Grandmothers – Page 79

Wandering in the Wayback Machine!

Posted on October 10, 2018by sue boardman

Do you remember the Michael J. Fox film, Back to the Future?

I am there!

Lost in the vast living, breathing past of so many centuries of history, a sensation somewhat uncommon for many North Americans.

Seeing with eyes and heart and hands the gracious communion of this tiny sliver of the present moment.

It is not the present of all people, surely, for there is much more present going on in the world.

And yet, it is just as true, for it is mine and I am here.

It is also, in some quantum way, the future which is being created in ways I, and we, cannot yet comprehend.

Let me tell you a story.

Yesterday, I stood with my sisters in this journey, on the steps of the ancient church of Santa Maria Novella in Firenze, Italy surrounded by a great many beings having wholly other experiences.

For a brief moment, we stood in the sunlight and gawked at the sculpture and architecture and beauty around us.

Then, we leaped a bit further out of our comfort zones — well, I suspect I wasn’t the only one leaping — and, led by a gifted teacher with a frame drum, we sang Psalm 150, there at the entrance to the basilica.

Actually, we chanted the Psalm in Hebrew. Out loud. In public.

(And yes, those of you who’ve known me since our seminary days, may gasp in surprise that I, of the Hebrew learning challenges, might tell such a story. Turns out Hebrew is easier to sing than to read!)

I would imagine that people stared but I do not know for sure for I simply sang.

(More gasping in surprise permitted…)

The confluence of histories and cultures and belief systems and personal journeys was stunning.

And in ways too soon to know, the future has already been changed for — and here I will speak only for myself — I have been changed.

I have a great deal of hope, though. You see, one of those standing with us was a mighty woman-growing on the day of her ninth birthday, reminding us what it is to view the world with wide eyes and endless curiosity.

Eventually, of course, the time for singing ended and we went on to witness wonders like Botticelli frescoes and one of those ancient miracles of marking time that involve a tiny hole in a rose window and a line of gold ever so precisely inlaid in a marble floor. And, perhaps my favorite, the garden in which Michelangelo’s David was carved, for that is another story I know.

Then, too, the obligatory visit to the gift shop and an admittedly rather surprising encounter with a gender-fluid toilette in so ancient a place.

It’s been a long time since I watched Back to the Future. Or Pleasantville, for that matter.

Oddly, perhaps, in this moment, they’ve both become part of my story, too. And our story, if we’re listening.

Let everything that breathes, sing praise!

Art Journey Contemplations Grandmothers

Being Fed

Posted on October 7, 2018by sue boardman

About two weeks ago, a miracle came into my life, suddenly, as miracles often do.

I was offered an opportunity to join a group of Intentional Creativity sisters, none of whom I’d ever met in person, on a retreat to Florence, Italy. (Or, Firenza, if you prefer, which means City of Flowers.)

There was much hustling and bustling at our house, and a considerable amount of counting on fingers and toes, to make this whole adventure possible.

An adventure known as a “retreat” designed for encountering the wisdom of the Holy Mother.

We are painting, of course. Or we will be on Saturday, having seen some of the stunning spiritual, artistic, and cultural sites of Florence on Friday, and walked through the amazing city enough for my knees to not-so-gently remind me that I might be pushing my luck just a bit.

There was a great deal of soul-feeding going on.

There has also been a bit of body-feeding going on, which, when done really well, is soul-feeding as well.

First, let me admit that virtually my entire grasp of the French and Italian languages comes from watching Food Network. (Which is totally inadequate in airports!) Fortunately, we are blessed with the super-historian and magnificent Chef Jonathan McCloud among us!

We have, it seems, arrived in one of the local food capitols of the world. Balsamic vinegar, olives, wines, stunning black tomatoes, fabulous bitter greens. Local cheeses and olive oil practically flowing from the fountains.

And, perhaps most amazingly of all for one who has been largely grain free for a couple of years, pasta.

Well, duh! I mean, we’re in Italy.

This, however, is no big box store, back-home pasta. According to Jonathan, it is made silky and delicate, from locally grown wheat which is naturally low in gluten (gluten not being a major structural necessity for pasta as it is, say, bread) and grown as it has been through the centuries without genetic modifying and chemical this and that to keep it from spoiling.

You don’t have to keep it from spoiling when you make it and serve it the same day!

Last night, handmade tagliatelle, simply dressed with local fennel and onions, a smidge of crushed pistachio nuts and divine olive oil, beside an abundance of green salad blessed with local balsamic vinegar, all with the slightest tang of real, local, raw milk cheese.

And as we ate, we told stories. Stories of our first recollections of The Holy Mother. Stories which, in their wild diversity, brought us closer into community, as good stories and good food have always done.

Despite some technical challenges, I’ll have more stories and more images, I’m sure.

For this moment let me say that I completely get that most of you, for a great many postmodern, first world reasons, will not be whipping up some homemade pasta for dinner tonight.

I do believe, though, that it matters deeply for us to know both our food traditions and our stories and our images. To touch the spiritual base of all our peoples when we can.

Not legalistically. Not to prove, as Shiloh Sophia would remind us, that we are believers (or grandmothers!) enough.

But to be fed, deeply and cosmically, of who we are so that we might more intentionally choose what makes us whole and share it with the ones we love.

With blessings, and just a spot of stove envy, from Italia!

Art Journey Contemplations Grandmothers

Purple Trees and Rescue Newfies

Posted on October 3, 2018by sue boardman

When Dave was in pre-school and kindergarten he used to get fussed at a lot. It seemed he wasn’t making his trees right.

The shape was fine, but the tops of the trees were invariably purple instead of green.

We had lots of conversations about this.

I assured my budding artist that his trees were fabulous just the way they were and that he could make trees any color he wanted to, at home.

Academic that I’ve been for years, I tried to explain that his teacher was, oddly enough, more into following directions than she was into the trees themselves.

Therefore, I proposed, we’d make trees any way we liked them at home but, at school, we’d humor the teacher and make green trees.

This was not as effective a strategy as I had hoped. My normally agreeable son continued to make purple trees.

I continued to joust with the teachers.

A couple of years later, in a follow-up eye exam, it was determined that Dave was colorblind in a lot of mid-range tones. He couldn’t tell green from purple.

I felt terrible!

It’s kind of been a day like that around here.

You see, today was Luther’s ophthalmology appointment.

He’s been with us for about 18 months now and it’s been clear from the beginning that he didn’t see too well. Lately I noticed that either his sight was decreasing or I just knew him well enough to realize he didn’t see as well as I thought.

In the beginning, he was terribly anxious and afraid of, well, everything.

We’ve worked hard. He’s now a friendly guy who radiates good will in the world unless his security sisters are far away. He’s a really great dog.

We practiced for this appointment. Holding his head. Saline eye drops just to get used to the idea. Lots and lots of treats.

Getting in the car was our first challenge as he needed a good bit of a boost. Then we got lost. Eventually, we triumphed and arrived at the specialty vet.

He was very brave, all things considered. Blessedly, we were able to get a good exam without him having a come-apart.

As the old story goes, we don’t know whether it was good news or bad news.

According to the vet, “we suspect that he is completely blind.”

I both was and wasn’t ready for that.

We’ll set aside for the moment the fact this this is almost assuredly the result of bad breeding and criminally negligent puppy mill owners.

Mostly, I’m blown away by this big guy who is finding his way in the world with his nose and ears and muscle memory!

And, it seems that I have been promoted from transitional object to seeing eye person.

Frankly, I’m a bit overwhelmed.

Here’s what I do know:

He’s making it so far.
I absolutely do not want to limit him by assuming what he can or can’t do.
There’s more learning for us all to do.

Tomorrow, he and the girls are off to their happy place at Camp for I am on the way to Italy with paintbrushes and a drum.

My usual 10 pound batch of directions for the counselors will need a bit of editing but I’ve been working on that most of the day.

He’s going to be great. So are Sarah and Phoebe.

I may be a bit of a mess, but I’m blessed with a world-class batch of dog aunties even when I’m out of cell phone range. And the Legendary Husband in town to deliver extra food!

As the prophet, Steve Glenn, would remind us, if I want him to be capable and happy, I’ve got to suck it up and let him.

Luther doesn’t draw trees so much as he pees on them but however he does it is just fine with me!

Contemplations Grandmothers

A Tale of Three Women (Well, Four) And a Kid

Posted on September 30, 2018by sue boardman

On Tuesday morning, I listened to a recording from my wise and dedicated friends at Sounds True. They’re in the midst of their 2018 online event called Waking Up In the World.

There are many powerful thinkers and speakers in the group. The one I most wanted to hear was on the schedule for Monday evening but I was up to my eyebrows in paint and laundry and dinner and I missed it.

Fortunately, each recording is available, free, for 24 hours and so, early Tuesday, I was plugged in, over a cup of green tea with jasmine and a hint of citrus. I had no idea, when I curled up in one of my magic chairs that make everything hurt less, how much I was going to need the words, the cadences, the heart, of Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes.

She began, as she usually does, with a variation on the invocation that lives deep inside me: “Welcome to the fire of the Dangerous Old Woman… Tribe of the sacred heart… many of us scar clan. Still standing. Still dancing.”

And then she went on to her particular topic of “Still sowing the seeds of new life.”

A Jungian analyst, post traumatic stress specialist, and Contadora — keeper of the old stories — Dr. E. wandered her way through a personal and riveting view of history until she arrived at this time and claimed, as she has been known to do, that “we were created for such a time as this.”

Familiar comfort and gentle nudging in my world, for a regular week.

This has not exactly been one of those.

A bit later on Tuesday the news came that a dear cousin and friend was gravely ill following a cardiac arrest and there was concern about likely brain injury.

East Coast and Midwest family members have been making their way West. There have been painful, tragic decisions to be made.

Early this morning, she passed from this world into the next. We are deeply grateful for all your prayers and concern.

And, while this story is a family thing, it’s a story so many families I know are living in this moment.

In the same way, the hashtag #BelieveSurvivors, sprouting all over social media, is a symbol for a personal story so many of us have experienced that it seems the only thing to do is to make it a national story as well. Or, rather, a human, global story.

Non-consensual sexual impropriety is a misuse of power. Period.

And I would go so far as to claim that affirming — or even overlooking — that misuse of power is to participate willingly in its tragic impact on all the generations to follow.

Dr. Estes, who is a great deal like my Gramma Elsie was, would remind all of us that the enormous misuse of power being enacted on Capitol Hill in the US is exactly such a time for which we were created.

So what do we do?

What do we do in our families and in a nation that is a major player on the world stage, whether it is our own or not?

Well, to borrow a metaphor from one of the wisest elders I know, we sort the seeds, which, in many parts of the world is called voting.

And, with apologies for not having the exact quotes, we plant and tend and support. You’ll know what that means in your world.

And we tell the stories — and paint the images — of the strong, vibrant, life-giving women in our families… the mortal and the spiritual and the legendary.

And we look for opportunities presented to us by second graders named Luke who are collecting donated toys and books and art supplies for families of pre-school and elementary aged refugee children in whatever hood we call home.

And, perhaps most importantly of all… we tell our peeps we love them. Whoever they are and however far away.

Because this is how change happens.

Here’s to you, dear Chris. And to Dr. Christine Blasey Ford. And to Dr. Estes. And to Gramma Elsie. And to all the fiercely compassionate women who stand up and sow seeds to make the world a better place. And to kids like Luke.

l’chaim. To life, for us all. Still dancing.

(The art is a snipet from my SoulFire painting. Color of Women 2018)

Art Journey Contemplations Grandmothers

The Difficult C-word!

Posted on September 26, 2018by sue boardman

I’ve been pondering change, lately.

Well, pretty much forever.

I grew up in Florida. During my senior year in high school, our advanced biology class was given the task of setting up, balancing, and maintaining a salt-water aquarium for the school year. No filters or heaters or lights. Just whatever you and your partner could haul home from the beach, along with 20 gallons of seawater and a little fish food.

Gathering was fun.

Setting up was fun. Like underwater interior decorating, with just the right shells and rocks.

Balancing and maintaining were more of a challenge. The fish were all gorgeous until one of them got just a little bigger and started eating all his friends. When it was dark and chilly all through Christmas vacation, some sad sights awaited us when we returned.

Along the way we flushed a lot of dead fish. And made lots of trips to the beach for more suitable companions. More oxygenating weeds. Shells without things dying in them.

Some of my classmates decided to take a C at the end of the semester and quit worrying about it. My partner and I hung in there.

I’m glad we did. I didn’t know it then, but what I was learning was that one little change in any system affects everyone and everything. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that 20-gallon system through the years. Usually when things are changing.

Things have changed a lot in the last year while I’ve been engaged in the journey known as Color of Woman. It’s been amazing. Also hard.

Change is always stressful. Even if it’s the most longed for of changes. It’s always stressful.

My friend, Henry Close, who was trained in Ericksonian Hypnotherapy by Milton Erickson, explains that, before we can change something, we first have to love it. Not hearts and flowers love, necessarily. Just a tiny crack of openness to the possibility that there are huge, often unconscious, things that hold us all back from real relatedness, and yet are, in their own way, trying to help us.

If you’re anything like me, it’s a pretty big challenge. You go ahead and name the folks on your list. Unless they were clinical sociopaths, suggests British psychologist, Donald Winnacott, they were probably doing the best they could, however inadequate or misguided it was. Experimenting with this idea still doesn’t mean that their behavior was acceptable. Or that people weren’t badly hurt. It’s ok if it takes a while.

Now, for the big leap!

The same is true for ourselves. Decisions that turned out badly. Temper tantrums we might have been better off without. Stretch marks. Fear. Nightmares. Anger. Hair we’ve always hated. Opportunities passed by. Self-esteem issues. Actions that haunt us still. We were, in all likelihood, doing the best we could.

Accept yourself, your journey, your body, your dreams. Intentional Creativity is one powerful way to experience that kind of acceptance.

The very best thing we can do for our families is to begin to love the things we hope to change or move past in ourselves for the survival strategies they once were. Like my fishy friends, all those years ago, as we change, everything in the system will change. Eventually for the better.

Excerpted from my book, Grandmothers Are In Charge Of Hope

The art is is a bit of the portrait of my underwater Muse, 2018.

Art Journey Contemplations Garden Grandmothers

House of the Heart

Posted on September 23, 2018by sue boardman

When I was growing up, we moved a lot.

Minnesota, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Missouri, Illinois, Florida.

All by the time I was almost 11 years old. Often more than one house per state.

I remember getting out of school one day in first grade and walking into a neighbor’s house, thinking I was home.

Then only thing I really believed about home was that it was temporary. I was never sure I fit in.

Oh, that, and the fact that my dad would always plant tomatoes. I’m pretty sure it’s genetic!

Growing tomatoes has been a bit more of a challenge in a 21st Century, Metro Atlanta suburb than I remember it being when I was a kid.

The sun is in my front yard. My back yard is difficult to access for one with my history of knee and back issues.

When I put raised beds out front — also known to some of you as horse troughs with holes drilled in the bottoms — the city administration informed me that I had “un-permitted lawn ornaments.”

We had some accessibility conversations and decided that the world would not come to a screeching halt if I grew veg in the front yard.

I didn’t actually plant tomatoes this year. The little guys in the picture are the last of the volunteers, triumphing in their own tiny way over heat and lack of water, and even over squirrels. They are, somehow, still home.

Thirteen years ago, my dad walked on to the new home where we couldn’t follow. I like to think that, if Heaven is remotely what it’s cracked up to be, there must be Liars’ Poker. And tomato plants.

These are for you, Great Grampie Harry.

I’ll try to plant some for real next year. But first collard greens.

And more Intentional Creativity home-work.

Art Journey Contemplations Grandmothers

Intentionality and Grace

Posted on September 20, 2018by sue boardman

Normally, when I show you food from my kitchen, it’s all nicely lit and carefully plated and, on good days, garnished with a bit of flair and garden herbs.

Tonight is a bit different. You see, what’s on the plate you’re seeing is, in many senses, garbage.

(Don’t run off… it gets better!)

This particular plate of crab shells, also known to many as the smelly part you throw away, started this morning with one of my trips to the Farmers Market for a bit of intentional walking and shopping.

Except that, really, it started in an Intentional Creativity workshop yesterday, with a question I didn’t quite answer well enough.

We were talking about the notion of intentionality. In art. In eating. In shopping. One woman asked something to the effect of how things could be free and healing and perhaps even fun, if they were also “intentional,” which I realized later carried overtones of “externally expected” for her.

We talked about choosing things intentionally, in a positive sense, but there was still a piece of the puzzle missing. One I didn’t have a conscious connection to in just that moment.

If you’ll hang in there with me, I’ll get to the connection. I promise. But first, grocery shopping.

I went to the market primarily hoping for figs. I have an old friend and art sister coming for brunch tomorrow and my favorite frittata recipe was just calling out for a side of organic Black Mission figs, macerated in really good balsamic vinegar.

So, about 10:00 on this hot, humid morning, I tied on my seriously groovy walking shoes, gathered my various leaving-the-house essentials and headed out for a bit of baby waving along with some hunting and gathering.

An Arab woman, veiled in black, offered me her grocery cart in the parking lot when I waved at her charming baby.

It was blessedly chilly inside and I spotted gorgeous organic figs right away. I scooped them up first. Then, a few tiny organic mushrooms, some baby arugula, and some miscellaneous bits and pieces for the raw fed dogs who will reappear from Camp tomorrow and sleep like rocks until dinner time.

I needed dinner, too.

I also needed a bit of celebration.

You see, on Monday I finished the biggest of the big Intentional Creativity workshops for my Color of Woman graduation. The last required one is all planned for Friday. (The rest are the kind of play that our souls do when we set them free.)

And, I’m leaving for Italy in a few weeks to paint with my teacher and my art sisters, eat some fabulous food and wander in the presence of the Holy Mother.

So, I found myself drifting in the direction of crab claws, as is my habit when celebration is in order.

About a pound of Alaskan King crab legs, and a big bag of ice wound up in my cart and I made my way home.

Here’s where the intentionality part comes in.

Crab legs are, to be sure, an abundance sort of choice and I believe in living in a mindset of abundance rather than scarcity. I also believe in stretching the abundance as far as it will go.

It is, finally, about living in integrity with my values.

Among other things, I value rejoicing. And enjoying fabulous, natural food with a sense of respect and gratitude. And investing my financial resources rather than just spending them.

So, the crab shells in the picture above are already in my freezer, ready to become broth that will turn into 4 or 5 more dinners at our house.

(The Instant Pot helps a lot!)

No finger shaking or shaming or blaming involved.

I so deeply want to help my girls know this.

Just a bit of celebration and a powerful boost to the things I value.

Food can be creativity, too. And I’m being intentional.

Tomorrow, more paint!