REDONDOWRITER'S SACRED ORDINARY

An Artist I Didn't Even Know Pays It Forward

"Let each man exercise the art he knows." -- Aristophanes (450 BC-388 BC), Wasps, 422 B.C. 

When I was in Denver a week ago, a woman artist I don't know named Cris on a Yahoo list I belong to, Art Gang L.A., offered her art studio shelving for free—just for  pick-up. She warned it was large, but I wanted it so badly. 

She and her husband are moving to Maui on July 1. I e-mailed immediately when I saw this photo she posted. My own computer room/studio in a spare bedroom, is messy, and very disorganized, though I guess that’s a hallmark of all these kinds of work rooms. (Sorry for type discrepancies; I'm using a beta version of Typepad.) I assumed I was the 18^th or so person when I e-mailed her and she would politely say thanks, but it’s too late. But, I’ll be darned, I was the first—and Cris, as it turns out, lives only a few blocks from me. She was willing to wait for pick-up until this past Monday when I got home. I spent most of Monday morning shagging back and forth in my little Honda Civic until I got everything either in my garage or in my patio. Her handy man with a truck helped with the last load. It was a hot day and I was absolutely exhausted after all that unaccustomed labor, so didn’t do anything until Thursday. The patio stuff only had to go up one flight; all the stuff in the garage had to be shagged up two flights of stairs.

The top of the unit looks like it might be an old door and Cris even gave me a can of paint to refinish it with. I set up a sanding and painting station in the patio yesterday and the very heavy top is now awaiting “someone” to come help me drag it upstairs tomorrow. Have I ever told you that I love to sand things with an electric sander? The painting I'm not so keen on. Rustoleum paint sure is the pits to clean up, however. But the top looks great!

After church today I measured everything out and began moving or getting rid of stuff so I could get all the shelving in. That took several hours, but every time I got really tired, I’d lay down with a book and managed to squeeze in a one hour nap, too. I actually like to move things around; it makes me feel virtuous.

I have my hundreds of rubber stamps moved in to the shelving, and I’ve moved a bookcase to make more room, and I’ve rearranged my computer equipment. I’m several hours away from actually having everything ready to go, but I am so excited to fine tune “my studio” and computer room. I’ve long been a writer and claim that title easily. But, me, an artist? Who would have thunk?  Loretta at Pomegranates and Paper says I am, and when I read her articles in Cloth, Paper, Scissors, I actually believe her. 

This great act of generosity on Cris’s part is a good example of the power of listservs, and for manifesting something I had only dreamed of. Now, the stuff I’m getting rid of will go on Freecycle.org. Have you used it yet? Pictures will come later when I’m all moved in. Christmas or my next birthday will not be able to top the gift that Cris gave me, a total stranger. Any recent examples of paying it forward you can share here at Sacred Ordinary? 

What are little boys made of?

This afternoon I went to play with my 3 1/2 year-old grandson Fritz while his mom took Henry, his brother, for his ice skating lesson. This is Fritz. We were busy together for about 2 1/2 hours first playing throw the newspapers in the air, then having a photography session, and finally switching to a major building project with his pieces to Plan City. When I am with one of the boys one-on-one, tears and anger are rare. But, competitiveness rears its ugly head sometimes when they are together.

But, then Henry, 5,  came home and at first there was competition over Fritz's Plan City. I asked Henry if he'd like to play alone with me for a while in his room and he said yes. He decided to get out his Legos and build an angler fish which his mom came and helped with. I have crappy spatial ability. By then my son had come home and he became the observer of Fritz's Plan City project. 

Having raised both boys and girls, I am always amazed at little boys--or at least all the little boys in my own family. They are so doggoned active, mischievious, and natural-born builders. In the 1970s, when the feminist movement was active and I began to have my consciousness raised, I bought into androgyny--thinking if we just raised kids with exactly the same values et al, boys and girls would be more alike than different. Damn, was I wrong!  

What are Little Boys Made Of? 

What are little boys made of?

Snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails

That's what little boys are made of !"

What are little girls made of?

Sugar and spice and all things nice

That's what little girls are made of.

At Rhymes/UK it is reported that the origin of the "What are little boys made of" poem can be traced to the early 19th century - the battle of the sexes was raging even then! The words of "What are little boys made of" obviously reflect this, but what is the meaning of 'snips and snails'? Several interpretations have been suggested but the one with the most credibility is that the original words were in fact 'snips of snails' - the origin of snips meaning 'little bits of'. No redemption there for describing what little boys are made of'! 

Let's hear it for grandkids--boys and girls. What a lucky grandma I am.

Our Amazing Bodies Sometimes Say, Stop in the Name of Love

Since I have been home from Denver, I haven’t felt great, although I’m not sick either. Unfortunately, on Tuesday and again today, I’ve had prolonged anxiety attacks upon awaking that last for several hours. Panic disorder is something I have lived with all my life, but in the last years it rarely strikes this severely so it has taken me by surprise. 

I was probably over-stimulated at last week’s conference, didn’t get enough sleep, and was constantly with people, often in large crowds. I require private time every day that I usually spend reading, writing, doing art or napping. Being with people non-stop has become very emotionally draining. And here I am off for the summer and though I have projects, nothing is bearing down on me uncomfortably. "Why now", I ask myself? Why not when I’m under heavy-duty stress? Inner wisdom replies, “Why not? I've gotten your attention, haven't I?” 

So, to my great surprise, at noon today I went back to bed to read and write, but mostly I slept until 4:30 p.m. when a phone call awoke me. Right now I'm feeling just like my old self. 

Tonight I’ve continued organizing and setting up a major sanding and refinishing job on the patio tomorrow and I’ve prioritized some things I need to get done. Sometimes, when I have too many projects I want to accomplish but I haven't prioritized them, I end up squandering time. Sound familiar? After all, I am a human doing and when my time is too unstructured, sometimes my psyche reacts negatively. So, here’s my little handwritten journal table and I’m about to write for however long it takes tonight to feel comfortable.

Handwriting in a journal and allowing myself to really feel feelings is always healing to me--and I do have time to do that right now. 

What are your signs that tell you just to retreat for a while?

Me Draw My Baby: Zachary, Age 2

Those of you who read here regularly know that my sixth grandchild, and fifth grandson, is due any day now. This is two-year-old Zachary after creating "Me Draw My Baby" at his art station. 

My daughter-in-law Laura at her blog Lake Dawn says that Zach is dealing with the pregnancy more creatively than she is at this point. Since Laura was down flat on bed rest the last three months, we are delighted that Arlo has gone to term.

Yes, you heard right--Arlo. She tells about how they came to choose this name and my son Joe apparently saw Arlo Guthrie in concert years ago and loved this name. Arlo. Say it over and over and it becomes rather dear, don't you think? You can check out Laura's blog for details and to listen to Arlo Guthrie singing Alice's Restaurant. 

Home Safe, Sound and Ready to Write

Last night my grandson picked me up at the airport and I began the “coming home” routine after six days in Denver. It was great to see my grandson, but damn, I was ecstatic to see Cookie. Colorado’s weather was wonderful, but the California weather at the beach where I live is absolutely spectacular, too. My own home is like resort living. I loved the conference and learned so much, but it was so good to be home, shower in my shower, sleep in my bed, and follow my regular routine all day today.

The journal conference was astounding, beyond all expectations I had, and the good news is that Kay Adams of the Center for Journal Therapy is planning another in 2010 in Denver. I can’t recommend the experience enough so as soon as Kay confirms dates tentatively, I’ll keep you posted.  

This is a photo of Kay Adams (right) and Linda Hendrick, both long-time friends as well as writing companions. Kay is the one who created the conference and made it happen.

I can’t begin to assimilate all my experiences yet, but I took exceptional experiential workshops, spent a lot of time with my Collective Journey online community, ate too much, too frequently, and didn't sleep as much as I do at home. But, heck, an experience like this one doesn't come around that often in life. But, I did write a lot in my journal and loved dropping by the 24 hour art room filled with supplies. The positive energy of the presenters and the participants felt like it could blow the windows out of the Sheraton Denver West. Our Collective Journey panel about writing online in community for 10 plus years also went very well and I'll post some about it later in the week.

I have long used the books of Christina Baldwin of Peer Spirit and her keynote address, which focused largely on her Story Catcher Network, was grist for my mill for months to come. Christina uses the circle method in groups and you can download the guidelines at no charge at her and Anne Linnea’s website at Peer Spirit. Try her following words on for size:

Story is the voice of humanity.

We see the world through the story we carry about the world.

Story can move us to love or hate through the power of words alone.

To create the world we want, we need to tell the stories that make that world possible.

To make peace, to make love, to make possible—all things start in story.

Tonight I go to bed after a full day of activity including facilitating a journal group tonight. Gratitude is the word on my lips--and handwritten on my journal page tonight. 

 

 

On a Jet Plane Winging My Way to Denver

As I write this, I am tagging it to post tomorrow morning. I won't be here because I'll be in the air on the way to Denver for Kay Adams "The Power of Writing: Journal Conference 2008". This conference is shaping up to be a block buster for those of us who write, who keep and teach journal writing or write books about it, memoir writing, spiritual autobiography and those in the therapeutic world who use writing as a tool for healing. If this conference turns out to be the success it is predicted to be, it will hopefully become a yearly event. As soon as I know, I'll let you know because I'm hoping that some of you who wanted to attend but couldn't this year might be available next year if we give you a heads-up early enough.

For many years I have belonged to an Internet list of writers called Collective Journey and though I've met many of the 30 people over the years when I've traveled or they visited California, I haven't met them all. I'll be meeting at least six people I didn't know before, plus other people I know in Vermont and New York but haven't seen in years. The Internet is definitely a community and we are proof of that. 

_{^{A friend is picking me up at the airport tomorrow and we will attend a cocktail party that night for the faculty and Collective Journey members. I'm attending a pre-conference workshop on Wednesday called A Free-Writing Free-Fall with teacher/author Judy Reeves and with Anne Linnea in the afternoon: "}}Writing Nature's Wisdom," which is outdoors in the mountains. The opening reception is also Wednesday night. I'm feeling tired already as I write this, but I've got the rest of the summer to recover. It is very rare for me to attend long conferences these days unless they are mandated and work-related, but I just had to steel myself to attend this one. Though I'm signed up for a lot of stuff, if I'm tired, I'll just stay in my room and read. 

Thursday morning the keynote address will be given by Christina Baldwin: "Restorying the World: How Journal Writing Can Heal the Future." She is one of my favorite writing teachers. My next workshop is with Jeanne Guy, "Find Your Way Home," which uses the circle method to facilitate writing as healing. Many writing teachers use the circle method in their groups. In the afternoon my workshop is "Spiritual Biography: The Mirror of Truth by Patty Luckenbach. That night is a performance by award-winning poet Michael Blumenthal. Friday's keynote will be given by Dr. James Pennebaker: "Expressive Writing: A Researcher's Perspective." Afterwards, I am part of a three person panel of Collective Journey members talking about writing in community on the Internet. In the afternoon I'm signed up to attend "Exploring Life's Questions" with Ray McGinnis. That night is the MUSE Multimodal Creative Arts Performance. 

The conference ends Saturday at noon with Kay Adam's wonderful workshop (I've taken it before) "Writing Yourself Home" and then the closing ceremony. Since I don't leave until early evening on Sunday, that's when we'll have some down time. On Sunday morning, my cousins will pick me up at the hotel and take me to one of their homes for a brunch; I haven't seen them in about 10 years, and they will take me to the airport.

Guess what Cookie and I will be doing on Monday? Probably sleeping all day! I do know that I've reached that point in my life when I don't like to push myself too much, especially at big conferences like this. There's a few things I'd like to attend for sure, but we'll just see how it all plays out. I have set intention that this conference is going to be a ball. 

RESULTS OF AN EVENING OF ART

It has been a long time since I've put some hours into art, but that's what I did last night. My Mac Mini is doing a loooooong synch with my MacBook, so I'm minimizing computer use. To be honest, I was putting away all my art supplies because I'll be traveling beginning tomorrow and someone is coming to companion Cookie. All of a sudden I was making Artist Trading Cards (ATCs), including one in the center with the fetus welcoming my new grandson. So, at bedtime, I had six cards done and the makings for a few more. If my sync is complete by morning, I've got computer things to do. If it hasn't, I'll pack, help clean the house while the real cleaner, my dear Sonia, does the hard stuff, and hopefully finish "The Book Thief." What a compelling book. So, do any of these cards strike a chord in you? All are designed to be journal prompts.

CELEBRATING FATHERS: SOME MEMORIES

That's Allyn Francis Streur on the right and his dad on the left, Egbert (Ed) Streur taken in the 1950s in our garden in Sunland. Allyn is my dad, even though he's been gone since 1979. 

My dad was born on April 2, 1898 in Holland, Michigan, Grace's only son. Ed, my dear grandfather, was her second husband who raised my dad since he was a small boy and legally adopted him. My dad had five daughters; I was the "baby" and both sets of grandparents lived in Michigan. 

Then a very sad thing happened. Grandma Grace's mental health began to seriously deteriorate and she was institutionalized in Pine Rest Christian Psychopathic Hospital in Cutlerville. My dad drove across country during WW II when gas rationing was on to assess the circumstances and my grandma was definitely not able to be at home anymore and grandpa's health was deteriorating, too. I have a series of letters my dad wrote to my mom; he wanted to move his parents to California to live with us while the family decided what the options were. Mom was not happy; she did not get along with her mother-in-law when she was well, and grandpa required a lot of looking after. Those letters are amazing, always with a P.S. just for little me. Telephones must have been too expensive to use, or the letters were in between phone calls. My dad convinced mom that they had to take care of his parents. A nurse was hired to accompany my grandma on the train while dad drove back in his car and grandpa drove back in the most beautiful car I had ever seen: a black Chrysler. One of the things grandpa brought was his old bike, which my dad fixed up for me. 

To begin with my grandparents lived in the house with us, but grandma was too ill to be there and was hospitalized locally at Rest Haven in Tujunga until my grandpa's funds were depleted. She was moved to Camarillo State Hospital where our family visited often. By then my grandpa had purchased a small trailer and he lived in our yard and he was the last person I saw before I went to school and when I returned. In short, he became more than a grandpa; he became a trusted friend and confidante. He smoked big stogies and always had candy and cookies squirreled away. There was no TV then, but grandpa loved to listen to the radio. Grandpa died at home after a series of strokes when I was twelve. When I look back in the years he lived with us, I remember so many wonderful memories--and though I took it for granted, he was an ever-present son to his dad. I'm sure this whole chapter in our lives had to be very hard on our family. I only met my maternal grandfather, Henry Huxtable, once--when I was three. 

So, today I've taken time to write  in my journal remembering my dad and grandpa--and actually my former husband, Ray, the father of our three kids, too.  I miss you, dad and grandpa and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for raising and loving me. 

This photo is a favorite of Ray, my ex, with our son Joe when he was only a few months old. Ray is also a good dad and granddad. Our parenthood was never among the problems we experienced. Joe, you see here as a baby, has one son, Zach, two, and his second son will be born within the next few weeks. My other son Tony and his wife have two sons--Henry, five, and Fritz, 3 1/2. Lorenzo, the dad of my two eldest grandkids, Whitney and Anthony, is another dad I celebrate today. 

Artist? Garage Sale Addict? Overgrown Kid?

Or maybe all of the above? This was a super Saturday that made my heart sing. There are garage sales everywhere because the weather is good and a lot of people must be moving. After I washed Cookie this morning (see her watching on the bottom left?), I had time for only one garage sale because a tech friend was coming to help me learn how to unscrew-up my mailbox settings. For a long time I have been wanting a mannikin to display my mom's wedding dress (1916) and/or whatever I felt like. I haven't found one I could comfortably afford and this one sale advertised that a store was closing and selling off the fixtures, including mannikins? It was 10:30 a.m. before I got started and usually there is little left by that time.

But, I lucked out. The sale was tucked away in an industrial park where Ultra Betty was storing everything after she closed the store. There were five mannikins available and shown here is the one I bought for $25. She also had dozens of these half torso plastic bodies for $5 and I bought two to ultimately collage. These two really slutty bustiers were in the $1 pile and I couldn't resist them. The rubber grey torso is one I bought several months ago to collage. The rocking chair, the dog and everything else you see is also mine. The chair was my sister Donna's who died from Parkinson's complications in 1998. She sat in this chair 24 hours a day until she needed long-term care. By the way, the green loose blouse, hat and necklace are all mine. Tomorrow I'll get out mom's wedding dress--and maybe my own, for that matter. I even have my veil, but then I'll admit I save way too many things. My post from yesterday has opened up a floodgate of possibilities. 

All of a sudden Steve Martin's "Lonely Guy" flashes in my brain--all his cardboard people to keep him company. Lord, I hope this isn't happening to me. Maybe I should go back and get a few more mannikins. Damn, I'm excited about these finds. 

My friend spent four hours tweaking my two computers and they are in the process of synching to iDisk. I cannot believe how much he taught me in that time span. In regard to the earlier geek post, I am becoming more computer empowered. Who would have thunk? 

So, how did your day go? How's your weather, wherever you are, and what are you doing with spare time, if you have any? 

Late Night Thoughts After the Beauty Shop

This morning I had a marathon beauty shop appointment: coloring maintenance, some weaving, haircut, styling, and a pedicure. Being one of the frugal ones, I have learned to swallow the guilt of what it all costs. When my hair is done and I go home and take off my glasses to look in the mirror, if I squint really hard I can remember the young me. The sad part is that when I was young I didn't appreciate the way I looked. All my life I've been my own worst critic, as most American women are.

Being in the beauty shop means hours of looking at yourself in all the mirrors surrounding you--and this is shocking because all the ceiling fixtures are neon. All women should be seen in dim rose-colored light. Neon accentuates every flaw, every wrinkle. I am not a thin woman anymore but when I'm in the beauty shop I keep wondering if the mirrors are like the ones in the fun house at an amusement park. Am I really this sturdy? Top that off with the brown stinky gook on your hair and your bare feet with foam spacers and little velcro booties, and we look like aliens. I know that all the world's beautiful people and most celebrities don't look the same when they are at home in sweats versus how they look in public--or on a red carpet. 

When I tripped across the photo comparison of Paris Hilton young vs. what she'll look like when she is a senior like me, I had to grin. (Photo courtesy of a really fun site: Welcome to My Senior Website by PM Caregivers).

I am grateful that I have aged well, that I'm very active for a woman my age, and that I don't fit the stereotype our culture has of older people. But it's fun to remember wearing a size 6 black evening gown, spaghetti straps, form-fitting except for a big ruffle on the bottom, and 4 inch heels. My wedding dress, which I still have in my closet, is a size 4 with a 100 tiny buttons up the back, long tight sleeves and a full skirt with a train. I wore crinoline beneath the skirt. And I remember a lavender plaid mini dress I wore in the early '70s with boots that were just like Nancy Sinatra's when she sang "My Boots Are Made for Walking." 

Now I'm happiest wearing loose fitting clothes. My favorite at-home outfit these summer days is a black long linen skirt with a big split up the sides, oversize 100% cotton crinkly blouses, and sandals. Or I wear jeans or khakis with loose tops. 

So, what clothing memories do you have from when you were young--and what is your favorite style these days? Do you ever have flashbacks when you see yourself now versus how you remember yourself when you were young? I know it is important to accept ourselves as we are, but sometimes I fall into reverie at what was.