to my daughter
June 27, 2016 § 4 Comments
There are many ways I might remember yesterday, but the moment I most wish to capture, I did not see. I can speak only to the minutes before and after, admiring the in between.
You were coveting a small vase at a local art festival with insufficient funds and a determined hopefullness when you asked me if you could approach the artist with an offer for less. I wanted to tell you no; be still, be quiet, be grateful. Let what you have be enough.
Instead I gave you room enough to act. Alone.
I expected the vendor would politely refuse you, but your face told another story.
There was so much joy in your expression; exuberance as you displayed your bright, pink bag.
The artist engaged your question and indulged your request; she sold her work at a fraction of its worth and honored your sense of value in the process.
You were proud, radiant in your enthusiasm as you replayed your victory.
This kind stranger respected the gumption you demonstrated and celebrated your interest in her work by accepting your offer. You taught me a lesson in reckless trust and uncertain effort; leaping toward confidence and gambling hope.
Love, Mom
artistic
January 15, 2016 § 2 Comments
In fleeting minutes of busy days, I have taken to indulging in borrowed time among old photographs; giving thanks for those images preserved in a cardboard box of jumbled memories.
Among these paper gems was a particular photograph that has captured my heart, a forgotten play day from long before our son’s Autism Spectrum diagnosis. There is joy in this discovery for a later memory, one not captured in print; a discussion with our elementary aged son and a cautious question of his understanding of Autism as so many adults introduced a new language to his vocabulary.
I wasn’t sure, then, what he understood and it was important to me that our son’s identity expand to encompass this new knowledge in a way that honored a heart, mind, and spirit greater than clinical terms and educational assessments. So, I asked our son if he understood what his diagnosis meant.
I know I’m artistic.
And so he is as he always was, a mystery of ability with not so unusual needs.
In ten years we have learned much, but it is the magic of the inexplainable that still best speaks to our son’s truth.
“The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science.” ―Albert Einstein
calendar girl
January 2, 2016 § 2 Comments
We find remembering like blossoms beneath dried leaves, signs of life forgotten in seasons of slumber.
Years ago I would draw clean lines on blank paper, cataloguing my days into calendars. I did this with a concentrated, meditative calm; sharp lines and curving script that wrestled the chaos of responsibilities and daydreams into the promise of time and attention.
I have a fondness for paper and pencil, order and time that was ever-present, but untended in the space I so often look to guide my hours.
This morning I borrowed my daughter’s new artist pad and marker, free handing an old love onto a clean page. In the familiar lines I remembered grade school calendars etched onto ruled paper and college calendars doodled into the margins of my notes; it was the way I counted my way through difficult experiences and the measure by which I held anticipation close.
“Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
Such a little thing, a block of days to remember the past and map the future. More than necessity or function, they were a love letter to the minutes that collected beneath my pen. How could I have forgotten such a simple joy in so obvious a place?
Today I am drawing my own calendar, imperfect lines and favorite quotes; encouragements pledged in my own hand. Still, there is something more to this moment I want to guard, for myself and my children; a lesson too easily lost in plain sight.
To my children,
Note those easy distractions that your hands reach for with muscle memory, the soul whispers that inform joy. Unconventional materials shaped into familiar objects, wood carvings, and written ramblings. There will come a time when the burdens of your responsibilities will threaten to distract you from these exercises in self – guard them. There is time enough in every day for joy.
Love, Mom
writing on the wall
December 25, 2015 § Leave a comment
Before our move I traded old artwork for a clean slate. Family rules and whimsical subway art for newly painted walls in want of character. I sought new words cautiously and intentionally, joyfully and hopefully.
The choice came unexpectedly, a delightful recognition of a too often forgotten truth. An unadorned love letter to each new day to be placed where we gather our coats and shoes, backpacks and breath before embarking on our individual paths.
A reminder for the busy days, when we wake tired, not yet ready to leave the comfort of our dreams; when the day promises tests of patience or will with discouragement or disappointment; on the occasions we look too far past today or get muddled in days past.
It is an encouragement for times we second guess our abilities or undermine our contributions; a gentle push when we pause too long on the sidelines of our dreams. Words of encouragement written on the wall, a Christmas wish come true.
to my daughter
October 6, 2015 § 2 Comments
There is something delightfully deviant in the stubborn swing of your gait and the effervescent honesty that sprinkles your outbursts with comical clarity.
Yesterday your father and I purchased decorative necessities, unexceptionally pretty things to settle the walls of our home. At the time it didn’t occur to us that the largest piece managed to incorporate all of our existing colors in an abstract, nondescript canvas.
I recognized the inadequacy of the piece the minute I settled it against our wall, but it was you, sauntering into our discovery with disappointed amusement that almost caused me to keep the painting.
You called us sad and depressing with such a flourish that I didn’t have time to feel offended. Instead I was intrigued as you gestured first to the painting and then to our pup, exasperatedly you pointed out that the artwork looked like someone had run over our beloved family dog.
It was catastrophically true. As our compliant pup laid peacefully beside the painting it was impossible to ignore the inconvenient truth of your assessment.
“Remember Flat Stanley, Mom? What if we buy one of those art plaques? We could name it ‘Flat Hazel.'” Then you laughed at our poor taste and cuddled our pup.
Heaven help me, I almost bought a plaque. Instead I returned the offensive artwork and kept the memory of your smile.
I’ve laughed all day over the folly of our choice and the honesty of your humor. Promise me that you will always wade into your environment with such attentiveness and good humor.
Love you. Mom
life line
February 1, 2014 § 2 Comments
A language of sincerity and self; a line that begins from a place deep within moving silently into the world, uncensored expression and unbridled curiosity. This is what I see each time my daughter breaths art into a single line, a brave and certain endeavor with an unapologetically bold pen stroke. A life line that gives form to thoughts and weighs the intangible between paper and pen.
petite picassos
September 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
Clean unmarked paper and boxes of unused crayons waited wrapped in anticipation of tiny hands transcribing daydreams into art; whimsical manifestations of unlimited imagination. I facilitate an art based fundraiser at my daughter’s elementary school and this year I am broadening our fundraiser to extend to the Kindergarten students.
This week I sat beside my new Kindergarten friends in awe of the grace of childhood. With each introduction, I was greeted with kindness and curiosity. My aspirations to bring art into the students’ school day experience was eclipsed by the beauty of the students’ eagerness to create something new.
I gave each child a blank piece of paper, wooden shapes, and a sharpened pencil with the following instructions: Today you are going to draw an image using shapes. You may trace them or create them, combine them or overlap them. There is no wrong answer only what you see. The next time I visit, we will add color.
Heads bowed over their paper, they each gathered curves and lines into a thought. They spun stories between shapes. Each name drawn cautiously and proudly at the top of their paper became the face of the unique personality with whom I shared a moment of inspiration. Endearing stories, curious questions, and spontaneous exclamations filled hours of my day with wonder.
My goodbye was met with a gleeful cheer that bubbled effervescently from large hearts tucked inside tiny vessels. I can hardly wait to go back to school with my rainbow of crayons and watch them fill their thoughts with color.
the story
July 13, 2011 § Leave a comment
There are beautiful houses, but homes share stories. I admire those who can fill the shell of a house with personality; it is an art form, a language of love. I have been waiting for, passively seeking out, pieces of art for my walls hoping to create such a home. A place of comfort and joy, serenity and inspiration, memories and dreams. Art has always felt very intimate to me and so most of our art are either framed children’s creations or family photographs. Today I bought a simple piece of art that makes my heart smile. This is its story.
My son and I were enjoying a quiet morning together as we sat on a park bench, he with his favorite donut and I with my morning coffee. We watched pedestrians pass and store fronts slowly come to life as we waited for a particular boutique to open. Unhurried and making conversation, I explained we were looking for a gift for his sister’s friend. I neglected to specify. I needed a necklace and it was this search that would lead to the happy discovery, the piece of art that followed us home.
The necklace came before the art and so I must explain. My daughter learned her birthday party was scheduled to coincide with her best friend’s birthday. Mindful that her party not cast a shadow on her friend’s day, she asked me to find a friendship necklace for her friend while she was busy at summer school. This simple request had led me to the boutique, on this morning, with my son as my companion. I was sorting tangled chains trying to decipher the various charms in search of the perfect friendship trinket when my son declared he had found the perfect gift for his sister’s friend. I followed the sound of his voice to the back of the store where he was perched next to a long wooden form, chalkboard black with white stenciled words wrapping its length. He read the words out loud and these words filled the air around us:
you are the cheese to my macaroni you are the horizon to my sky you are the bacon to my eggs you are the laces to my sneakers you are the jelly to my peanut butter you are the smile to my face you are the gravy to my mashed potatoes you are the bubbles to my bath you are the milk to my cookie you are the ink to my pen you are the ketchup to my french fries you are the water to my ocean you are the icing on my cupcake
He read it as printed, rushing from sentiment to sentiment without pause, words filled with whimsy and love. My son saw the plaque as a gift of friendship, but it seemed to exemplify the ridiculously fun, simple, silly, beautiful, imperfectly perfect life inside my home. The bubble baths my daughter lingers in; the laces my son ties clumsily with frustration; summer lunches of macaroni and cheese or peanut butter and jelly; the milk and cookies that signify a stolen moment at the kitchen island before bedtime. I also see the plate of warm cookies and milk from my wedding night and anniversary evenings at the hotel my husband and I were married; the heavy breakfasts of eggs and bacon to ward of the winter chill; mashed potatoes and gravy over declarations of gratitude on Thanksgiving; walking hand in hand with my husband towards our future someplace both familiar and new like the blue of the ocean or a cloudless horizon. Simple and reassuring I see my love for my children and husband as well as their connections with one another and the friends that bring added joy to our home.
Somewhere between family photos and children’s artwork I will find a place for this new, lovely piece of our story.
scribblechic 