lifestyles of the rich and . . . artistic?

An evening spent experimenting with oil paintings has just convinced me that I am not a true artist [visual, at least]. I think that a real painter would have been satisfied with the process as an accomplishment in itself. I, however, was not able to create the image I had in my head and consequently ended up feeling as if I had wasted my time. Hopefully more experimentation would lead to greater success in the medium, but my conclusion [about my artistic inclinations] remains the same. And unfortunately I doubt I will have many other chances to experiment like I have at the moment--this is simply due to a house-sitting stint in a lovely home that is equipped with an art studio. Like I said, not many occasions like this in my daily life :-) I'm afraid my own young art students do not have a teacher well-funded enough to provide them with such materials . . . so far they seem to be content with their watercolors, acrylics, charcoal, and ink, thankfully!

special specters

I was given an unusual gift this week. While I was on my way home in the afternoon my neighbor called to warn me about a possibly easy-to-miss item in my mailbox. She explained that her 3-year-old had been hard at work on a project that she absolutely forbid her mother to see. All her mother was allowed to know was that it was for me. She then carefully wrapped it in tissue paper and delivered it to my mailbox--insisting on riding her bike for the great 20 yard trek between their house and mine. During the phone conversation, my neighbor explained that she was a bit concerned that the package may have been carried off by the postman, as it probably would have had to be closely looked for in the mail box. I echoed her concern, intrigued by the prospect of such a surprise and hoping to actually get it. Thankfully the package survived the mail delivery that day. Its packaging did not, I'm afraid--I assumed the torn bits of kleenex to be the "tissue" wrapping of the original gift.
So what was the present? Why, a list of spelling words of course--need you ask?! It was a small piece of notebook paper with lists of repeated words: "mother," "sister," "friend," and "love," among others. After a moment it occurred to me that my little neighbor would not actually have been the original scribe of the words--I have worked with her on writing projects enough to be pretty certain of that. A moment later, however, I happily discovered her personal contribution: the result of her reported laboring efforts--on the back of the paper was a small drawing that I instantly recognized as her artwork. Every time she is offered some sort of writing utensil and something to write on, the result is a figure that distinctly resembles a ghost. The dimensions may vary slightly, but the effect is always the same. It does make me curious to see what her artistic inclinations develop into as the years pass.
For now, though, I am quite content to prominently display my new ghost on the fridge :-)

my happy librarian-heart

The sight of my workplace this morning made me cry. Not in the way one might expect, mind you: these were tears of relief, and tears of joy. See, my school was vandalized in the early morning hours. I found out about it via an early morning phone call from my grandparents who had seen it on the news. They called in a panic, on my behalf, telling me that the school had been ransacked and fire extinguishers sprayed throughout.

What you should know at this point is that such action has the very likely potential to completely destroy a library—to completely destroy the work of this past year, in my case. I have spent a year designing and buying furniture, installing technology, buying new books, sorting through donated ones, cataloging, shelving, organizing, re-organizing . . . basically anything I could think of that was needed to turn a room and a library grant into a functioning school library.

What you should also know is that I am prone towards perfectionism at times. As a result, one of my work stresses is that it is difficult for me to find the time to keep it clean. Libraries are surprisingly difficult to keep clean, with the tendency for dust to settle in nooks and crannies, for old books to harbor mites, and for little hands to leave gifts of candy wrappers, pencil marks, and the like. So I notice accumulated dirt and worry about it.
Well this morning’s discovery was two-fold:

1. The library was wonderfully unappealing to would-be vandals. They walking in, picked up a few magazines, threw them on the floor, and left. The priceless collection of knowledge was left untouched.
2. Thanks to the school-wide mess, a cleaning service was hired [not the usual for our small, do-it-yourself school. They cleaned the library. They not only cleaned it—they treated it as carefully as if it were some proud librarian’s child :-) They dusted every nook and cranny, even lifting up magazines and books to dust underneath. I have never seen it sparkle so, or smell to fresh.

So I stared, gasped, touched surfaces . . . and smiled through my teary eyes. Blessings come from the strangest sources. And this morning the message to me was to let go, to not try to do it all, and to sometimes, every once in a while, be ok with just being.

it's all in the kisape

This morning a ransom inspiration proved to be oddly fitting, in a symbolically ironic sort of way. It all began when I started making deliveries to my students, taking the newly-bound version of their completed books to them. Two had just finished their stories, artwork, and cover designs, and so I had planned to use this morning to present them with their fine works of craftsmanship.
Both lived within easy walking distance, so the first delivery was made on foot. By the time I was to make the 2nd, however, I was running low on leisure time and decided to bike rather than walk. Normally when I bike I simply carry whatever I need with me in my purse, as it is [intentionally, for this very purpose] a small backpack-style bag. This book, however, in the bag I had packaged it in, was definitely too large to fit in my backpack.
Brainstorming for a quick way to make the trip, I had an “Aha!” moment and thought “My kisape!”
Here I should probably stop to explain, as only a handful of my readers will be with me still . . . A “kisape” is the all-purpose cloth used by Zambian women [or at least that was the term in the area where we lived: it is called by many different names]. This one is the one we brought back to the U.S. with us, and it is what Mom used to cart the 4 of us around while she worked. It is simply a large rectangle of cotton, normally brightly colored in one of infinitely many beautiful prints. The Zambian women also use their kisapes for head cushions [under a load of firewood, for instance], wrapped clothing, and all manner of other practical uses.
This morning, however, I used it draped over the book, under one arm and over the other, the way Zambian children are carried. So, in essence, I thought as I biked, I am carting this book as if it were a child. And then I realized that my student should certainly be informed of the same, so she would know [as if she did not already] the great value of her creation . . . At least that’s what I reported when I arrived and undid my small bundle in order to make the presentation :-)

survey says

As I have definitely decided to hold Session #2 of “Creative Pages” Camp, I asked my Session #1 students to provide a bit of anonymous feedback as to:
1. What should be changed about Creative Pages for next time?
2. What did you like the best about Creative Pages?

Listed below are some of the responses my students offered me. As you will see, a few did little more productive than merely providing a bit of an ego boost :-). All the same, mind you, all gave me seriously helpful/useful things to think about. And we must not neglect the ever-helpful pleasure of a few good laughs. . .

-best. books
-change nothing
-ritinge in ore book [translation “writing in our book.” This was in fact from the disliked part of the survey]
-I think we should do more canvas paintings.
-pating leaves [translation “painting leaves”—a watercolor & leaf project we did one day]
-I did not really care for the homework.
-learn more writing skills

so afraid

It is another day in which I am proud of the creative words of my students. Today, however, it is a floored--and saddened--sort of pride.
Floored by talent.
And saddened by simple honesty.
Below is a quote from a 12 year old, a portion of the poem she wrote for one of the assignments I gave her. As you may guess, she and her family are preparing for an unanticipated move to another state.

"Moving"

Moving, Moving . . .

I don't want to move

I want to stay where

I am . . .

Upset

Moving

. . . so afraid

h is for . . .

I am feeling rather proud, in a teacherly sort of way, after a day of being thoroughly wowed by my youngsters’ imaginatively creative output: poems, sketches, stories, watercolor, prose, pastels . . . no art form or media seems to intimidate them. It makes me wonder if I could have ever been so bold as to unconscientiously consult my own muses when I was only 11, 9, even 6 years old; I highly doubt it, as my memories of those years are those of a timid youngster, stilted in my creativity by a lack of encouragement in the arts. For that matter, I do not recall even learning there was such a talent as that of creativity until well into my teen years—rather, it seems that I only knew to think of the arts as a sort of hedonistic pleasure to be indulged in only when there were no other “productive” activities left to be accomplished.
That is part of the reason I suspect I have been so passionate in my attempts to spread the good news of the creative arts among children in my sphere of influence. My deep longing is to teach them that it is a good thing—and a productive thing—to spend time pursuing creative talents . . . and to teach the worthiness of Art as an end in itself rather than solely as a means to an end.
All that to say that, again, I am proud. And as such, here is one of the works of the day, by a 6-year-old budding artist:
The assignment for them was that of a Letter Poem, and below is the poem itself:

“H”
H is for mynam [translation “my name”]
H is for horses
H is for helpforechusr [translation “help for each other”]H is for Holly [as in the green and red variety seen at Christmas time]

with love and paint-splatters

In the mail last week I received a copy of a book recently published by a Doctor, about his almost 40-year career in Zambia. Gazing at the book’s striking cover [blazing orange sunset over unmistakably African plains], the author’s name brought a flood of bittersweet memories. Unaware that the book existed or, for that matter, that any book about my home village had ever been written, I opened it with an uneasy thrill: thrilled to revisit memories of those close to my childhood heart, and uneasy with the fear that it would be in some manner deficient in its portrayal of the home I loved so deeply. Or worse: that it would fall prey to the easy temptation of all outsider perspectives on a native culture—that of devaluing, even in the most unintentional or miniscule manner, the society’s ways of living, of being.
So the other night I set aside my lesson planning, school readings, and ongoing art projects, and read the book: To Africa with love, by Dr. Jim Foulkes. I did not put the book down until I reached the end that night [barring a mid-reading break to take a phone call].
It was no doubt more meaning to me, with my particular interest, than necessarily to your average reader. And the writing itself was not award-winning, at least from my limited experience as a Creative Writing teacher :-)
But the stories that were told—and more importantly the people about whom they were told—were tremendously inspiring. It is humbling to realize how caught up I get in the stresses of daily life here in the U.S. [the minor, fleeting stresses], when daily life for some involves stresses as to . . .
whether that was an innocent fly on little Jacob’s knee earlier . . . or if we should suspect a Tsetse fly and be wary of Jacob’s drowsier-than-usual little eyes . . .
Granted, I try not to downplay any one manner of life stresses as inherently less valid than others: I am fully aware that we are placed in this one life, in this one season of life, by divine providence—“for such a time as this . . .”
It behooves us all, however, to daily remind ourselves of the grander scheme of it all, and of the relatively minor nature of many of the things it is so easy to waste worrying energy on. I, for one, am prone to forget, at any given moment, that when all is said and done no one will care about [to draw from one current scenario in my daily life] the spot of “Dove Gray” paint that mysteriously drifted from Bradley’s paintbrush, over his head, and squarely onto little sister’s new light yellow Pocahontas purse. What will matter, however, is the burst of excitement and artistic achievement that caused Bradley to swing his paintbrush-laden arm into the air to begin with.
This is my reminder to myself, at least, after a day in which I was disappointed in my own ability [or lack thereof] to remain focused on students’ learning processes rather than on interruptions to my day’s to-do list . . .

about that princess

My friend, you suspected correctly--turns out she was not the pink sort: she was delivered to her new bedroom outfitted solely in sapphire and sterling.
In fact, I did not break out the "princess pink" until today, for Acrylic day with my Art Camp students . . . the bottle actually was almost depleted in one day, thanks to my eager student's dashingly pink Walrus on Canvas :-)

the gimp speaks

Every once in a while I inadvertently make a public display of the normally private oddities of my quirky brain. Case in point:
Thanks to an injured foot, I have spent the past several days hobbling about in an increasingly halting manner—“increasingly” because of my stubborn tendency to ignore the injury and continue running on it until I have significantly worsened it. Before a chorus of chastisements comes my way, I should at least clarify, in my own defense, that 8 years of running has left me spoiled by an odd lack of normal runner’s complaints. The worst of my injuries is usually a nagging pain that just goes away on its own.
This particular one, however, is worse. I don’t know how it happened, but the nurse I talked to said it is probably just a sprain but possibly a fracture. An x-ray is necessary to determine that for sure, and I’m not financially ready to spring for that one yet.
And so I hobble.
The point of all that is that, being spoiled like I mentioned, I am beginning to get rather childishly sulky about it. It is decidedly frustrating to not be able to run, and to not be able to stand without pain.
So last night, after hitting my limit of being out and about, my brother and I settled in for a game of Scrabble. At some point in the course of the game I was trying to convince him of something: probably the use of a word that I technically should not have played. He justifiably balked at my plea, at which point I continued more insistently.
Come on, Alex, just this one play . . . I have a good reason for whiny gimpishness at the moment . . .
At that point, eyebrows raised, Alex looked up from his letters. “What did you just say?”
What? . . . just that I needed to display my whiny gimpishness.
Convinced that he had heard me correctly this time, Alex snickered. He then proceeded to roar with laughter, apparently unconcerned with the fact that he was laughing at me, not with me.
And I continue to hold unswervingly to the perfectly normal nature of my descriptive phrase.

the not-so-little princess

She so far wears a golden tiara and silver-white gloves, is looking up at a crescent moon, and has a partially-painted sapphire-blue dress. Decidedly girly, I dare say. I have not yet found a place for the "princess pink" paint, but it does seem like I shall have to do so, does it not??

tybee tales [take 2]

I tripped over a shell and it squirted water on me. That was kind of nice.
This was Cassie's report to me upon a query as to whether she had found anything of interest on her morning run.
My own report, from a slightly earlier run [we have a bit of a running joke about how her schedule tends to run about an hour behind my own], involved an oddly poised severed snake--missing the rear portion of its body. Initially I assumed it to be dead, but my curious poke promptly proved otherwise.
And that is about the extent of our Island excitement 3 days into the vacation.
Not that I'm complaining, mind you--boating and beach-bumming could scarcely be considered a hardship:
One could do worse than be a . . . bummer of beaches?

you asked for it . . . my already-grown-out new do

today [take 2]

Thanks to another Church day accompanied by my 7-year-old friend, I got to take home a most delightful note after giving her doodling paper for the service . . .

Today is Sunday
20, first 2006.
Dear Anna,
You aer a good naber.
I wish you have a
grat day! Love chloe

p.s. I am assuming the "first" came after she asked me if today was the 20th
p.p.s. Below the note was a drawing of a hung "hang man," with the word "chloe," perhaps hinting as to the fact that this week, for the first time, I did not play hang man with her, telling her I was going to listen to the service this week :-)

just call me frida

spiderman and i, we're tight--yes, as of tonight, me and the man in . . . crimson and indigo . . . we are one

being bob

"sky blue" or "baby blue" overalls? round or oblong ear lobes?
Yes, folks, I admit it: I have spent the evening agonizing over the finer artistic details of Bob the Builder. Who knew such decisions could be so crucial? . . .
Having been commissioned to paint wall hangings for 2 child's bedrooms has proven to be an intriguing adventure for me over the past few days. More specifically, I am to paint 1 Bob the Builder, 1 Spiderman, 1 Angel, and 1 Princess. So I may never be the next Picasso; but I bet you I could give him a few pointers at the moment as to Bob's acrylic-on-canvas creative characteristics.

mom's day mix-up

There was an old lady who lived in a shoe. Had so many kids she didn’t know what to do.
Well maybe she shoulda given my Mama a call—said “Hey, Ms. Jan, how d’you handle your clan?”
But then again, maybe Mom’s not the best. Maybe she shouldn’t answer such an open request.
I know my Mama—she’s not one to tell: she’d say somethin’ silly like “I didn’t do well!”
When we all know the truth is she’s some sort of saint—who can say how she does it all? Lord knows, I cain’t!


Why all the world over, who could ever compare?
Oratin’ like Oprah: when Mama’s a-speakin’, the whole world’s a-listenin’. . .
Judgin’ like Judy: when Mom’s made the decision, none dare dispute . . .
Gardenin’ like Gertrude: when Mother’s been digging the whole earth’s a-bloom . . .
Managin’ like Martha: when Mom cleans house . . .oops [so maybe some analogies don’t work so well].


Well anyhow, you get the picture:
Suffice it to say, on this Mother’s Day,
That I love my Mama more than words can tell.
More than brown paper packages tied up with string. . .
more than warm woolen mittens . . .
even more than ice cream!

recipe for en-lightenment

You know, it is really quite easy--surprisingly so--to rid oneself of excess, to shed societal trappings and to, in the process, significantly simplify the process of morning get-readiness. Are you inspired and ready yet? Alright, go to it:
Buzz the hair.
I definitely recommend it ;-)

mopsy, flopsy, and pete

Yes folks there is in fact a real live Bunny Lady. And I happen to know where she lives, a mere 45-minute drive from me. She has an official “Bunny Lady” business card. And she lives in a fairy tale sort of tucked-away house on a winding road on the mountain. Her yard is brimming with rabbit habitats and small animal statues, and the sign on her door proclaims it to be a Rabbit-Safe Zone.
It all began when 2 high school boys surreptitiously snuck through the halls carrying a large white bucket—not the normal sight in our suburban private school. As the past the lounge, one of the teachers summoned them back, where we discovered them to be carting around a tiny baby huddled in, and dwarfed by, the large bucket. They explained that they had been instructed by their drama teacher to bring the bucket from her car to her desk. [They had missed, however, her instructions to sneak it in through the back door].
Peering down at the little thing, June loudly proclaimed it doomed and then walked back to her lunch. I interrupted myself in the middle of cuteness-gushing, interfering with her attempt to return to her soup and salad—What do you mean?!? How do you know?
“Oh, we tried dropper-feeding one once. They just don’t last more than a day. And now that he’s been handled, and Mom’s long gone . . . he’s as good as dead.”
At that point I knew this little bunny’s life was my mission.
First step was tracking down the teacher he “belonged” to. She first looked up and said, “Oh no, you’re mad at me too, aren’t you?” Once I had assured her I was not, I got permission to take it off her hands if I wanted to try raising it. She had brought it in to show her students and intended to release it back into her yard later that evening [her husband had almost mowed over it the previous night, so they had just decided to bring it inside for the night, for lack of any other ideas].
Permission gained, my next step was to call the Wildlife Center. There I was redirected to a Lost Animal Center somewhere in the tri-state region [a long distance number]. They immediately referred me back to my own area, informing me that the Regional Rabbit Expert lived in my own town. She, they assured me, would know what to do.
A phone call to this lady informed me that the little one was too young to survive on its own [less than 4 inches, ears not yet upright, rounded tips, not pointed]. She was amazed that it was still alive, explaining that little ones are so prone to stress that they tend to die of heart attacks if taken out of their habitat. And she then advised me to bring it to her immediately.
I did. I quickly grabbed my car keys, made sure I had the hour and a half necessary for the trip before my next group of students in the library, and stuck a “Out to deliver a bunny” note on my desk. A mere 45 minutes and 1 wrong turn later, I was in Bunny Land itself. She welcomed me in and quickly ushered me to the weighing station. “I thought so . . .” she quietly proclaimed as she wrote down his vital stats in her notebook. “11 or 12 days old. Probably been separated from his family for 2 days already—see how scrawny he is for his length?” I nodded knowingly, unable to think of any intelligent response. “Well hello little one,” she cooed as she cupped him in her palm and held his face up to her own. “My other babies already had their lunch, so you’ll get a late one. I think you’ll get along just fine with the other youngsters.”
I agree. I left there happily contemplating the future of the little guy. Soon I was back in my normal workplace, surrounded by my usual “youngsters,” but left lighthearted over the whole experience.
So hey, be kind to your cotton-tailed friends: the life you save may be . . . Peter Rabbit’s?

there were [more] roses

I stole a rose. Ok, so maybe I stole 2 roses. On a slightly different running route, I passed a yard that I hadn’t seen up close before. The house itself was tucked back almost out of view, and when I looked more closely I saw a house that appeared to be at best run-down, at worst condemned. But the roses . . .oh, the glorious roses!—and the same blush-pink brimming sort of bush that had drawn me back in my “there were roses” days, in my old house. And I knew I had to steal a rose . . . There are so many . . . and maybe no one lives here . . . maybe the house is actually condemned . . .
The only problem for my theft was that the rose bush was right next to the road. So as I bent to start picking a rose, I heard an approaching vehicle. I shot back up and began to innocently jog in place. Looking perfectly inconspicuous no doubt: jogging in place, next to a main road, in front of a rose bush . . . You know. The kind of thing folks do all the time.
The car passed. I resumed my theft. And a few thorn-pricks and briar-scratches later, another engine hum reached my ears. This time I thought more quickly and ran forward rather than in place, presumably maintaining a better air of innocence.
The car passed. I jogged backwards [thus primed for innocent forward-running should another car come]. This time I successfully picked a bloom—then a second.
Returning home, I began to feel rather guilt-ridden—until a flash of inspiration showed me the perfect act of penance:
I printed out a copy of my “there were roses” story [see 11/7/2004 post in archives], folded it, and on the outside wrote this note:

Dear Neighbor,
Passing your lovely rose bush for the first time, I was struck by its beauty. It reminded me of this story, so I am offering you the tale now.
Thank you for adding a bit of beauty to the world.

I sort of neglected to mention the fact that I had actually taken 2 blooms. But what I decided was that offering an amusing story to them would be a way of thanking them without potentially angering them [if in fact someone does live there].

And there you have it—my confession to the world, or at least to one little blogging corner of my little world :-)