8th Grade Is Teaching Me, Still!

Let’s start by remembering that middle school is pretty lousy for most everybody. It surely was for me.

There were some bright spots, though. One of the brightest was my 8th grade English teacher. She was young, and progressive before that word meant what it means today, and committed to treating her students like humans, capable of experiencing new things. We read poetry. Edgy stuff. We did a winter holiday program designed to be more inclusive than what was usual in those days. (To take part, I learned to sing in Hebrew!) And we read the play, 1776, complete with an actual album of musical numbers from the Broadway show.

I still know all the words to all the songs, along with most of the dialogue, by heart.

That turns out to be one of those good-but-hard things on this day, when it seems that all but one of the the GOP senators voted on the side of self interest rather than their sworn duty.

Through it all I could literally hear, in my mind and heart, the roll call from 1776 on the question of ratifying the Declaration of Independence.

The dangers of voting for independence, close to 250 years ago, were different. An aye vote meant committing treason against the British crown for which the penalty was death by hanging.

Today, a vote to uphold the impeachment charges meant the likelihood of political retribution. The possibility of not being re-elected. The potential loss of big money donors making huge contributions in return for vacations on private islands. The decidedly likely wrath of a man who behaves as though he believes he is above the law and basic civility.

We stand, most of you, and I, to this day, like dwarves upon giants, on the shoulders of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin and a statesman of whom you may have never heard, named Caesar Rodney, who came, literally from his death bed, to stand in favor of Independence.

I write these words with tears in my eyes and voices whispering in my ear that my fabulous new chocolate recipe might be a much wiser choice for this post.

It might!

And yet, I, like Mitt Romney, am going to be able to tell my kids and, most especially, my granddaughters, that I kept my promise today.

His promise was a vow before the God of his understanding to uphold his oath as a senator and a juror even if it meant crossing the aisle, and standing with the Democratic minority who were also, I sincerely hope, keeping their vows.

Mine is to nurture fierce compassion in the world through stories and images and experiences that have the power to create hope.

Check back soon for really a really excellent chocolate recipe. (Chocolate counts, too!)

But first, my paintbrush is calling me. I’m busy making something new out of something that wasn’t working. When I figure out what it wants to be, I’ll let you know.

For now, may you and yours be blessed on the road.

 

 

 

If you need a reminder, too…

One of the good things about being a writer is that many of us are “afflicted” with the habit of writing down wise things our teachers have said through the years.

Then, when the world feels like somebody just yelled, “Tilt!”, we have someplace to start hunting for words that just might sustain us. Rather like the tagline on this blog.

…situational angst and stardust soup

I don’t know about you, but the news over the last couple of days sent me rooting through my mental and electronic attics for some words like that. Whether it’s a surprise for you or something already settled into one of your mental boxes, this ancient Sufi teaching story is the best I’ve got in this moment. (This is how I learned it, in a training group for hypnotherapists, 12 or 15 years ago.)

The Wise Old Man at the Top of the Mountain

Once upon a time, a very, very long time ago, there was a farmer. The farmer lived in a small village in a far-away land, near a mountain.

One morning the farmer got up and went out to care for his animals. As he went about his chores, the farmer, who was very poor, noticed that his cow was missing. “Oh, no!” cried the farmer. “Whatever will we do?” The farmer was very upset and he had no idea what to do next. As the day went on, the farmer became even more unhappy. Finally he decided that he had to do something. There was only one thing he could think of to do.

He walked sadly down the little road until it started to lead up the mountain. The farmer climbed and climbed up the mountain. His feet hurt and it was beginning to get cold, but still the farmer climbed. When he got to the top of the mountain, he found a cave where there lived a wise old man.

“Farmer!” called the wise old man, for he was used to having visitors like this. “Come in. Sit by the fire. Have a cup of tea. And tell me what brings you here today.”

The farmer bowed to the wise old man and accepted his cup of tea. And then, with a shaking voice and a tiny tear in his eye, the farmer told the wise old man that his cow was gone. Disappeared.

“How will my family live?” the farmer asked. “We need the cow for milk and to plow our fields. Without her, we will starve.”

The wise old man set his tea down and he began to pull on his long skinny beard with one of his hands, as he looked deep into the farmer’s eyes. “We don’t know,” said the wise old man, “whether this is good news or bad news.”

The farmer leaped up, dropping his tea on the floor. This man wasn’t wise! Clearly losing their cow was terrible news. And off the farmer went, stomping down the mountain and muttering to himself about the crazy old man.

Several days went by. The farmer spent a lot of time telling his neighbors about his trip up the mountain and how strange it was that the old man just said, “We don’t know if this is good news or bad news.”

The next morning the very worried farmer got up and went out to begin his work. There, much to his surprise, was his cow. And not only his cow, but a big, strong bull as well. The farmer was so surprised and so happy that he dropped his tools and went, as fast as he could go, back up the mountain to see the wise old man.

“Come in,” the wise old man greeted him. “Sit down. Have a cup of tea.”

The farmer was so excited he was nearly bursting with his news.

“Tell me what brings you here today,” said the wise old man.

“Well!” said the farmer. “I got up this morning and there was my cow. She came home! And not only that, but there was a beautiful, strong bull in the yard as well! Our family is saved! We’ll be rich!”

The wise old man set his tea down and he began to pull on his long skinny beard with one of his hands as he looked into the farmer’s eyes. “We don’t know,” said the wise old man, “whether this is good news or bad news.”

The farmer had never heard anything so silly in his life! Of course this was good news! And off the farmer went, stomping down the mountain and muttering to himself about the crazy old man.

Some more time passed.

One day, the farmer’s son, who was just learning to use the plow to dig up the earth for planting, hitched the big, strong bull to the plow and began to work. It was a nice, sunny day and the farmer’s son was thinking about many things. Suddenly, a very large bee flew up and stung the bull right on his nose.

Well! The bull bellowed really loudly, as bulls are known to do, and began to run. The farmer’s son wasn’t strong enough to hold on to the plow. He fell over right in the field and heard a loud sound coming from his leg. Suddenly his leg began to hurt more than anything had ever hurt before. All he could do was sit in the dirt and watch as the bull dug up the earth and ran, as fast as he could go, right through the fence and away down the road.

The farmer, who loved his son, heard him crying and went running to see what was wrong. There was his dear son on the ground. The field was destroyed where it was all dug up. The bull had clearly crashed through the fence and run away. The farmer did not know what he and his family would do so he did the first right thing. He went and got the village doctor who came and cared for his son.

The boy’s leg was broken. The doctor tied tree branches to each side of it, as they used to do long ago, and wrapped it tight with some old pieces of cloth. The farmer and the doctor carried the boy to a small porch on the front of their tiny home. The doctor said the boy would have to stay there for many weeks and would not be able to walk.

The farmer was more and more upset. In fact, he was more upset than he’d ever been. Finally, because he didn’t know what else to do, he went and climbed slowly up the mountain.

“Come in,” the wise old man greeted him. “Sit down. Have a cup of tea. Tell me what brings you here today.”

The farmer was so upset he could barely talk. Finally he managed to explain what had happened. His field was ruined. The bull was gone, and with him the plow. And his dear son’s leg was broken and would not heal for many weeks.

The wise old man set his tea down and he began to pull on his long skinny beard with one of his hands, as he looked deep into the farmer’s eyes. “We don’t know,” said the wise old man, “whether this is good news or bad news.”

With that, the farmer flung his tea cup to the ground and went stomping down off the mountain, threatening to tell everyone he knew that the wise old man was not wise at all, but mean and just plain crazy.

The farmer was so angry he could barely do his work. A few days passed as he cared for his son without crutches or wheelchairs or any of the things we might use in our time.

Then, one morning, the farmer woke to all kinds of noise in the village. There were soldiers from far away on the road, with wagons, capturing all the young men of the village to go and fight in a war. People were crying and begging that their sons not be taken.

The farmer’s son couldn’t go, because of his broken leg.

When the soldiers had left the village, the farmer went and fixed tea for his son and himself. And he pulled a bit at his long, skinny beard and said, with a light of understanding in his eye, “We really don’t know, do we? 

(Boardman, Grandmothers Are In Charge Of Hope )

It feels a lot like that around here. And I’m really glad I know this story!

So, lacking the knees to climb our local mountain, I made myself a cup of tea and collaged some of this story to my almost finished painting, The Wisdom of Trees & Grandmothers. Then, I started thawing things headed for  my very biggest stock pot. It’s time to boil bones!

Which is likely to be a good thing, even in the midst of a world full of things we only think we know about.

p.s………. Great day making art with awesome women. Watch for next workshop info, coming soon!

When the 30 second dance party involves paint…

Yep. It’s #WIP Wednesday again. And there’s lots of stuff in progress around here!

It’s also catch-up day for one of my projects. Never mind for a moment that catch-up month might be more useful, I’m closer than I was before. (Except for the tonnage of emails that showed up while I was painting!)

The next right thing, however, is feeding the Studio Angels who seem to be of the opinion that they’ve worked hard and earned their supper.

Kind of like a brief commercial break! I’ll be back…

So, if you’re conversant with Grey’s Anatomy or creator, Shonda Rhimes’ book Year of Yes, you’re probably checked off on 30 second dance parties. So is Shiloh Sophia McCloud, though hers generally take longer than 30 seconds and are part of the creative journey.

One was called for today. It’s big fun! Also, potentially kind of messy.

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Intentional Creativity® dance parties are more about integrating what’s becoming conscious during the creative process than they are about a break state after something stressful, though both are often helpful.

Today’s was all about claiming our paths to this point in our journey and putting all the stuff – easy and very hard – into the work. It’s really freeing and totally NOT about staying in the lines!

Here are a couple glimpses of what’s under all that integrating paint. At least what’s under the paint on my canvas. I was just doing what the Muses were whispering in my ears.

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The very pink photo, way up at the top, is a glimpse of another #WIP, which seems to want to be about trees and growth rings and grandmothers.

There is much more work to be done.

After I get a dry brined chuck roast tucked safely into the InstantPot so that we, like the Studio Angels, can have a fine dining experience.

There’s Pine Street Market pimento cheese tucked into the fridge for Sunday’s workshop.

And a new recipe for Dark Chocolate Almond Bark. We’re liable to need a “test” batch before Sunday!

Transformation can be hungry work. Good chocolate and almonds are part of the ritual!

 

What does it mean to see?

I’ve been thinking about my son even more often than usual. He just had one of those big birthdays. The kind with a zero that seems like a big deal for moms, too.

I’ve also been thinking about vision a lot, possibly because I learned a lot about vision from Dave.

He was five months old the first time I took him to the eye doctor because he wasn’t growing out of the wandering eyed baby thing.

Then there was surgery at about 17 months to deal with an eye muscle attachment condition. He upchucked his post-op Gator-ade all down my back and we headed home, tired and smelly and on the road to a whole new world. He immediately began to walk more steadily, feed himself more easily, and enjoy all the little doors and windows and pop-up gizmos on his vast collection of Fisher Price wonders.

Things began to get more complicated again when he started kindergarten. His teacher kept fussing at him for making purple trees. I assured him that his purple trees were awesome and that, at home, he could make any color trees he chose.

Then I tried to explain that his teacher wanted him to learn to follow directions, as well as draw trees, and so – while he was at school – it would probably be best to humor her and make the trees green.

You guessed it!

It was two more years before his eye doctor realized he was color blind.

He also had peripheral vision and depth perception challenges.

There was another eye surgery along the way, and quite the conversation when it came time for him to want to drive.

A new eye doctor checked his vision for about two hours and then assured me that, if Dave were his son, he would, indeed, let him drive.

Blessedly, Dave did great, after he figured out the relationship between where he was sitting and where the wheels were on the car.

I guess these adventures weren’t too big a surprise. I’ve been decidedly nearsighted since I was a child. One of my clearest early memories is leaving the eye doctor’s office with my first pair of glasses perched on my nose and being amazed to discover that I could see – that anyone could see – individual leaves on trees!

Then there’s Dave’s 4-footed brother, Luther. This big guy had limited vision when he came to us and, eventually, as far as his eye doctor could determine, lost all his sight. Because of a degenerative condition that was causing him pain, we made the decision to have his eyes surgically removed last May.

The biggest challenge was keeping him from rubbing his face while his suture lines were healing.

I’m grateful that, as he became pain free, he began to find his own spirit more and more, after his traumatic past. Today, he and Phoebe are official Studio Angels, always ready to greet friends and help paint. (That’s Phoebe on duty in the photo.)

I’ll admit to clinging a bit to what I’ve learned along the way from beloved beings like Dave and Luther while I’m flipping on lights all over the house and adding glaucoma eye drops to my bedtime routine.

My fix-it wizard friend, Greg, arrived today to install lots more lights in the studio. It’s an LED miracle!

A miracle that reminds me of inner vision, as well.

And that reminds me, in these days, of a mythical guy named Toby Ziegler, Director of Communications on The West Wing.

Way back in the first season (episode 12 for you Netflix and YouTube folks) Toby was working on the second State of the Union address and he convinced President Bartlet to take the risk of standing up in front of the nation and proclaiming that, “Government can be a place where nobody gets left behind.”

That, and, “Babies come with hats!” are probably Toby’s two greatest lines.

I’m for seeing like that!

 

Are you a jigsaw puzzle person???

Imagine, with me, that you are putting together a jigsaw puzzle. One with many, many pieces. There are a couple of challenges. You don’t have a box with a picture on top of what the puzzle is supposed to look like and there are no edge pieces!

Perhaps you’ve noticed that life feels like that sometimes. At least mine has, lately.

For me it usually happens when I’m discovering new things and I can’t tell how they fit together with powerful things that have already claimed me.

Just now, it has to do with things like demo paintings and round two of a journey called Legend and a round-the-world perspective trip with something known as Motherboard.

All layered over the wonder of holidays with my girls and reading some things I wrote a while back.

Oh, and MLK, Jr. day.

Curious???

It happened like this…

I was still floating around in an inner tide pool after MLK day, watching Legend videos, squirreling away collage paper for a workshop demo, and pondering what Motherboard will wind up looking like in my world when – cliche’ but true! – I had a dream!

The dream led me out of bed, braving the cold and the dark, to retrieve a copy of my book, Grandmothers Are In Charge Of Hope. (The sweet faces, above, are my granddaughters, peeking out from the cover.)

Wrapped in a purple, faux fur wobbie and fortified by a cup of hot water and lemon in my favorite sunny yellow mug, I started ripping pages from my book.

Yes, ripping pages!

Collage material for one project. Inspiration to be transformed into symbols for a couple of others. And two answers to my prophets’ favorite question:

If we believe what we say we believe, what, then, shall we do?

Yes, there are a great many answers to this question. For now, these are mine.

Put Motherboard to work in my world. (You’ll have to stay tuned…)

And, wave at babies!

There it was, on page 73, my personal plan for world peace. Let me read you a story…

My favorite place for waving at babies is the big, international farmers’ market where we live. There are lots of babies there! Babies whose families come from parts of the world my 7th grade geography teacher never told me about. Babies balanced on top of cartloads of food I’d have no idea how to prepare. 

Wave at the babies. Smile, too, of course. Tell them they have cool shoes. Become less “other.” Less “different.” More “same.” Wave at babies at traffic lights and in restaurants. Most of them are serious flirts. 

It’s probably going to take a while, this plan of mine. Less, though, if we get all the grandmothers signed up. (And the honorary grandmother archetype folks, too.) Your kids will see you wave and they’ll start, too. And then the people with the babies will notice and just possibly smile. Pretty soon you’ve got a cart full of crazy looking produce, a nice pastured chicken… and some actual fresh bay leaves. And, if it’s been a good waving day, a couple of dozen fewer strangers in the world. All of which, one way or another, is a good thing for your kids to learn. 

See, grandmothers are in charge of hope! 

Oh, and just one more thing. Before the pieces of the puzzle begin to make sense, we have to take them out of the box and play with them! Often paper and pens and images are helpful!

The Prophets March On!

On this third anniversary of our miraculous Newfoundland rescue dog, Luther’s, liberation from a hate-full puppy mill prison, I am pondering prophets. Two and four-footed ones. Perhaps you first met some in Sunday School, as I did. Amos and Micah. Isaiah and Jeremiah. Ezekiel and Joel.

Voices in my head that I did not quite understand, sounding somehow old and gruff no matter who was reading their words, rather like Walter Brueggemann when I first heard him teach through much younger ears!

And Dr. King, of course. Though I really don’t remember much before the night he was killed. We lived in Chicago and I was afraid.

And a way less old and gruff guy named Gary, who was my first church boss. He was, perhaps, ahead of the progressive curve in a small, rather 19th century-ish, southern town where he helped, a bit after I’d been there, to organize the near total boycott of a Klan parade, realizing that local leaders had to give the KKK a permit but nobody had to show up and watch.

And more recently, a whole tribe of women, joined by Red Thread and spattered in paint, putting empowered, I’d dare say prophetic, images of the divine feminine into a world filled with deep need and longing for their inspiration.

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One of my new artist friends is a woman named Billie Brown who created Weeping Madonna #1 in 2019. The “series of six images depicts young mothers sorrowing over their newborn children as they contemplate the racism rampant in America today and how it may harm their children.”

Weeping Madonna is a sister in prophecy with my Bella Mama from 2018, sheltering immigrant children under the folds of her robed arms.

And then, to zig more than a bit, a tall, young challenger on Iron Chef America sporting a baseball sort of hat that read In Diversity We Trust. Bold words from a self-described Norwegian Japanese Black guy from Minneapolis named Justin Sutherland. (He won!)

I’m guessing you have some examples, too. I’d love to hear them!

For now, though, some prophetic words of wisdom from one of my girls.

Kenzie was 9 when she went with her mom to the 2017 Women’s March on D. C. Mostly they stood, for about five hours, because there were so many people that they couldn’t actually march.  At one point, Kelly boosted Kenz up so she could see over the crowd and asked her where the people stopped. “The people don’t stop,” replied Kenzie. “They just keep going!”

We are the people! Or so say my gaggle of internal prophets who are more into questions than answers. Here’s their favorite:

If we believe what we say we believe, what, then, shall we do?

Only you can answer for you. If you’re not sure where to start, here are a couple of hints. Choose some candidates… local, state, national… who echo the long ago words of Mr. Jefferson and proclaim that we are all created equal. Then get involved.

(They don’t have to be the same folks I’ve chosen, but I wouldn’t mind if they were!)

March, in good shoes or in spirit, when you feel called. I marched on D.C. yesterday, in spirit and in connection with so many sisters.

Go check your mailbox for your 2020 ACLU membership card. Mine came this week! And, if you’re not a member yet, it’s easy. Just tell them Sue sent you.

Look deep for prophesy in the images around you. Which ones call out to you? What are they asking of you?

And join in creation. Words, paint, clay, buttons, soup, quilts, even babies. (Well, maybe grandbabies!)

We are the people. And we are partners in the future we dream.

p.s. Luther and Phoebe want you to know that you can reach our talented friend at billiebrown41@gmail.com and  there are new workshops coming soon! 

Onward with Annie!!!

I decided that the most subversive, revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my life and not be ashamed. 

-The Word according  to Anne Lamott

It’s been a week for clinging to just those words. (Actually, I’ve been clinging to them for a lot longer than that, and you’ve probably heard them here before, but I’m okay with that!)

Standing up, on Sunday, with a small tribe of bravely anxious women, to BE and to create.

Accepting help on Monday for something I “should”  be able to do myself… traveling along with Luther on the grooming journey.

I don’t have the flexibility to do it alone. And it took a while to find him just the right expert who will sit on the floor in our family room and adjust every day professional patterns to the needs of a huge, blind dog with post traumatic stress.

Luther made it a whole 55 minutes!!! (And I could knit several dogs with what we swept off the floor!)

Then I spent some time painting with the very wise young man next door. While he worked away on his new project, and patiently explained the various categories of chaos from a video game, I felt this small canvas calling for some more love in the form of a Big, Scary Glaze (Dioxazine Purple) and then a good bit of silver, stirred with just a smidge of the purple left on my palette.

If we’re being real, it was was undoubtedly the wisdom of Anne Lamott just peeking through the drips and glaze that was calling to me!

Then I did something that is a major stretch for me personally but is completely aligned with what I believe. It was hard. It will probably be hard when I do it again on Thursday. And Friday. And some more next week and the week after.

I’m hoping it will be a little less hard each day.

I know it will be just as important.

Which is, I suspect, why the hand written intention that insisted on being included in my new painting, Oracle and Ally – otherwise known as Legend, is both prayer and promise to myself and to my teachers. To Annie and Shiloh and Stella Mac and all the rest. To all the generations of mothers and grandmothers, from all over the world, who came before me and made me and my girls, bit by bit, for this moment.

Yes, it’s scary. But that’s no reason to hide.

#WIP’s abound! And I’ve started a serious practice of “should-ing” on myself a whole lot less!

 

 

Sue Boardman, Certified Intentional Creativity®
Color of Woman Teacher & Coach