Craftsmanship

My best friend was bugging me again yesterday about pursuing my writing as a professional venture. I tend to wave this notion off, because I don’t have any good ideas for a long-winding story, and figure no one will want to publish just a big mess of my idle observations and fragmented memories, let alone buy a volume of them. Yes, at one time it was my dream. But some things, when I relate them to myself, are better concepts than pursuits.

A painted garden spider was building a web between the dogwood and the hedge outside of my front window yesterday evening. The Hub and the boy were cutting the grass, so I had the time to sit for a while and watch her work.

I love spiders. I know this is an oddity among women, but I really do. Not only do they eat bugs that I’m less fond of (like mosquitoes and flies), but they are nature’s graceful epitome of the trade master and artisan. Delicate. Precise. Patient.

All the things I’m not.

I was reminded of a class I took in college as I watched her weave. It was a strange class of which I don’t remember the title, about becoming aware of our connection with Mother Earth and all her beings and elements. It was taught by an aging hippie with pewter colored hair that had not been cut (or shaven) for a long time. She wore cotton tee shirts and peasant skirts, and always jingled faintly when she moved, the way Hindu women do.

Part of the course involved picking a creature or element that would be our “life form” for the duration of the course. Something we would connect with, commune with and essentially become, symbolically and transcendentally. As our exercises evolved, so would our connection with their roles and purposes on the planet.

I chose the spider. The spider is a creature that I have always been fascinated by and respectful of, and this exercise in observances taught me much about why – and what I desire in myself metaphorically - perhaps the root of my admiration of them. These memories of lofty standards pined for came back to me as I watched the garden spider work. She busied herself intently with her project, weaving skillfully. A perfect web. Beautiful. Delicate. Strong. Practical and functional. Graceful slender legs moving, maneuvering, measuring effortlessly. I thought upon the lessons of how success is rewarded for immaculate craftsmanship, lack of discouragement, and a bottomless well of perseverance and patience.

Perhaps my flippant attitude towards the notion of pursuing my crafts more seriously relates directly to that. The skills and traits of the spider within are not what they used to be. I don’t take myself and my so-called talents seriously anymore. But perhaps it’s not a matter of taking, but of simply being. Being what you were designed to be – doing what you were designed to do. The spider doesn’t worry about failure, only in creating what she must to live the life she was meant to live.

Family Members Left Behind

A disclaimer note for those visiting: Those who know me know that I am as shaken and heartbroken as the rest of the country about what has befallen our brothers and sisters in the southern states at the hands of Katrina, but I have purposely kept my blog Katrina-free thus far. As a blogger friend of mine so perfectly put it, “I know that everyone is talking about everything going on in New Orleans, so I'm going to let them.” That said, the following entry is simply a string of thoughts on a small piece of the effected population of living things. Please don’t lecture me on my small-mindedness and lack of compassion for my fellow human being because I write of dogs. Thanks in advance.


I love my dog to a ridiculous degree.

No, I’m not one of those people with an extensive wardrobe for him (though I’d love to put kerchiefs around his neck, if he wouldn’t wriggle them off and eat them). I don’t take him to Doggie Daycare while I’m at work so he won’t be lonely (though I probably would if I could afford it). He doesn’t have his own monogrammed velvet cushion to sleep on (he doesn’t need it, as he sleeps in our bed with us). But he is my oldest son and I love him to the nth degree. From the time he was a seven-pound pup to his present-day seventy-pound, circulation-cutting loveable lapdogness, he has been the furry peg of my heart. He is my baby. He is my cherished.

Five minutes of that damn Oprah made me cry the entire 20-mile commute home yesterday, and sporadically off and on through bedtime. She was talking about an angle of the Katrina situation that somehow, I’m ashamed to say, hadn’t even crossed my mind.

As rescue workers go in to help people get out, the refugees have been forced to leave their dogs behind.

This simple statement put a vice grip on my heart that is still in place. I know many people will say, “They are animals. They can fend for themselves.” I don’t think that’s necessarily true. They are animals, yes, and animals have been known to survive nicely without human intervention. But these are domesticated animals, dependent upon their human families to care for them and help provide for their needs. They don’t have the ability to take to the wild, particularly conditions in which thinking, reasoning humans are lost as to what to do as well. They need their people. People who were forced to leave them behind, alone and without a star to guide them.

Some agencies are now going in and helping to get these poor pets to safety and reunited with their families if possible. But there are so many, and even I, a woman who prefers the company of animals to most people, had somehow overlooked this unspoken epilogue subplot.

I know some of you will think I’m a loon for saying this, but I would not leave my dog behind in the mess there. My husband can take himself and my son to safety and shelter – I will stay behind and be there with my beloved pup and help him scrimp and survive until someone came along who could help us as a package deal. I know I would be risking my own life and health. But I love my dog, with all my heart. And he’s counting on me to keep him in safe hands.

I realize that things don’t always happen neatly. I realize maybe my husband and I would be separated, and I’d be forced with a decision to choose either getting my son to safety alone or staying with my dog and jeopardizing my son's well being. Obviously, I would have to choose my son. But please don’t make me say it out loud, because with that I’m saying that I’d abandon my sweet dog. And I can’t even bear to think about it.

The story was illustrated with a distant shot of a small dog, sitting on one of three or four empty lawn chairs in the center of the mess. He sat on his haunches, looking, scanning, with the persistence that only a loving and faithful pet can possess. His ears were perked, but the look on his face showed confusion, hurt, and lonliness. He searched and searched the sea of faces, but couldn’t find his people.

Staying Compassionate in a Thankless World

~ ~ ~

How freaking ironic that this just happened.

An old bag lady just came in to my office and asked if she could use our restroom. We don’t have a public restroom and we’re not supposed to let people who don’t work here use them, particularly vagrants. But not many people were in yet so I let her use it, because deep down I have a kind heart. Don’t tell anyone. ;)

She was in there a long time, and when she came out she told me a man had stolen her purse and she didn’t have any money for the bus. I told her I didn’t have any, and she asked if I could ask the other people in the office. I said I’d already gotten in trouble for letting her use the restroom so I wouldn’t ask for her. She instructed me (and all of us) in no uncertain terms to go to hell, and stormed out.

She also left me with quite a mess in the restroom as a thank you. Enough said on that.

This is why people’s hearts grow stony towards those who need help.

I say this is ironic because the following is what I had written to post this morning:

~ ~ ~

I grew up in a Big 10 college town, and while a student (at another college in town) I worked in a cheese steak shop on the Big 10 campus. Football Saturdays, as you can imagine, were a madhouse - but really any given day was. We made great cheese steaks.

There was a typical bouquet of panhandlers that I would see every day. Some I even knew by name. I gave them a little change when I could, but being a poor college student, sometimes that wasn't much. I couldn't help but feel, though, that maybe they needed my quarter more than I did.

I remember two guys in particular. One was very extroverted and quite likeable. Had he been on a different path, I'm sure he'd have made a great salesman. He used to come in the shop once in a while and ask for a sandwich, and we'd usually oblige - free of charge. At first he'd only ask occasionally, so it wasn't a problem. But he began asking more frequently, and the owner started getting sore about it. So we had to begin turning him away.

One day he came in and asked for a sandwich after the owner had instructed both him and us that the free meals were over. We had to say, you know we can't help you out anymore. To our surprise, he slammed his hand on the counter with so much force it made us jump, as well as half the customers quietly eating their lunches. He began yelling at us. We had to tell him to leave or else we'd call the cops. He raved and gestured all the way down the street.

The other guy never came in our shop, but we saw him every day. Usually he would simply be walking down the street, but sometimes we'd see him pause at trash containers. He'd look in, pull out a half-eaten sandwich or slice of pizza or whatever was there, and walk on as he ate it. After a while we'd try to catch him, and offer him a fresh sandwich and a place to eat it. He'd humbly and gratefully accept the sandwich, but would decline the offer to come inside.

He never asked for anything, either from our shop or from any one of us on the street.

Summer Mountain Flurry

We were on a ten-day tour of the Colorado Rockies and vicinity a few Julys back. We’d flown into Denver and rented a car, armed only with a map. We had no plans, no hotel reservations. We’d decided to let Destiny lead us where she may and enjoy the path that unfolded.

One evening we found ourselves leaving Estes Park on the eastern gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park, in preparation to watch the sunset from the top of the Continental Divide. We loafed leisurely along the pass, making frequent stops along the way to commune (at a safe distance) with grazing elk and to drink in the soft slow curling of the clouds as they congregated in the deep valleys. I remember the sunset was particularly fiery that evening – the entire sky was ablaze in oranges, fuchsias, violets and indigos, progressively moving westward, accentuated by lofty wisps of clouds capturing and layering the luscious shades.

As the last embers of sunset went out, we descended the other side of the Divide. The mountain air was clean and cooling rapidly with night’s arrival. At around 9,000 feet elevation, the strangest thing happened – we drove into a wall of flurrying white. The Hub queried in disbelief, “Is it snowing?”

Indeed it appeared that way, but it was too warm, and the sky above too clear. We stopped the Jeep and blinked at the swirling enigmas. In a few moments, we realized they were moths. A virtual blizzard of frilly white moths, with wings the size of guitar picks.

We got out of the car and stood in amazement, as if witnessing angels. The moths flitted and danced all around us in the light of the headlamps, like a whirlwind of carnation petals. We held our hands out for landing perches and wore the grins of children.

After a length of time of which neither of us are sure, we got back in the car and continued our descent. About 500 feet closer to the valleys, the riot of winged fairies vanished as suddenly as they’d appeared. We looked behind us, and in the taillights could see the dividing line of the mysterious force field containing the community of busy, swirling creatures.

It was the most beautifully peculiar experience.

~

Labor Day

The Hub and I have been working hard all weekend, clearing brush and sucker branches from the trees on our property. We've cleared enough to make a sizeable bonfire every night, each with its own delicious fragrance - a hodgepodge of woods on Friday and Saturday nights, the sweet smells of maple and apple wood last night, and juniper and pine await this evening.

We're taking a break right now. The boy has been napping for a few hours and the Hub has run to the store for cookout items. I'm relaxing in the overstuffed easy chair in our living room, breathing in the gentle late summer breeze that blows through the open window overlooking the bean field. Across the room, my handsome canine companion catches a snooze on the couch after running in large sweeping figure eights in the back yard all afternoon. He sighs deeply and contentedly in his sleep. I couldn't agree more - I feel more at peace right now than I have in a long time.

The boy is beginning to rustle in his crib, so it seems my stolen peaceful moment to myself is about to be a thing of the past. I didn't want to let it slip by though, without stopping to reflect on the quiet beauty of this perfect September afternoon, and to wish all of you a Happy Labor Day. Hope you are enjoying yourselves.

Aura Streams

I am curious about a great many things, it's just how I am. When I lived in the city I used to frequent a new age bookstore that offered free seminars on various topics during evening hours. I became a semi-regular attendee, as I tend to find myself often searching for things more interesting than my own small existence.

One of these evenings fell during a time in my life where I'd made a recent snap decision. I was freshly divorced and still reeling from the emotional blows of that debachle when the relatively new man I'd been seeing bought a house and asked me to live with him. I agreed and we'd begun settling in, but I was unsure on whether it was a good idea. I'd decided I loved him and it seemed that he loved me, but I had lost all faith in my judge of character. I was quite honestly just looking for some temporary security if nothing else, but was wondering if I would be just as wise to take flight before I got in too deep.

I went to a seminar at the bookstore just to get away and focus on something different, hoping the distraction would help me think more clearly on this situation when my thoughts returned to it.

That night's discussion was upon reading auras. I take such things with a grain of salt, but at the same time it is my nature to not rule anything out, especially when I know little about it. If nothing else it seemed interesting enough to serve the purpose. A woman that had the "gift of seeing auras" led the discussion. She said she'd been able to see auras her whole life. I don't remember her name, but she had a kind face and a way about her that set you at ease.

The discussion was much more detailed than I'd expected, and quite interesting. She explained about different colors and what they each tended to represent. She talked about auras being the manifestation of a person's spiritual energy and emotion, how like with personality differences, some are more strong and easily seen than others, and how some emotions can cause such a shock to your system that it can cause injury to the body ~ Of how sometimes words or non-physical actions that are damaging to your heart and soul can consequently be felt in and throughout the body and this is why many will speak of physical pain while suffering from a heartbreak. She likened it to being beaten up from the inside out. She talked about how some auras can connect, and the connection can be seen even when the people are not in the same room or vicinity, their auras flowing into each other in streams and blending like warm currents.

All the while the woman cast glances at me. She looked at everyone there, but I was sure she was looking at me more than average. I didn't think much of it at the time, until she interrupted herself.

"Excuse me," she said apologetically, looking straight at me, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable or embarrass you, but your aura is just - I'd like to tell you about it if you don't mind."

I was a little surprised, but didn't mind the call out at all. I wasn't sure how much stock I'd put in all of it, but was rather interested in what she'd say, so I agreed.

She proceeded to tell me that she could see that I had been greatly hurt deep inside recently - my chakras were practically bleeding out. I remained unreactive as I could past simple interest, but was captivated by this, as I knew no one there and no one knew what had been happening in my personal life. She went on to say you'll be fine though. Your aura is the most stunning bright blue, the brightest in the room. You are strong, and you're going to be fine. She smiled, and I smiled. And that was that.

She went on to read a few others there and continued her interesting discourse, and at the end invited us to stick around for further, less on-the-spot chatting about the subject. I remained, and waited my turn. When we had the time, I told her that I didn't know much about auras before tonight and that her reading was dead on, I had indeed been hurt very badly and doubted my abilities to recover, but was feeling a little more confident now after her encouraging words. She smiled and said, I'm glad you stayed because there is something else I wanted to tell you. Remember what I said about auras connecting, and some can stream to each other even when the people aren't together? I said yes. She said, there is someone in your life who loves you. Really, really loves you. Their aura is finding you and encirling you, I could see it the moment I saw you. It's coming from that direction.

She pointed in the direction of our house.

Ten years later, while things haven't always been a dream, never have I been so loved.

Seasons

It's happening. When not so many days ago relief from the stifling blanket of summer couldn't be found even with nightfall, the air is turning. The weight, the smells within, the very texture of the air is transforming as autumn makes her stealthy slide into the Midwest.

In the region that I live, Labor Day weekend is a virtual light switch. With the last long weekend of summer comes the near instant transformation to fall. I don't know how the earth knows when Labor Day is, but she knows. The nights dip into the 60's, even 50's, and four months of lake water warming is undone in a matter of days. The battle cry of the cicada begins to subside. The mob of stars above our country home become sharper, clearer, and more numerous as the dog-day haze humbly bows and gives way to the crisp and clear foreshadowing chill. No sooner have I vacuumed up the dog's summer sheddings than a warm winter coat once again begins to sprout on his pink belly. The grass gives one final burst of green after the hot drought of August, as the trees flame up in yellows, oranges, crimsons.

It's funny how you think of things differently in different points in life. Thirty years ago the onset of autumn meant back to school, and the bittersweet mix of saying goodbye to summer fun and freedoms and the anticipation of new friends, teachers, classes and knowledge. Autumn meant new clothes, new shoes, and dressing in layers. Thinking about what you wanted to be for Halloween. Jumping into huge leaf piles with your buddies, laughing till you couldn't breathe.

Twenty years ago autumn still meant back to school, with the additions of pep rallies and football games. Moths and crane flies swarming madly around the bright stadium floodlights. The taste of those twelve inch astropops you could buy at the snack bar. Hard metal bleachers that chilled your buttcheeks till long after bedtime. The marching band belting out "We Will Rock You", despite the team being pummeled by a 6 touchdown lead.

Ten years ago, autumn's magic was overshadowed by the impending doom of winter. It was the time to winterize the boat, move the motorcycle battery indoors, and pack away the bathing suits, sunscreen and riding gear. The bright splendor went all but unnoticed in the wake of mourning the passing of our season of fun and dreading the endless gray of winter.

My life is now coming full circle. Boating is still our beloved pastime but come September I'm ready for a new batch of seasonal joy. Though I'm no longer a student and the boy is less than two, the jingles of television ads and reappearance of school buses brings those old feelings of anticipation back. The games are starting up and the Hub and I make plans to gather with friends to cheer for the home team. The boy and dog scamper and crunch through the earliest of falling leaves. The golf cart rides we recently took along our country roads in the early evenings, seeking the relief of a breeze to cool us off, are now taken with a blanket thrown over our laps ~ as the twilight air chills more than you'd expect. The smell of backyard fires stoked in our pit and the pits and chimineas of our neighbors permeates the crisp cusp of night. And it's all exquisite.

Autumn will soon be over, but not without my enjoying it this time around. This year I will run to catch up with the girl I once was as we take the boy out for tricks and treats. I will indulge in s'mores around the fire pit as I snuggle down in my cozy sweats and listen to the final serenades of the crickets and toads with the Hub. I will rediscover the simple joys of my childhood, buried for too long, at the bottom of a bright, crisp pile of leaves.

Chroma

This is a section of a painting I did when I was about 21. A portrait of a starlet of unconventional beauty, who in time became quite famous.

While probably not the best thing I’ve ever done, it’s one of my favorites. It represents much more than the woman I captured. It represents a time in my life when I was discovering who I was and what was important. A time when I was unbridled, unbroken. I became unafraid in my painting as I was becoming in my life, expressing what I was feeling in my heart passionately with fiery-bright liquid inks and bold rich juxtaposed strokes in contrasting colored pencil.

So much has changed. I don’t know if I could ever paint like this again.

VENOM – A Story of Half-Truths

~

An audible gasp, followed by an over-accentuated, over-drawn-out, “Hiiiiiiiii!”

I remember you. Unfortunately I’m at my place of business so I can’t tell you to take your phony salutation and go to hell. So I force a wordless smile and hope it doesn’t look too much like a grimace.

You and your little friends made me miserable. I was gangly, I had unruly skin, my hair refused to curl and defy gravity in the proper ways and my folks didn’t see the sense in paying $80 for a pair of jeans so I wore off-brand clothes. And you all made me feel like I was diseased for it.

I was a nice person and I didn’t deserve that. Though I never would have let it happen in front of you all, I cried every day thanks to you. And don’t think I’ve forgotten any of it.

A friend of yours waits on my mother at the bank. You know, the one that followed you all around like an approval-seeking Chihuahua? She recognized the last name and now always asks about me.

“She was so nice,” the Chihuahua always chortles. That’s funny. She never returned the favor.

Later on, my awkward angles smoothed out into sexy, svelte curves. I learned the subtle communications that can get men to do anything I want, and make women admire and envy me. I wield power now, and do it forcefully.

“Oh, maybe you don’t recognize me,” you say. “Look,” (you strike a profile, a la Jimmy Durante), “I got a nose job.”

So, you felt as ugly secretly as you made me feel publicly? Good.

I hope you still do.

Listen ... The Past is Whispering

This is a picture of my great-great uncle. I do not know the date this photo was taken but he died in 1930 so it’s more than likely in the 1920’s. Though he was not as well known as say, Henry Ford, he was a great automotive pioneer of the day. His cars were high-end, mostly driven by movie stars and other well-to-dos, and were raced in the Indy 500. He also designed motorcycles, fire trucks, and upon his death was hard at work on an innovative design of airplane engine. His accomplishments were remarkable to say the least, and I always admired him for rising above his farming roots to chase his dreams. I have often wondered if he is the mysterious link in my gene chain which affords me the guts and hard headedness to step out of the stream, from attending a college different from the one my entire family had attended to my occasional, seemingly off the cuff, snap decisions pivotal to the directions of my life.

I love the nonchalant-ness of this photo. The casually crossed leg, the quick glance up at the camera. While most portraits of the day were stiff and posed, this seems to merely be a frozen moment. Perhaps he and the photographer were having an impromptu discussion about how the heck this new fangled contraption in his hands is supposed to work.

Old photographs are fascinating windows to me – like looking upon the faces of ghosts – long after the subjects have left the bonds of Earth, their earthly images remain on pieces of paper, canvas, metal.

I have always loved the water. From the time I was young I longed to be near it – fresh or salt, it didn’t matter, so long as I could visit its shore, swim in it, set sail upon it. My folks weren’t sure where I got this, as no one my family had a particular interest in water and boating. But I loved it. Eventually I married a boater and we spend our fair weather weekends happily on the local water fares and when traveling often frequent some shore or another.

Years later, in the process of researching my family history, I read in an autobiography published by a preservation club that Uncle H had a huge passion for water and boating. This fact had been lost somewhere in the annals of my oral family history, but obviously the strand quietly carried on to an albeit distant branch of the tree. I was thrilled to share this link with him, and it brought our relationship closer to home for me.

Among my other treasures linking me to my past is my Grandmother’s cookbook. This is my other Grandmother, not the one with the famous beef and noodles. This Grandma was very different than the other. She was tall and beautiful and truth be told, traces of evidence point to her being a wild child in her day. She married late (by the standards of those days) and was never known for her cooking talents. That’s not to say it was for lack of trying.

She painstakingly collected and tested recipes most of her life after marriage. Mom quips that it’s a wonder she and her brother lived to adulthood.

This tired and weathered book was published around the turn of the century and I assume was given to her, or perhaps she purchased it for herself in preparation for domestic life. Its recipes call for ingredients that spoiled and finicky moderners wouldn’t think of using. Bones. Brains. Suet. In nearly any blank section of page is scribbled in her royal handwriting, some recipe or another handed down by her mother, sisters, a neighbor or friend. The passage of time and wear has nearly faded some of them into unrecognizable hatchmarks. Clippings of recipes and hints torn from women’s magazines of the day, many accented with an unnaturally ecstatic cartoon housewife in heels and pearls, stick out riotously from the covers. I straighten and tuck them back in periodically but they seem to wander their way back out again when I’m not looking. Maybe these are the recipes she never got around to trying. Maybe she is telling me to make the time to do the things I want to do. To not let too much time slip away. "If done right," she whispers, "this could be good."