Ask for help. . .

I don't have time to write all that I want to here, today. (or ever).

My brother died about 24 hours ago. My heart is breaking, though I'm doing so much better than I was a day ago. Part of what helped me so much was the outpouring of sympathy I received on facebook. While each person handles their grief differently, I've learned the importance of grieving out loud. My family's tendency in the past was to buck up and stand tall. "Get over it" and "Move on."

Not this time. And not the time before. I'm learning to say out loud "I'm hurting." "I need help."

The outpouring of love directed at my family because of that cry has been so heartwarming. I feel like I'm supported - held up - and like I'm growing because of it. I think the healing will be quicker and more full.

The sad thing is that my brother would not be gone right now if he'd learned how to ask for help.

Specifically, he may have died because he had no insulin to treat his diabetes. And he wouldn't ask for help. Or couldn't? Where does that stubborn pride come from and why do we serve it?

He died an alcoholic that suffered for years and years. I understand that struggle and felt his pain for a long time. I know that trap.

Why is it so hard to ask for help? It's the simplest thing and the most complex thing, all in one.

If only he could have asked. . . If he could have humbled himself to accept that there is a loving God that could have helped him. And family and friends that cared so much about him on so many levels.

May we all learn from lessons like this - we are never too big, too small, too important, too wrecked, or too whatever-it-is-we-think-we-are, to ask for help.

All sorts of things I want to write

Why is it that all during the day and night - except when I'm sitting here - do I think of a million things that would make great blog posts. I create these fantastic episodes in my head, and then poof - they're gone.

Sometimes I realize that - that I'm going to forget - so I create them as lists. And poof - those go too.

Maybe next time?

MY new bike

Treasure Hunter

I just got back from picking up my bike.
An awesome blue Schwinn Hollywood.
It was built and launched on November ??, 1965.

I'm getting bad at remembering things.

But the bike!
It's one of my rummage sale treasures from the 2009 Season so far.

Another key purchase? Six pair of shorts for Son Two. A&F, AE, Hollister, etc.
A buck a pair. Six or seven shirts to go with them - for fifty cents each.

And I bought a saxaphone, too! I'm not sure if it works yet, because the high school kid I have testing it out for me has been busy.

Plus four pair of brand new shoes. A buck a pair.

What will I do with all of these treasures, you ask?

Treasure them.


What will Friday bring?
I'll take my camera along and snap some pics for you. On my treasure hunt. . .

(photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/juli/)

Could this be?

Son Number One has a beautiful girl over, to "study."
Son Number Two went to a friend's to work on Math, and then off to the library with his mother.

This past weekend, Son One had a "concert" at a friend's house when the parents weren't there but a babysitter was. (they're 17)

Am I gullible, or is it just that I was terribly naughty when I was young?

Could it be? Could life be so apple pie?
I hope?

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

One Man's Trash

This picture includes:
a surface of a cedar chest which I purchased from a neighbor for ten bucks.
the edge of the mission oak rocker I picked up from the trash.
a rain stick I got for a buck.
a raku vase I found for $3.
another raku vessel - the one with the ornate top - I purchased for five bucks.
a coil pot my son made for me in fifth grade.
a vase I found in a "free box" the other day.
marbles I got for fifty cents.
and lillies of the valley I picked from my yard.

Treasures!

this morning

Stray Boy

So here's my husband, and his new friend.
Our boys are both gone out tonight, but this is my husband having a beer with his new buddy Brody.
Brody comes here daily looking for "him."
"Is he here?" "He said he's gonna take me golfing."

They just called for me to go get Brody a bottle of water.
"Can you get Brody a bottle of water?"

"Who's that?" the boy asked, puzzled. I heard my husband ask "Were you pulling my crank? That's not your name?"

So there they are.

His dad lives in Texas. He's new in the apartments down the street.

The doorbell rings many times a day - for "him."

Could be a long summer.

Richless. . . a matter of perspective.

NPR.org , May 13, 2009

Overheard in the toy-strewn playroom of a rambling three-story house in the suburbs of Cleveland:

Victoria, 11: "We're poor."

Madeline, 8: "Yeah, we're richless."

Richless. Out of the mouth of babes, a word that captures precisely where so many of us truly are as we take stock of our situations in these distressing — but not yet Depressing — economic times.

We are richless. Some of the riches we had are gone.

We are not poor. We are not really likely to become poor.

It's a crucial distinction to make in an America that has such a lousy sense of its own history.

Let's take Victoria and Madeline's family, for instance. I know them well; they happen to be mine, too.

In the Great Depression — long before the girls' parents or grandparents were born, but well within the memory of their 88-year-old great-grandmother — our family had very little money and very little else.

They did not own a home. They often moved because they couldn't make rent. They carried their few possessions with them, took good care of them and eventually handed them down.

They ate tomato sandwiches and — since the patriarch worked as a meat cutter — they also ate lard sandwiches.

The lesson learned from that experience was simple: Be thrifty. Be driven by need, not greed. And by making the most of their resources over the years, the family managed to get ahead.

"I complain today because a loaf of bread is $2," my father said to me, more than once. "But I have the $2. When a loaf of bread was a nickel, I didn't have the nickel."

Yet many of us who grew up able to afford that loaf of bread all along wound up with eyes too big for our stomachs.

We joked about buying things "to stimulate the economy." When we felt discontented, we found ourselves engaging in "retail therapy."

We had plenty of encouragement to keep up with the Joneses. All we had to do was turn on a TV to see what we didn't have and to tune out all the things we did have.

In the end, we acquired more than we needed. More even than we WANTED.

And we have wound up doing what Franklin Roosevelt warned us against: We're fearing the fear itself.

Now here's the good news: HAVING all that stuff gives us a head start if we do keep sliding toward a "Capital D" Depression.

We have more clothes than we could ever wear — if we focus on need and not greed.

We have food on the shelves that will keep for weeks and months and years — if we focus on need and not greed.

We can work together to find a million ways to share all of these hidden resources with friends and neighbors and even strangers — if we focus on need and not greed.

So ask yourself if you have the money for the loaf of bread.

If the answer is yes — even if things look pretty grim at the moment — please consider the possibility that you're not down and out yet.

You're merely richless.

Todd Holzman is supervising senior editor for NPR Digital News.

new life

The colors are so rich on rainy days.

today in my front yard

I got outside just as it started to rain. . .

Today, in my back yard.

Spring is intoxicating.

a pain in the neck

Monday morning. Before I even start my day.

I leaned over the dishwasher to throw some dishes in - just to tidy up before I begin work - and ZING! Down my neck, through my shoulder, into my right arm. Intense pain. Deep, sharp pain.

Monday mornings are Monday mornings already. But it's bright and sunny out - it's spring - I was determined to be optimistic about the day and the week ahead - and then that?

I blew out my knee two weeks ago at the Y, and haven't been back since. This morning I thought I would attempt a return to work out - but wham!

And I've got a list of work to do - of course.

I'm going to breathe this kink out.
Practice with me. . .

It's Monday. Lovely, peaceful, gentle Monday.
The start of all things good.
A clean slate, and an opportunity to spin the world in all different directions.
The sun is wonderful and warm. The grass and all things growing are surging forth with new growth.
The colors of nature are vibrant and alive.
A day for health and healing.

Breathe in through the nose. Fully - bringing nurturing oxygen to all parts of (this aching body!)
And out through the mouth. Taking pain away.

----------

I think we need Sunday night again. . . ?
Start this thing over?
Skip the dishes?
Who cares about cleaning?
There's always tomorrow to work?. . .

Bueller?

courage

be

Rev Run

GO

gift of today

You

just ask

That other one was too blah

I wish. . .

I could put pink on the outside edges, with white behind my posts. . .

These days, I'm really drawn to pink.
So I drew my electric eel in pinks. Oranges and pinks.

I wonder. . .

Since some of the most important places for people to use throat lozenges require quiet. . . why don't they make the wrappers out of some kind of material that doesn't crinkle like crazy when you open them?

Just wondering.

This really makes me squirm

After being a blocked artist for more than 20 years. . . I am forcing myself to paint.

In many ways, I live art. I am art. I wear art, I cook art, I nurture my children as art. I have made a great living for many years by creating design that I would consider art - but the kind of thing most people would call art - paint on a canvas or other traditional mediums - scare the hell out of me.

When I was a young girl art oozed out of me. I always had crayons and paint and fabric and paper and wood and whatever else I could lay my hands on, and created things with great energy. Our house was filled with art and talk of art. It wasn't until I got to college that I had my first collision with people that didn't appreciate what I did. Part of that was I didn't know how to use the mediums like most other kids my age. In high school I was a musician. I learned how to play the oboe and read music and perfected that craft. In college most of the other people in art had already learned the techniques and were then honing their skills. I was too embarrassed to ask how to paint with oils and acrylics and how to work with clay, so I muddled my way through. The other issue was that my style is totally graphic in nature. Color. Balance. My inclination to create graphic looking works was against the professors desire to churn out artists that worked traditionally. I had one watercolor teacher that would continually take my paintings off the wall before she'd begin the critique. She said my art was too commercial, and not worthy of critique. She would walk up to my work, take it and place it face down on the table, and then say "There. Now we can begin."

I refused to give in, and continued to paint whatever I wanted to paint. Inspired by Paul Klee. Not anywhere near her comfort zone.

Close to the end of my degree (which stretched for many years) (long story. it postponed student loan payments) I took the required watercolor class, which only she taught. At the end of the semester when I turned in my portfolio full of work, she wrote a note that said "I can only grade this portfolio if you include a landscape or a still life."

I went home in tears, unsure what to do. I refused to give in. I didn't paint things like the other students. I definitely didn't paint things like her star pupils. But - watercolor class was a requirement to graduate and would fail if I didn't do what she asked.

One of my roommates, a talented artist in every media, insisted that I had to do the painting and re-hand in my portfolio for critique. I had no idea where to start, so that friend threw a vase up in our window, added a single flower, and in a heartbeat did a lovely little watercolor for me. She was so talented that she was able to paint in a style that would be comparable to what I'd have done, if I knew that traditional technique.

I turned in my portfolio with her painting on top of my stack, and I received a C for the final grade.

But - I haven't painted since. I'm still deathly afraid of watercolor and its random ways. It seems unable to be contained, and I can't imagine even trying. As part of a process I'm working on for myself though, I recently decided to slay the dragon in some form. I've begun a couple of tiny acrylic paintings. One was promised to my niece Heidi before I even started it, and the other is for my husband, who has fallen in love with the painting from the minute it was begun. I can't believe I have people who would be interested in having my paintings!

I don't really even care what they do with them. I've thrown lots of art away before, and that wouldn't kill me. Mark has said his painting is going in his office, and with that thought I'm thrilled! This process makes me feel so naked and so exposed, but I am going forth even though I feel so vulnerable. I've learned that putting myself "out there" when I feel insecure is the best way to help myself grow. I'm finally learning to ignore the perfectionist in me and I'm willing to accept whatever comes out. I'm growing. I'm trying.

And so, as much as this act fills me with anxiety, I am posting my UNFINISHED paintings here. They're not perfect. . . but they're okay! In fact, they're just fine. . . and some people LIKE THEM!
ahhhhh.

Living My Life Out Loud

Many years ago when my boys were young, I was at the Rec Department waiting for the kids' class to finish, when the conversation turned to movies. I commented that my movie viewing was changing since the kids were starting to stay up later. When they were very young we'd watch family movies before bed and then could watch more action-type movies when they were asleep. Since they were staying up later the older they got, the more grownup movies were eventually squeezed out of the lineup. (Note. The adult movies weren't "adult" movies but were PG or R-rated, inappropriate for young kids)

One man who had been standing there quietly, piped in "Maybe if the kids can't watch it with you, it isn't a great influence for you, either."

I argued with him about it for a bit, but for years now I've thought about it. I've learned to use things like that for my moral compass. If my kids can't know something, maybe I shouldn't be doing it. If I wouldn't want my neighbors hearing it, maybe I shouldn't be saying it.

Try living your life like an open book. Make note of what you are watching, listen to what you are saying. If there are things going on that you wouldn't want broadcast on YouTube, chances are they are things that may be holding you back from being all that you can be.

I call it Living Your Life Out Loud. I'm not there yet, but I'm working on it. By using these simple markers as guidelines, I've come a long way towards living a truly honest life – and it feels good.

I did something gross today

I was making banana bread, and after pouring the walnuts in I noticed a spider in the bowl. Not really small but not too big. It was the same color as the walnuts and I was really glad I saw it before I mixed the nuts in.

I picked it up with my fingers!
I touched it. Gross. And threw it in the sink and mixed up the bread and baked it.

I don't really like spiders. I'm not afraid of them, but they are gross.

The bag had been opened the other day, and was closed with a twist tie. I'm hoping the spider had just crawled into the top of the bag and was a harmless kind of Wisconsin spider - and not something that came IN that bag and is going to grow baby spiders inside my body. You see, I have a good imagination.

An Icecube or a Butterfly

Thinking about change.

I just wrote about change.
But now that I think about it, even more than change, I am thankful I've been open to
t r a n s f o r m a t i o n

Water changes from water to ice, but it can go back to being water again.
They're different but they're the same.

I'm grateful that I've been open to being transformed.

Like a caterpillar. Once hunkered down in the cuckoon. . .
And then finally ready. . .
and transformed.

I don't think I could ever be a caterpillar again.

I mean, wooly bears are nice, but they mean a long winter and I hate winter.

your one wild and precious life

My blog is random and scattered and eclectic. Should that be a surprise?
The perfectionist in me envisioned something slightly different. A theme, perhaps.
But since I started this with no real vision of what it would be, I'm seeing now that it's kind of a scrapbook.
Or maybe more like a sketchbook.
Some words, some scribbles, some things ripped from magazines for inspiration.
I think I may start posting work that I've done each day. . .
maybe.

But for today, I wanted to post this poem, one of my favorites.

I see so many people around me that seem to be stuck in places they don't want to be. Relationships, jobs, cities. Ruts.

Life is so precious and short.
I pray I never take any of it for granted. Especially the moment in life when I knew I needed to make some changes and I started planting one foot in front of the other.

Funny - during one difficult period in my life I read that what had happened to me physically probably stemmed from my opposition to change. I scoffed and said to a friend that I had no problem with change. I did it all the time. She looked at me like I was crazy and said "well you need to change," as if what I had just said was pure nonsense. She informed me that I needed to put both of my hands over my throat (the chakra for change) and affirm to myself "I am willing to change."

So, I did it. I walked around all day long, hands over throat, repeating "I am willing to change. I am willing to change. I am willing to change." . . . all the time sure that I was always willing to change and it was pure poppycock. Whateva.

Guess what? I'm STILL changing.

And looking back, that was a time in my life that I was truly blind to my own needs. I am grateful for that wise friend that didn't judge and instead simply helped me along my way.

But anyway - that wise woman was my dear friend and mentor, Kiernan.

And this is one of my favorite poems which she read in her beautiful storytelling way.

It has helped change my life.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA

Copyright 1992 by Mary Oliver.

oooo, nice.

"Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life."
— Derek Walcott

the start of a vision