Showing my support. Blackout sopa. Blackout pipa. Stop censorship.
http://sopastrike.com/#how-to-strike
Jan 112012
There are many moments when I am reminded why I love to teach. It certainly isn’t the pay or the “prestige.” But rather the gifts I’m given–just for being there.
This afternoon I was with a child who is working with me rather than being in class due to some rather serious and difficult on-going medical protocols. The nausea and exhaustion–residuals from the most recent treatments meant homework hadn’t been touched. So we began to slowly work through the 5th grade assignments. Mostly tedious drills, far below this particular child’s intellectual level–but still assignments that must be completed, submitted, assessed and charted before the upcoming grading period. When I asked about an assigned “response” worksheet for a short story, I was told that it hadn’t been done, but would I like to hear a poem from the back of the text.
I will never forget this child reading the following poem.
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Emily Dickenson
Jan 082012
you are with me today
as you once were
as you have become
as you always will be
all this time
you have been gone
twenty-five years
a quarter century
nearly half my life
yet the warmth of your head
against my chest
our hearts in tandem
and the sweet smell of you
remains undiminished
you have been with me
in the sister you left
in the brother and sister
who never knew your smile
in the father who loved you so
yet now you have become
my bright morning star
when I walk to the sea
you are the new day
when sunrise touches surf
and baptizes my toes
at the edge of the sand
I find you where I left you
gleaming bits mixed with shell
merging with the sand
beneath my feet
with me you always will be
when I lift my soul
to the ocean met clouds
to the pound of waves
our hearts in tandem
my love for you remains
for the beauty you gave me
for who I’ve become
since you left me
I love you and always will
my Nicole
Jan 012012
It is my experience that the best journey begins with little expectation, but with great openness to whatever appears on the horizon, the path, or beyond the next turn. There is something magic about daring the willingness to step out, especially when the way is unmarked. Not for any purpose, not for any destination or end–but just to put a bare foot on the dawn-cold sand and move forward.
If I have a wish for all of us in this barely begun New Year it is to meet each day with eyes fully open to beauty. Even when it can only be found in the darkest of sorrows. To hold tolerance and understanding in heart and mind rather than judgement and fear. To actively seek peace and justice without flinching. To speak the truth without flinching. To live the truth unafraid, and with joy.
And remember to smile and breathe, just breathe.
Dec 312011
I caught myself while beginning the pre-tax receipt-sorting yesterday. The packs of little papers growing into paper-clipped stacks. Art supplies, office supplies, restaurant, utilities, restaurant, art supplies, home repair, more restaurant and even more art supplies. This is a task I usually reserve for mid January, when I can review with a little more emotional distance–buoyed by still fresh resolutions. Resolutions to do more, do better, do with less, do without. That’s what caught me, the concept of resolutions.
Most of us, on this last day of the year, are considering some form of resolution, reformation, reclamation, renewal. Even those of us who swear not to believe in the standard New Year resolves are unable not to sift through the year that is so rapidly dwindling, and take stock. It is simply the sentient being’s process in ending one thing in order to begin something new. So the self-promise to losing weight, clear the desk, clean the closet, and be kinder is a natural function of constructing hope.
That fresh, intentional push toward betterment lasts (for most of us) until the files begin to pile up on our desks, the pizza is too tempting, and that idiot cuts us off in traffic. There’s a common discussion amongst coaches and trainers that January is their highest traffic month. Highest for the volume of people who sign up and then bail within a few weeks after New Year’s.
So what would happen if we took this last day of the year to consider the things we’ve done well, and instead of resolving to repair the bad, focus on the good we’ve done for ourselves and others. Surely, no matter how rotten a year it may have been, no matter how we feel we’ve failed–there had to be something enriching that that touched us. Suppose we all spent this turn of the year not ignoring our imperfections, but strengthening our positives. And move on from there.
It’s the game we’ve all played somewhere in our lives. Typically led by a teacher, camp counselor or an elder at the special family dinner, you get the question. “Tell us one thing you liked about…”, whatever. Even the sourest in the group will inevitably (though sometimes days later) come up with something. Often it builds within the group, each trumping the next. And then whatever the experience was takes on a new aspect. What might happen if we play the game within our own thoughts. Isn’t there the possibility our view–of ourselves, our fellows, even our world might shift.
Thinking about this brought the awareness that this has been a wonderful year of riches. Given to and by me. I became filled with gratitude just to have experienced the year. One moment stands clear though. In the kind of teaching I do, I am always working with children who are in some kind of trouble. My students may be out of the regular classroom due to chemotherapy treatments, Fibromyalgia, severe anxiety, simple fractures, or emotional/psychological disabilities that have led to suspension with intent to expel. All of these children are fragile; physically, emotionally–or both. While I love what I do, the teaching day fails to pass that doesn’t contain some frustration and even irritation I then chastise myself for.
Recently I was sitting with a student whose physical condition is so difficult that among other challenges there is no speech–or liklihood to be any. This makes teaching ABC’s, numbers and shapes pretty daunting. And frustrating. But in a magical moment, the child was asked by his mother (on whose lap he was sitting) to “just put your pointer on the circle.” And somehow, instead of shifting, and moving on to some other task, I just waited. It took a full three minutes and multiple encouragements from mom and me–but he slowly pulled in his other fingers and thumb, and with a full heft from the shoulder, touched the circle with the tip of his “pointer.”
Now obviously, I didn’t differentiate my finger or super-humanly coordinate my body to lift my hand. But I did follow my instinct to sit still, followed my nature to cheer, followed my heart to thank both my student and his mom. And instantly, eagerly began planning ways to build on this first, small step of communication for him.
I look then to the New Year with an eagerness and anticipation I’ve been missing. The plans I have are equal parts what I know and what I can do with that knowledge. There is art to be made, a book to be written, teaching tools to be created. Hopefully when I look back a year from now I will see months and days filled with learning from failures, celebrations of good work, the joys of good friends and family, a heart more open, a mind more eager, and a spirit more daring.
I wish everyone all the same.
Dec 302011
Long before any of us become actual parents, we wonder at what we will give, sow as seeds, and then how those seeds will develop into children and then adults. We approach the image of our future children with such expectation and hope. The thought being that if we give them our love and wisdom they develop into the image we’ve created.
But life comes along. The real child is born with her or his own wonderful mesh of abilities and interests that may or may not coincide with our prenatal dreams. The lawyer you believe you are gestating may become a monk, the violinist a CPA, or the peace-activist a warrior. Certainly we hope for our children to become good people, loving human beings with a solid respect for themselves and others. But I really thought I’d raise a ballerina–or at least a soccer player.
As my children enter adulthood I recall that my one constant aspiration for each of them as they grew was to develop a love of beauty. That was always my focus, and the direction of much of their childhood activities.
During their early years, before the beginning of each summer vacation, I would scour the local calendars for free events. There were music festivals, breakfast picnics at the zoo, and countless trips to the National Gallery and Smithsonian Museums. We had a simple rule, we would start (and often finish) in whatever museum we could park closest to–it took them years to figure out that I knew there would never be parking around my least favorite Air and Space Museum.
I knew early on that I would not be able to provide money-attached advantages. Instead I had the luxury of living close enough to the beautifully free Smithsonians, a vibrant folk music and art community, and one of the last children’s libraries in the nation. Of course it was also another time. Our national budget crisis had not yet forced the closing of concerts, exhibits, and the most wonderful children’s bookstore–where each fall a Monarch butterfly hatchery took over the front window, and favorite authors like Eric Carle came to paint with children.
There were also adult friends my husband and I were able to share with our children. Artists, writers, scientists and of course musicians who were not celebrities to the kids, but people they knew. People who shared their time and art freely, becoming something of a creative community for them–the village (of artists) it takes to raise a child.
My children now are young adults, and I sometimes wonder (as all parents do) what all those trips to the zoo and the library and th family dinner conversations did. But then without intention they unite to give me a wonderful gift. This Christmas night, after the huge dinner and flurry of gift exchanging my son sat and quietly played guitar–the music he knows I love. The next day my daughters and my son-in-law joined my husband and me walking through several galleries. The highlights included a couple of good bounces on the National Gallery’s “multiverse” walkway. My youngest daughter’s gift to me was “finding” our favorite Rauschenberg, Wall-Eyed Carp/ROCI JAPAN hadn’t been removed–but moved to a better spot. 
And there it is. Of course it doesn’t solve the world’s problems, or even our personal ones. But watching my children this Christmas tells me a love of beauty is solid in each of them. I still believe if we all were filled with a love of beauty it might become easier to share with each other. Through sharing we might come to understand and truly see each other as fellow travelers rather than as adversaries. When I see and hear this living in my children, I know my husband and I were not alone in helping this to happen. Sometimes the magic works.
Oct 042011
One of the many beauties of having a sixteen-year-old daughter around are the wonderful observations that zing from her mouth, pierce any mental funk, and take up residence in my brain. Not too long ago during some family dinner kvetching about the weather or politics, she noted, “yup, a real First World Problem.” This simple phrase pops up frequently whenever I realize I’m sinking into hyper-mode about something fairly trivial; something either easily fixed or not in my capacity to change.
I have “First World Problems.” And so do my daughters, my sister, my mother–girls, all of us. Even my grandmother, who escaped from a childhood on a hardscrabble dirt farm to eke out a living in Washington, DC during the Great Depression, and wasn’t allowed by law to vote until well into her adulthood, only had “First World Problems.”
We have, and have had only “First World Problems” because even if there sometimes wasn’t enough, we had food, clean water, and the freedom to achieve anything we strove toward–even though we were all born girls. Yes, there have been restrictions based on our gender, but nothing that couldn’t be withstood or overcome. Nothing life-threatening.
So when I saw the first Girl Effect.org video, I was hooked. Simple graphic, powerful message. This is not a “First World Problem,” but it will take First World effort to create change. When I saw Tara Mohr’s blog calling for a “Girl Effect Blogging Campaign,” I of course signed-on. I signed-on because I believe every child born into this world deserves basic love and care. Because I believe with my whole being that if every child were free from hunger–both of the body and mind–the world would be far less damaged and its people far less dangerous. Because I believe in the power of women who were gained strength as girls. Because I believe in the possibility of change.
I have been blessed to give birth to three daughters and a son. I have been fortunate enough to raise my son and two of those daughters. As I see them go off into the world strong, loving, and ready to take on whatever challenges they may face in their lives–I am filled with gratitude. It is that I wish for every child, for every girl.
For my part, each time I sell a piece of my Imprematura Wearable Art, I send a donation to the Girl Effect. And when the opportunity arises, I share that first, wonderful video. Because I can.
When my first child was just born, my husband took one look and said softly and with incredible love, “It’s a little girl.” That awe I heard in his voice contained all the love and care we would both give her as she grew, that she would learn to give to others. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if this was the norm for every child, for every girl.
Sep 072011
Equipment envy is a dangerous thing. Particularly in an age when the global techno-world appears to be increasingly focused on the “er’s” as a primary goal. Faster, smaller, larger capacity, quicker trigger, speedier download. The end result is a perhaps unconscious weight placed on the tool rather than its use.
Obviously, as my daughter would say, this is a “First World” problem. But it is a problem. It is a further widening of the separation between the “haves” and the rest of us. My real concern is that the globally we are losing some powerful creativity and the positive good inspiration breeds.
This rose from a kitchen discussion with a child who even in high school tells me about her day. Yesterday’s blue note stemmed from her powerful sense of being the “other.” Her photographer position on the school newspaper is a credit course, and yesterday assignments were being discussed with a cataloging of the student’s equipment. My daughter’s little Canon Powershot was no match for the others’ Nikon digital SLRs. Unlike in my day, there is no “staff” equipment.
This of course produced a surge of mixed response. “Christmas is coming.” “Let’s see what we can do,” and then I downshifted into my artist-teacher mode. My daughter patiently stood through my creativity-gift rant. Mentally replaying the conversation later, I realize it isn’t just the urge to salve my child’s hurt. It is what I believe.
I believe everyone, particularly children should be provided with the best possible materials, a respect for those materials, and the freedom to create. “Best possible” refers to clean paper and sharpenable pencils provided without nag. My students always hear me demand, “Only draw on one side of the paper!” This teaches not only respect for the material, but the worth of her or his work.
I believe the opportunity to create is more important than either materials or the end result. Feeding the urge to create without restraint builds a muscle-memory to reach for beauty and learn the difference between failure and learning. Passion becomes a norm.
I absolutely believe in the magic of having an “eye.” This is what distinguishes the artist from the technician, and has nothing to do with equipment. Decades ago I was gutsy enough to approach the wonderful Yousuf Karsh after a lecture with “What kind of equipment do I need to be a great photographer?” I cherish the memory of his warm smile as he said, “My dear, the camera doesn’t really matter as long as your lens is clean, and you always take more pictures than you think you need. But most important is the eye. The artist’s eye is not a machine, it cannot be taught–it is a gift from God, and I think I see it,” and then he winked.
I also believe this gift of the artist’s eye is present in many and can be nurtured just as easily as it is so often squelched by a lack of materials and the even more soul-stomping lack of freedom and support. I’ve seen what happens when children are given even the simplest of tools and the permission to try. The shift from torpidity to reaching for wonder is visible.
Several years ago, my daughter and I were about to enter the National Zoo when she suddenly ran across Connecticut Avenue. She had spotted an elderly man sitting on a milk crate under an awning, playing what looked like a Vietnamese đàn gáo. I watched as she approached, circled and took several shots. Watching the mix of respect and intent as she moved from across the street was like watching an old film of myself. I didn’t need to see the photographs, I saw the magic. More important, when she came back across the road, I could see she felt that magic. The beauty of spotting a shot and going for it. The integral core of the photographer’s eye.
So because I’m one of the fortunate, I’ll see to it my daughter receives the equipment she wants at Christmas. I’ll also cherish that she already has what she needs. And certainly put more of my resources into helping that magic emerge elsewhere.
Aug 072011
Today is International Friendship Day. Yes, it began as a “Hallmark Holiday,” but it’s also the U.N.’s, International Day of Friendship was proclaimed in 2011 as a celebration of the idea that “friendship between peoples, countries, cultures and individuals can inspire peace efforts and build bridges between communities.”
It brings me to consider the concept of friendship. Any good kindergarten teacher will tell you that learning to make friends is the most crucial achievement for every student. Of course facebook has unarguably changed the definition of “friend” both as noun and verb. Politicians, pundits, the military, and the D.A.’s office all have special twists for “friendship.”
There is also a categorization process that seems to have become habitual. When introducing someone we often add a descriptive. “This is Jane, she’s my teacher friend,” works as a facilitator, inserting a bit of information that helps to build a conversation. There is though, another aspect of the “qualifier.” What happens when the listener receives, “facebook friend.” Does this irretrievably shift our relationship to some anonymous cyber-dalliance? What responses are triggered when descriptors referring to age, gender-identification, ethnicity, political or spiritual affiliation are used? Then a delineation of a relationship shifts to a classification of an individual.
Every definition of “friendship” centers on the state of mutual understanding and compassion. During any art class introduction I talk about becoming Artist Friends. That whatever we are working on individually, or as a group the most important thing for us to do is to become friends. This of course implies (sometimes with emphasis) the importance of sharing–supplies, space, and the teacher’s time. But it also engenders what the kindergarten teachers strive toward. Learning to work together to motivate, support and sustain.
Since I’m usually leaning against stacks of Crayolas in this first lesson, I use complementary colors. It’s such an easy visual tool to demonstrate the change when you place blue next to purple, and then trade the purple with orange. We talk about the power each color has by itself, and the incredible increase when two work together as complements. When we shift back to talking about each other as artist friends there are the inevitable scuffles of “No, I’m blue!” which of course gives me Reservoir Dogs flashes. But something sticks. By the end of our time together, I see caring relationships formed. Understanding of each others intent, appreciation for each others success or frustration. These students may never meet again, but they’ve learned skills to take to the next relationship. Of course this can be done with any age group, but it’s much easier with children.
So on this Friendship Day I am grateful for, and to all of my friends. For being my friend, who or whatever else they may be. I hope to remember more often that being a friend isn’t a descriptor, it’s a way of life.
You be my yellow, I’ll always be your purple.
Jul 302011
I photographed a last lily the other day; multiple times throughout its one day of bloom. Many seasons come and go when I am aware of impending bloom, joyfully celebrate full presentation mode, but miss the last, whatever kind of flower. Just as there is the magic night each year when the first lightening bug flits across my view, and shifts my mind-set to summer. Not many evenings after I sit and witness the trees filled with such a multitude that I begin to wonder if this isn’t really what “twinkle” light sets are trying to achieve. Yearly, there is some night when I notice there are only a few left, their path distinct as they search.
In this sometimes seasonal cognizance-ritual there is the duality of emotion, the “bittersweet.” We humans seem to hold a special place for the “last” of almost anything. Perhaps it is the designation of “final” to installment, game, child, or appeal that establishes a perceptual trigger to magnify the thing’s qualities merely based on its status as “last of.” This lily was surely not more intrinsically comely than the other seven that had bloomed on that stem, but those seven flowerless stubs are part of its beauty. Placing this bloom in that precious, “last” category.
Of course this categorization reaps distinct responses. The last strawberry or chocolate truffle is always sweetest. The final lap or chess move is invariably most fulfilling. Certainly the concluding edit or brushstroke is unfailingly triumphant. But the closing of doors or relationships is inevitably sorrow-filled. In my drinking days, the sweetness of the first sip always culminated in the bitterness of the dregs. The excitement on arriving at the vacation house is always followed by the forlorn last walk-through before departure.
It is the acceptance of ending and loss that has developed the ability to note and better enjoy the end before the loss. Before reality and the present becomes memory and the past. Perhaps it is in the learned-savoring of the closing that endows supremacy.
Spiritual teachers instruct that the path to inner peace is centered on living in the moment. That the most succulent tomato is the one bursting in your mouth. The first or the last butterfly is the only butterfly of that moment. I believe in this as experience. Whatever my thought process as I pull the last squeeze of oil paint from the crimped-down tube, when the brush works into the canvas–my only awareness is the movement of color into color. The anticipatory thrill before my first, and the sorrow at my final vacation’s walk on the beach is gone while I’m walking.
There is, I believe, an enhancement achieved as we acknowledge the “lastness” of our experiences. It triggers our appreciations, and infuses our memories. Occasionally it trips mistake into serendipity. Days after I processed the images of that “last lily,” and filed them into a folder, I was just thinking about the nature of “last” when I turned the corner driving home, and noticed a clump I’d forgotten–in full bloom.
