with grace, but alas, I became pretty grumpy by this past weekend.  Yesterday, I actually woke up with about five hours’ worth of energy.  We will see how today is going.  I am counting down the days in March.  Seven!!!  Of course, I will struggle a little in April, but not as much.

 

The last couple of years I have developed a hatred for the month of March.  Last year when I realized I dreaded the inevitable coming of the third month, I wondered why.  I mean, I love spring.  March, many times, brings warmer weather, birds, and shoots of green.  In fact, this afternoon on my way to the mailbox, I saw sprouts emerging from my poppy.  All of this should bring me joy.  I love to garden and I can begin my work when the temps are in their forties: raking, trimming, and cleaning.  Yet, the end of April rolls around and I find I haven’t done a thing and am already behind in the gardening curve.

                Tonight I worked on my second load of dishes for the day.  I have not had an ounce of energy for the past four days and I was determined to get the four days worth of dishes done.  I was also determined to get my bed made which I normally do every day but haven’t accomplished since about Monday.  Yes, I have been thankful that all the clouds rolling in through the valley haven’t caused me any pain, but it has caused my body fighting fibromyalgia and rheumatoid arthritis, leaving me doing the bear minimums of taking care of my daughter.  Since I didn’t have to drive her anywhere, in between rest periods, I have worked on cleaning.  As my back growled at me for standing up too long and my hands enjoyed the warmth of the dish water, I watched more clouds roll into the valley from the west.  The reason for hating March dawned on me. 

                The change of weather causes me to ache and/or have no energy.  March is one of our most fluctuating times of the year and leaves me completely drained.  Now I need to take this knowledge and come up with a plan to make the month more enjoyable.  Hum, this is going to be a challenge.  How do you make a month enjoyable when your energy is completely drained?  How do you entertain yourself when you feel like a zombie?  I should work on my reading list so I can answer those crazy quizzes and get 90 of 100 instead of 36, kidding, as if I need more to read.  I have over 70 books on my list as it is. 

Anyway, I am glad I finally figured out the problem with March.  For the rest of the month, I will work at a better attitude and find the little pleasures as my body is buffeted by the changing barometric readings.  I will grasp my good days with abundant activity.  On the bad days, I will putter around the house while crocheting and reading.  Instead of fighting the inevitable, I will embrace the journey.

Is there a month you struggle with?  How do you get through the rough spots?

Cabin Fever

                My cat and I have a lot in common this week, cabin fever.  With all the ice, snow, and low temperatures, we have been staying in the house as much as possible.  She wanders around meowing to let us know of her discontent.  I kick her outside for a minute or two periodically throughout the day, but she isn’t getting her hunting, fresh air time. 

                Yesterday, I felt her pain.  I wandered around the house complaining about everything.  In fact, I wrote a long paragraph about all of the stuff I am tired of dealing with of late.  Today, I kicked myself out for a short time.  I almost fell on my butt in one parking lot from all the ice.  My vehicle slid in a couple of areas.  I am back in the house with the cat.  We have put white flags up in our corners.  Each of us dreams of spending significant amounts of time out in the sun.

Stepping Out

            Music floated across the stark landscape of a gray skyline, weathered gravestones, drifted snow, and frozen tundra.  A mahogany casket rested on a platform above the deep hole in the ground.  The only color displayed, amidst the mourners dressed in black, was that of the bright red tulips in the flower arrangement draped on the box.  As the notes to “Amazing Grace” ended, the minister’s voice spoke of my dear friend of thirty years.  I gazed across the white snow, being transported to the past. 

            We dreamed in the early days.  For Christmas, we received the music and scripts to our favorite play.  Within a few short months, we memorized all the songs and lines. 

             Kari wore denim jeans with the legs rolled up to mid-calf with a plain white button up blouse.  Her brown hair bobbed up and down in a ponytail with a red bandana holding it in place.  I scrambled down the hall after her in a matching outfit hoping not to bump into any of my classmates as I carried my guitar.  Mrs. Eckloft said our audition was right after school with no lollygagging.  At her classroom door, we deposited our books.  I pulled my instrument from the case as Kari opened the door.  Ignoring the students in the room, I strummed the first cords to “Hopelessly Devoted To You” as Kari belted out the lyrics.  After this song, I continued on to “There Are Worse Things I Can Do” while I sang solo as Rizzo. 

“Mrs. Eckloft,” Kari began her plea to produce the musical as I handed the drama teacher the scripts and music, “we have been working on all of this.  Mr. Sawyer says he can help with the music and he will give extra credit for the band kids who will play in the performance.  Mrs. Ludlow said her home economics classes can help with the costumes.”

Thirty minutes later we finished our presentation.  Mrs. Eckloft agreed to take on the project.  Our little community gave us a standing ovation at both performances.  We left high school ready to conquer the entertainment business on Broadway for Kari and on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry for myself. 

As we set out for college, we determined to conquer the world.  Reality struck.  Kari’s father died our freshman year causing her to run out of money.  She returned to our home town to help her mother.  First she worked as a waitress saving her tips for college only to use them when her car broke down or for a wedding dress.  Day after day she trudged through the daily tasks of working and raising children.  Her brown hair turned gray and wrinkles began to form.  We talked often.  She avoided conversations about our dreams.

I finished college with a degree in business.  I justified selling out my dream for the time being to learn how to handle the finances for a future band.  Instead of joining one, I also raised children and trudged to the office. I returned home and worked at the local bank.  Nashville remained in my thoughts but as yet I hadn’t traveled to the fabled city of country music.  The days blended together with small highlights of playing for church.  Raising my own children, I claimed no time to volunteer at the local theater or join a band. 

I watched a hawk fly overhead jolting me from my thoughts.  As the bird swooped down to land on a branch, I remembered my last conversation with Kari over coffee.

My dear friend sat across from me at our table in the back corner of the Java Hut.  She drank her tall vanilla latte as I drank a tall hazelnut latte.  Every Wednesday morning we met to talk about our kids and work.  Her dainty fingers pulled apart the cinnamon roll in front of her.  What happened to her?  In high school she wore all the latest fashions and sported trendy hairstyles.  As I gazed at her drab clothes and twenty year old hair style, I tried to see the actress within.  Instead, she matched the cloudy day.

“They actually put the bright purple sample against the portrait of their family.”  Kari worked in the craft store as a framer for all artwork that came into the store.  “It took me thirty minutes to convince the woman she needed to use a soft gray to keep the formality of the occasion.  Purple, my god, it would have been hideous.  There are days I would love to just quit and do something fun.”

“I have a great idea,” I interrupted, grabbing the opportunity.  “‘Grease’ is playing in the city next fall.  Tickets go on sale in a couple of weeks.   With all our kids out of the nest, let’s go.  It could be an awesome girl’s weekend for us.”

I watched as Kari’s shoulders stiffened.  A wall seemed to materialize between us.

“You know that I work on Sundays in the afternoon.”  She tugged on her grandma blouse.  “I don’t want to be rushed to get to work after staying up all night.”

“Listen to you.  You sound like you are eighty years old.  One tired afternoon would be worth the fun of seeing our play.  In fact, I was thinking it could springboard us into volunteering at the theater here in town.  I could run the music and you the stage.  It would be like old times.”

She laughed.  “Regretting your past lately?  I am too old for that stuff.”

“But Kari, you said you wanted to do something fun.”  Before I could continue, her cell phone rang.  The store called her in to help with something.  Or at least that was her excuse as she left without finishing her coffee. Five days later, she died in an icy car accident never stepping out to live her dream of being an actress. 

As the casket lowered, I realized that I regretted not doing more with my love of music.  I hadn’t been in a band for years.  I never tried to conquer Nashville, let alone go to visit.  Kari and I were artistic versions of Sandra Dee never stepping out on the ledge to grasp our Danny, our dream.

I hummed.  Those closest to me turned.  Softly the words spilled from my mouth.  “Look at me, there has to be something more than what they see, Wholesome and pure, oh so scared and unsure, a poor man's Sandra Dee.”  I hummed the notes to continue the reprise when Sandy decides it is time to take her life to the cliff. 

A gust of wind picked up a patch of powdery snow twisting it up in the air to softly settle on the ground once more.  Taking a deep breath I belted out the last lines.  “Sandy, you must start anew, don't you know what you must do, Hold your head high, take a deep breath and sigh, Goodbye to Sandra Dee.”

I raced from the funeral to my home computer; I booked a flight to Tennessee.  A message of confirmation for the plane ticket joined the new message from a local band looking for a guitar player.  My audition was scheduled for later today.  I may not become the next Lorrie Morgan, like I dreamed in high school, but I would begin to live my dreams once again.

A Love/Hate Relationship: The Book Thief on Writing

                Some time last fall I went to the movie with my daughter.  I watched the previews and goose bumps formed when I heard about the story of a young girl called the Book Thief.  I presumed she stole/saved books during the reign of Hitler and his Nazi regime.  I noted the release date to put the movie on my to do list.  Alas, the movie didn’t come to our small community.  When I learned the story started out as book, “The Book Thief” went to the top of my reading list.  After the New Year, I began reading.

                Of all the books she stole, only one was saved from a book burning.  The author went beyond that typical assumption.  The first book she stole was due to carelessness on the owner’s part.  The book thief didn’t even know how to read at the time of the theft.  The story was truly amazing and I highly recommend it.  I wanted to share a couple of quotes.

                As all people know, war causes innumerable damage to the psyche of all involved.  Really, life in general causes damage.  As a writer, I delve into the suffering of characters.  Each time, a piece of me is left behind.  The other day, while working on a scene, I cried and cried.  I felt the pain of my character.  This quote resonated.  “’Don’t punish yourself,’ she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too.  That was writing” Zusak, Markus, “The Book Thief,” page 524.  To some extent, a writer does have to punish themselves.  I know I feel that way sometimes.  I take myself back to the heart wrenching feelings I have lived through to be able to write of similar emotions for my characters.  The process hurts.  Yet, happiness can be found.  I get to cheer on my character and feel their success.  I feel very happy when a reader understands the scene.

                The past two weeks, I have been in a painful time.  I am trying to write new stories and scenes but the words fail to flow from my thoughts, through my fingertips, and onto the page.  Each word falls flat and my ideas seem to be vague or cluttered.  “Words are so heavy, she thought, but as the night wore on, she was able to complete eleven pages” Zusak, Markus, “The Book Thief,” page 526.  In this quote, the book thief reads eleven pages which under the circumstances is an amazing feat.  In fact, comparing my writing life to the book is completely inadequate due to the heaviness of the topic; yet, the quotes are so all encompassing that they fit for a writing life.  Words can be very heavy.  They can bog down a scene and leave the writer at a loss on how to continue. 

                In January, I dropped my manuscript off with an editing friend.  This novel has lived with me for over sixteen years.  For the last five years, I have actively written, rewritten, edited, and worked on all these pages.  I am far from finished for the project is at least a three book series.  I still have two more books to work on.  “I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right” Zusak, Markus, “The Book Thief,” page 528.  This is definitely how I feel about all the fiction pieces I have written.  I always hope the words are right.

                For some reason, the local theater finally brought The Book Thief to our community.  I took the opportunity last night to watch the film.  As is the case with a movie, many beautiful scenes were left out as were my favorite quotes.  I still recommend reading the book because the author “made them [the words] right.”

The Great Depression

                The great depression begins when the National Football League season has ended and continues until April when I get to go play in the dirt in my gardens.  Up here in the north, I sit longingly waiting for the ground to thaw and the air to warm.  As I look out at my gardens, I anticipate the digging and planting that takes place with vitamin D soaking back into my skin.  This year will be a little harder with no plans of travel to a warmer climate during spring break.  I am stuck here in the frozen mountain land forever!

                Many people struggle during the first months of each New Year.  They may have feelings of let down after the holiday season and family members return home.  Others become depressed due to lack of sun and being stuck inside the house.  People like me struggle with the lack of football to distract me from the claustrophobia of no outside warmth.  Some of us also fight the battle of pain due to autoimmune diseases that inevitably get worse during the violent weather patterns of snow and frigid temperatures.  In the last seven days, four have been filled with aches and pains for me.  I feel like my joints are literally burning and my energy is drained.

                To battle these issues, I make plans.  This year I am redecorating a room in the house that I can use as a retreat for my writing.  I am excited for the possibilities.  The theme is literature in its many forms with “Gone with the Wind” being a staple of the décor.  I am also facilitating a new Bible study at my parish to get me out of the house a little more.  My husband helped me with a workout plan that lets me go at a slow pace on bad days and a fast pace on my good days which I do at five in the morning.  I love mornings.  I will continue to work my writing challenges.  If I find that I still struggle, I am going to study the great painters and photographers as part of my artist dates that help stimulate my creativity. 

                The great depression will not prevail in my life.  I hope all of you have fun projects to keep you busy during the dreary days ahead.  I see some people taking their aggression out on the groundhog on facebook.  Instead, use that energy for good.  Tackle a project instead.  Happy Winter!