Category: Grandmothers

Yesterday, I did my first artist market.

The night before, I had a dream.

I am back in the village of Szentredre, Hungary. It is, as it was in January of 1989, cold and gray. I am sitting on the floor in this little place known for its artist markets, pawing gently through bin after bin of tiny, hand-built clay creche figurines of Mary and Joseph, the magi, a gentle cow, a shepherd with a tiny sheep and a Puli dog, which I recognize immediately as an Hungarian herding breed, not usually seen in manger scenes! I’m thrilled. 

My fellow seminary students and our dear professor, Charlie, are at least pretending patience as I search for the particular figures wanting to follow me home. I am fascinated by the variations in their expressions and the attention to minute detail. I am overwhelmed by the artistry. 

It doesn’t really take Carl Jung to figure out why this dream appeared when it did. I was about to take deeply personal, powerful images, magically configured into holiday cards and small paintings, along with some copies of my book, Grandmothers Are In Charge Of Hope, and a vintage linen table cloth, and put them out in a public place, filled with people I don’t know, and allow them to be chosen or not.

I had become the artist.

It went well.  I answered a lot of questions about Intentional Creativity. I passed out a lot of information and told people about my workshop in January. Lots of my work and a few bits of red thread followed people home, after a couple of lessons from a kind friend on how to use the square thing for credit cards.

Some of my work stayed over night in case today might bring more shoppers.

I made some new friends. And shared some good food.

I schlepped my own boxes. And survived standing on concrete for the better part of six hours.

All of which was a challenge for my knees. It was a pretty big thing for me.

Today, more light in the studio. And more space for people to paint with me.

And huge gratitude.

I have become the artist. Well, one of them.

And, after Bill gets back from Kroger, the angel who also belongs in the photo will have her head glued back on and be sheltering us all under her wings once again.

If you’d like to see more of my work, I’ve added lots to FineArtAmerica. Just click this link and then click any image that intrigues you to find out what’s available. I’m loving the wood options! And, with thanks to my market friends at Vista Yoga, there are even a couple of yoga mats available!

It is, in some ways, a long way from Szentredre. And, in other ways, it’s the truth that has always come from creation.

 

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!