Category: Art Journey

This is not one of those “true stories that might actually have happened.”

It’s a “true story that actually did happen.” And it happened just this way…

In the winter of 1990, as I was about to graduate from Columbia Theological Seminary, I attended a meeting for students who would be open to serving churches in the rural southern US. Among the folks hosting the meeting were several pastors and their wives from the Presbytery of Middle Tennessee.

I had done my internship, happily, in Middle Tennessee and was curious to see what they’d have to say.

After much chatter about the benefits of smaller congregations, especially for new grads, and some arias to the benefits of no traffic, there was time to mingle and ask — or answer — specific questions.

Let me say, first, that they neglected to factor mules into the “no traffic” stories.

Let me also say that there weren’t a lot of women near-clergy in the group.

One pastor’s wife asked me if I could can.

Puzzled, I responded with a reasonably safe, “Pardon?”

She responded with a lengthy tale which included the curious fact that, for the first three years her husband served a small Middle Tennessee church, his “raise” consisted of an elder with a tractor plowing up an extra acre of garden for them.

Hence, “Can you can?”

Well, I couldn’t back then. And I still don’t.

I do freeze!

Tonight was a good example.

After a long day painting prayer dot canvases, the obligatory bathroom cleaning, and some more prep for the upcoming Open House and Artist Market at Vista Yoga, I spent two hours with an old friend who’s working through some healing in paint.

Then, it was time to feed the studio angels.

Among other things, the 4-footed crudo selection for today included shrimp heads.

Wild-caught, US, well-frozen shrimp heads.

It works like this…

Bill and I are having roasted shrimp for dinner tonight, along with brown rice and very gently wilted black kale tossed in onions and garlic oil.

The dogs happily ate the aforementioned heads.

I froze the shells for broth, either for us or for the dogs.

That’s a whole lot of good eating from a little bit of shrimp.

It’s a good investment of our grocery dollars.

It’s healthy, for all of us. (No onions and garlic for the dogs!)

It’s delicious.

It’s an expression of honor and gratitude for the shrimp.

And it gives me lots to share.

I still don’t can. Though I did help bale hay when I lived in Middle Tennessee.

I also believe that the world works better for all of us when we feed as many beings as possible with any given bowl of food, whatever we choose to eat.

In the cold and dark of this night, so close to the longest night of the year, that seems like a good thing to remember.

For now, dots. Peace. Love. Joy.

 

 

You know that old saying about not knowing what you don’t know until you know? Well, it’s been a week like that around here!

In order for me to explain, I need to remind you that I have lots of frequent flyer miles with my buddy the knee surgeon. Lots! And, while I’m blessedly better than I used to be, my left knee has the occasional hissy fit and buckles, randomly, which results in my falling down.

Falling down is not on the approved list of activities when you’ve had knee surgery as many times as I have.

(Neither, for that matter, is spending  big chunk of a week on the floor at the vet’s office, but Phoebe’s feeling better so we’re just going to overlook that!)

All of which means that, the vast majority of the time, I use a walking stick. One of the snazzy looking ones that implies that I might be headed off for a hike up Stone Mountain. (Not!) The cool thing about it is that it’s completely height adjustable. It’s also a fun toy for my girls.

One of the things the walking stick means, though, is that my right hand is engaged in walking and standing.

And one of the things that means is that I’m addicted to pockets. Preferably pockets in denim vests and jackets which have lots and you can wash them to get out the inevitable crumbs of dog treats.

So here’s what I learned that I didn’t know I didn’t know.

If one happens to live in a place where it is currently cold and needs to go to an event where the mythic denim vest might be rather too casual and, oh, by the way, has suddenly developed the need to schlep really cool new business cards and art books and sketch pads, along with the basic necessities like phone, keys, and lip gloss, and still be able to walk and shake hands, there is an opportunity for problem-solving!

Oh, one more thing… the short black boots with the pink faux fur, complicate things just a bit more.

The good news is that I got some things sorted out in my closet and found a couple of great paint shirts that had somehow managed to escape notice for a while.

Clearly, I needed a cross body style bag that worked with black, pink, and all my more usual, artsy sorts of choices.

Not too much money.

Just the right size.

And not likely to show an occasional paint spatter.

Oh, and I needed it now.

Much research ensued. Art stores. Office stores. You name it, I cyber hunted there. All in the midst of setting up my very own space at FineArtAmerica, where reproductions of some of my work are beginning to be available for adoption.

I found the answer about 5:30 yesterday morning.

I seriously considered swearing Bill to secrecy and never telling anyone. And then I decided that life changes and change means challenge and we’re pretty much all in this together, so here goes:

I bought a diaper bag!

Light weight. Accessible pockets. Fabulous (washable) fabric. And exactly the right size.

I even love the symbolism in the print.

It’s due to show up by the time you read this.

And, yes, I’ll post a picture.

But, for today, some symbolism that also matters very much to me. Every chance I get!

 

Well, first let me say that acrylic paint is, quite possibly, a more forgiving creative medium than gluten-free pie crust.

Or, maybe, the whole pie crust thing will just take a bit more practice before it becomes one of Grammy’s super powers!

In any event, we had great times in the kitchen and in the basement turned art studio.

Our theme was Super Power Self-Portraits.

Big Scary Glazes were conquered by all!

Kitty Max, the resident Studio Angel showed up to help.

And we have two new generations of enthusiastic experts in the fine art of prayer dots. We made dots for the victims of the fires in California. And dots for a little girl living with leukemia. And dots for people who have lost beloved pets.

We made dots for people who don’t have enough to eat. And silent, personal dots. And dots for a soccer tournament. We also made dots for a few things that, given our proximity to Washington, D.C., should probably remain nameless.

I made dots for the wonder of super-girls rapidly turning into thoughtful young women, embracing new ways of expressing themselves and being part of the world community.

And, perhaps, just a couple of dots for sleep!

And, best of all, we did it together, which is a very Thanksgiving way to be, even if the pies needed a bit of work. (Though the cioppino and mashed potatoes were  really big hits!)

Who knows where we’ll be next year, or what we’ll paint in the meantime. Until then, I have a word.

Gratitude.

Stay tuned… lots more info to follow.

For tonight, blessings. From all of us to all of you.

 

Somewhere in my family tree, on my dad’s side of the family, there was a guy named Steven. Or Stephen.

Maybe a first name. Maybe a last name.

There may have been lots of them. Like Stephens.

Sadly, there really isn’t anyone left to ask, though Gramma Elsie would have been the expert.

What I do know is that he/they had unusual feet.

“Steven’s/Stephen’s feet and ankles”, to be exact.

I could tell from an early age that possessing the infamous feet and ankles was not a particularly positive family trait.

Flat feet, apparently. And wobbly, kind of crooked ankles.

I think I won the prize.

Once, I told one of my nursing instructors, way back in the days of white shoe polish, that I was becoming a nurse because I could wear comfortable shoes.

It wasn’t long afterwards that I decided I had a definite preference for no shoes at all.

I never wear shoes in the house, despite the frequent bruises on the tops of my feet when the dogs stand on me.

I didn’t wear shoes in my office when I had one.

I got married in a boring pair of ivory colored pumps with 3/4 inch heels and took them off during the reception, which might have been a better look if I’d also given up panty hose at that point.

I’m just really not a shoe kind of person.

Except for the ones that call to me! (A tendency I may also have inherited from my dad!)

Today, a new pair called to me. Or, rather, a new pair followed me home.

You see, today, I scheduled my second post-graduation Intentional Creativity workshop!

Neither of them will be at my house, where I can get away with bare feet.

We’re talking hours of standing on concrete floors in something that is, first, comfortable. And second, something that will tolerate inevitable paint splatters.

(Shiloh, if you’re listening, please forgive me. My feet are just not the hot pink sequined cowgirl boot type!)

I had a plan.

Plain, neutral black running shoes of the same brand I already love. I figured the paint would just enhance them.

Of course, my favorite Big Peach store didn’t have them in black and my feet, apparently, don’t like the new and “improved” ones nearly as well as last year’s way better ones.

The young woman helping me was perplexed. I am clearly not a runner so why, I could hear her thinking, was I so picky about shoes.

Well, it’s not really me who’s picky. It’s my feet. And we made a deal, years ago, that my feet get to choose shoes.

You, however, are a clever reader, and we’ve talked about shoes before. And I do, indeed, have new shoes.

Art shoes.

Not at all plain. Also not likely to care about a paint splatter or two. Definitely feet-approved.

And quite likely to be granddaughter approved!

Plus, they go with my red thread bracelets. And, probably, my funky socks. Which is just as well, because it’s cold!

I have many things to be thankful for in this moment, including you!

And a suitcase to pack.

Wednesday, a special report from Grammy-land!