STORYPAINTER speaks from the studio...musings from a visual artist.

With Gratitude

2011-12-29T18:37:00.002-05:00

If anyone in cyberspace is reading this message, I will be astounded. Although I shouldn't be astounded. I stopped writing when a particularly painful and enigmatic event occurred in my life. I knew better than to pretend it didn't happen. I could feel from the deepest core of my being that there was an incredibly important message for me in that experience. But I also felt the need to protect myself. I'm just now beginning to shake off the armor of safety.

God alone knows what the message was.

I still, over a year later, haven't quite gotten my arms around it. I think sometimes, that because I can 'handle it' I am the test dummy for a lot of other people's learning opportunities. In many ways my viewpoint sounds incredibly selfish. But I know, I mean I REALLY know - it resonates so cleanly and clearly within me - that I am often here to serve as a messenger. I am not a preacher, or a minister, or a rabbi. But I frequently find myself in the position of being a conduit of powerful, revelatory information. I have lost count the number of times I have witnessed a person's face suddenly transformed with an understanding that only moments prior had been veiled by anger, negativity, or fear. Even in the weekly musings I posted via an email list in the days before blogs, I would consistently hear from readers how something I had said struck home. I could somehow verbalize their thoughts.

A weighty responsibility, this.

Because I take seriously the whispers I hear in my head, I struggle with how much is truly the spirit world, or God, or angels, or whatever concept of Kol D'mama D'ka you believe in, and how much is me, the human being, analyzing the situation and gently saying what is going on in the other person's head anyway. Too many times, though, I have been shown "proof" that I'm supposed to do or say whatever "it" is to write it off as inconsequential. Proof often comes in what humans like to label as coincidence, synchronicity or karma. Call it whatever you like. The fact is that when I follow through with doing the things that I feel I am directed to do, they lead me to some other place I never could have forseen.

It is with awe that I shake my head in wonder at the lovely lunch I had with Book Club friends and my daughter. While the conversation, food, and camaraderie was all delicious, it was being in the position of message recipient that was the most meaningful. One of the other lovely ladies mentioned her participation in the on-line writing class I have linked to in the blog title (above.) While I was unfamiliar with the class itself, I knew the premise on which the class is based from having read about it in an article. After reading the article, I thought for a few brief moments about what my word for the year might be, then let the whole idea fall to the wayside as another project in my wishful thinking/if I had more time bucket.

But today, I felt an electrifying connection to this conversation. It was incredibly strong, as if God wasn't whispering, but yelling, "LISTEN, KIDDO!!! I tried to get through to you the first time, and it didn't work. This time, will ya' pay attention please?" Yes. I am paying attention. The word is vision. It has so many critical meanings for me that I don't know where to start. I felt strongly that I needed to put this whole experience out there in e-land, however. So I am. I will write about 'vision,' I will likely paint about it. I will collage the word vision into an image related to my personal journey. I have no idea where this will lead me. I can't 'see' it from here. I am most definitely trusting that the fog of uncertainty I have been living in for far too long will lift.

I do know this. Despite the fact that I feel blind in my ability to see where I am placing my next step, I can hear whispers of encouragement. The voice is too loud to ignore.

Turning

2009-05-06T22:09:00.002-04:00

I wrote about "Aunt Louise" not too long ago. Unfortunately, shortly after my post, Aunt Louise fell ill, and has not recovered. MiShebeirachs, tears, CCU, ICU, surgeries...none of it is restoring her health. It is painful to think of her immobile, not likely to have any quality of life any time soon, if at all. She was, until very recently, a very spunky dynamo of a lady.

A big part of my heart wants the doctors to let her go. I can't imagine that she is not suffering. I have always, ALWAYS, had a very difficult time understanding the value of preserving a life if the quality of the life is almost inhumane. Aunt Louise's children want the doctors to do what they can. Torah says to always choose life. This is one area I see gray - lots of it.

In the same evening I got the latest update on Louise's condition, I also viewed photographs of the 8th graders I teach as they planted trees in Israel. What a powerful juxtaposition that was. Something about their turning over the rocky brown soil touched me. How poignant that earth plays such a critical part in both growth and burial. Of course this is intentional. It is our way to live the cycle of life. Just as the dirt no matter where you dig contains rocks, weeds, bacteria - so do our days contain tribulations, struggles, roadblocks...but also the joy that accompanies seeing new life.

Soon, Andrew will become a Bar-Mitzvah. Most days, he is not very happy about it. The thought of ascending the Bimah makes him cringe. But he knows that the process, because of his heritage, is not optional. We have discussed whether he should wait a little longer - when he might have gained more maturity about his own place and beliefs in his religion. But because he attends a day school, peer pressure is winning out. He wants to celebrate this rite of passage with his friends.

For me, and for his grandparents, it will be a bittersweet occasion. In the two short years since his sister's Bat-Mitzvah, Andrew has lost a grandparent and a great aunt - both of whom had aliyot at Rachel's simcha. Their absence, and their spirit will be felt. And time marches on.

Two of my childhood friends recently lost their fathers. "Age and stage" my friend tells me. Yes...age and stage. The curtain is just beginning to close for me...as it opens for my children.

Pause.

2009-04-22T19:43:00.004-04:00

Yes, it has been months since I last wrote. There are valid reasons (not excuses) however I do not think explaining them would be of any positive benefit. I have not had any single idea pop into my head since then, desperate to be given a voice. I often think and analyze my world - as I am driving in the car, as I am in the shower, as I lie awake at night - but my thoughts seem redundant. "I'm sure I already wrote about that," I muse. I don't go back to check, but I'm fairly certain.I still have worthy ideas pop into my head, but I'm typically not in a position to record them for later. (Unlike many Crackberry owners, the only thing I do when driving is drive. And sometimes sing.)

My first few years of writings I have actually edited, printed using a self-publisher, and bound. When I look back at them, they seem so Pollyanna, so very immature - sometimes to the point of embarassment. "I really wrote that?" I'm not chastising my proficiency in language arts. Hardly. I am amazed at how ridiculously trite some of my messages have been. I wonder if this is how they were received. I don't have much of a thick skin - it is my heart I put on the line in these writings.

So I have wondered if some of this writer's block I have had has more to do with a fear of receiving criticism than with having run out of new ideas to explore. Hard to say. I know my staunch supporters would say, "Missy, ignore what the critics say. They are wrong. Your writings are excellent, and I look forward to them." When I began writing some months ago after a lengthy hiatus, it was because of the gentle nudges from a few who gave my writing its worth. I suppose I could pretend I am writing solely for them, but the truth is that because the internet is a public domain, Big Brother really is watching, and I do have to censor everything I write. This, I am not used to.

As a creator, exploration and self-expression take on a life of their own. I have always held the belief that my art comes through me, not from me. If I have to worry about how I say what I believe, out of a fear of reprisal, then maybe blogging isn't the way to go. Should I go back to the old "Monday Message" distribution?

Most art magazines, successful artists, and gallery directors encourage artists to maintain blogs that share the birth of works of art, the creative process, and the artist's thoughts. Doing so allows the artist to provide an insight and connection to him/herself that likely never would have existed otherwise. But my situation is unique. I do not write about my art (I suppose I could, but that's not why I write.) I create visual art AND I create written compositions. Independently.

I write about theology. Philosophy. Sociology. Religion. I'm sure if some doctoral art student wanted to study my art, he or she could find a correllation between what I write and what I paint. But my writing is not a result of my painting. I haven't painted in a long while, either. My energy has been focused solely on the income-producing job, and the other non-income producing job besides art - parenting. I came to terms with the fact that I will pursue the visual art when I have large blocks of time to do so without feeling unduly stressed.

I find it incredibly intriguing that when I stopped painting frequently, I had less to say in these messages. Perhaps the two are related, and perhaps not. Something else for me to think about. If you have an interest in weighing in on the subject, please do.

Word from the wise

2009-01-04T12:40:00.003-05:00

I don't know what it is about family - perhaps the familiarity of knowing every foible and irritating habit, but I seem to tolerate non-familial relationships with more patience and acceptance. Maybe because I don't see them as often, and haven't known them as long. I don't act any differently around my own relatives, but I've noticed that I treasure my 'second family' as much as my own.

My best girlfriend and I found each other late in life, relatively speaking (no puns here.) We knew immediately, oh so many years ago, that ours would be a special relationship. Call it intuition; call it Kismet; call it insanity. The more opportunities we had to spend time together, the more it felt as if we are meant to share this life - and not occasionally. We never have enough time to spend together. We share every up and down. We make each other laugh -- hysterically - until we cry. And then we laugh some more. We have no secrets between us. And yes, our friendship has been tested by our faults more than once.

None-the-less, I have been adopted by her parents as their youngest daughter, even as my own children call her "Aunt." I've had the privilege of meeting many members of her extended family, and could successfully draw her family tree at least two generations back. One of her relatives settled on me like a fine dusting of snow that I do not want to brush off. Aunt Louise put me to the test a couple of years ago. She found a way to get me alone to ask questions to determine my allegiance, and just how much family history I knew, and was willing to admit. In short, was I really as 'delightful' as she had heard? Or, was I just another of her niece's many acquaintances who claim to be friends? I knew exactly what she was doing that night, and wanted her approval.

Maybe because I see qualities in Aunt Louise that are mirrored in her niece, I value her opinion. Especially now. As you long-time readers know, the last couple of years I have been at odds with how to satisfy my intellectual need to be challenged and utilize my abilities to increase the family income. Most of the time, all I succeeded in was frustration. The only piece of my current life puzzle that seems to fit with ease is teaching. The universe supports my being in this position. I've seen it over and over again. But I've felt that I should be able to supplement my meager paycheck with sales of art or with writing.

Every attempt...and I do mean EVERY time I try to use my creative juices to make money, I fail. I do not think it has to do with business acumen. My mother is helping in that department. She is an excellent business woman, and successful investor. Even with her advice, suggestion, and my own Aunt's support and assistance, the art career falls flat. I know some would say it is the economy. That may be true today, but also for the last 5 years? I just don't think so.

So, when I heard another gem of Aunt Louise's advice, it wafted in one ear, drifted around in my brain for a few days, and blessedly took root. Speaking to her own daughter and her niece, Aunt Louise just gave the girls a dose of what they needed to hear that night many years ago. "This is it, girls. It doesn't get any better." What she was trying to say to them is that you can dream all you want to, but when you are in a situation you don't necessarily like, forget about greener pastures. They don't exist. Make a decision about how you will approach your situation, do it, and live with the consequences, good or bad.

Aunt Louise is right. I'm not saying that we shouldn't dream at all, but pinning my economical hopes on my dreams of artistic success has caused me more grief than happiness. As for the quote by Theodore Herzl on my studio wall, "If you will it, it is not a dream," apparently it does not apply to everyone. I've been trying to will this dream into reality so hard that my cynicism has affected my ability to produce.
The fact is, for whatever reason, this is simply not the time for my work to be a commercial success -- in any market. My homelife and worklife are all I have energy for. It has to be enough. In the times when I can produce, I will. But I choose to believe that what I'm doing now, as difficult as it is financially, must be all I can do.

It was a relief to give up the fight, I must admit. A woman can only run into so many brick walls before crumbling. So, until such time that I am able to find my niche in the market, I will not keep losing sleep over what is NOT my sole responsibility. To be honest, I don't know how this attitude change (paradigm shift) will impact me beyond tomorrow, and I don't really care. Every person on earth is wounded in some way, most of us in more than one. Everyone is fighting the battle to live a life of good health, happiness and prosperity. We win some, we lose some. But for each day, as it is, "this is as good as it gets." Accept it, and be grateful.

The ole switcheroo

2008-12-28T22:35:00.003-05:00

Please scroll down to the post dated 12/1. Although it is dated prior to the last post,it is the most recently completed. Happy New Year! May it be a good one for all.
Please pray for peace.

Santa Kind of Day

2008-12-09T16:15:00.004-05:00

I recently received a very funny story via email chronicling the tradition of topping a Christmas Tree with an angel. In a nutshell, everything that could possibly have gone wrong for Santa on Christmas Eve day -- went wrong. So when he answered a knock at the door, standing there was an angel delivering Santa's Christmas tree. The angel made the mistake of asking, "Where should I stick it?"

The rest is history.

I had a similar day today. We all have days where things seem to go wrong - but today was just excessive for me. As one minor problem mounted after another - none of which was preventable, I kept my cool. After a while I decided to play along - what else you got to throw at me? C'mon! Give me your best shot!

I am close to the end of the day, thank the Lord. I have no more ooomph left. I know my closest comrades in arms would say to keep it all in perspective. Believe me, I'm trying. It is tough to do, though when the pressure cooker keeps on cooking. Even the meal in the crockpot failed. So much for trying to take care of dinner ahead of time. The noodles burned, and the teryaki sauce is a crust at the bottom. (Yes - I will add more liquid next time.)

So, I just keep the image of Santa opening the door, and the angel, unaware of what is to befall him/her in my head. Henceforth, a day like today will be for me, a Santa Kind of Day, whether it is Chanukah or Pesach.

Calgon, take me away!

2008-12-01T17:51:00.004-05:00

I made my once-a-year trek to the mall. I have never enjoyed shopping - not sure why. I suppose I could analyze my personality, childhood experiences and come up with valid reasons, but why bother? I just don't like it. So I don't go unless under duress. That really means that the only place I can get something specific is at a store located in a mall, or that I have received a gift card for a mall store.

The latter is what prompted my visit. Now I received this gift card last May. I hadn't used it yet. So, before it expired, I grumbled all the way to Macy's to spend it on much needed new pants for school. First foray was easy - I went straight to the store and department I was looking for, got a few things, and went home. It was a relatively painless venture.

The second time - not so much. I had to return two of the pairs of pants. So, being of efficient nature, combined the trip with dropping off Rachel at a friend's house, and headed to the store for returning, but at a different mall. This was Sunday after Thanksgiving. I didn't expect much traffic in or out of the mall based on economic projections.

I entered the mall through a different store than the one I needed because of a supposedly excellent sale. There was no one in the store! I was the only customer for at least 10 employees. It was a bit disconcerting. The sale wasn't much of a sale, so I made tracks with my bag of returns. Going through the inevitable cosmetics maze, I felt my eyes swelling, and I began sneezing. I tried as best I could to hold my breath, but simply couldn't last that long!

Finally out in the mall atrium, my senses were bombarded - noise, vision, odors - all were nearly impossible to tolerate. I now understand that it is more than my frustration of finding clothes that fit well that keeps me away. It is sensory overload for me. I have immediate allergic reactions to the chemicals in the myriad of displays throughout a retail environment. Add to that the visual jumble, incessant noise level, olfactory input and for me you have "The Scream" (by Edvard Munch)in real life. "Make it stop!" I want to yell.

I never understood this about myself until now. It is a huge relief to know that my feelings about the experience are driven by physical reactions, not by an issue about body image. Fortunately, this situation makes me empathetic in the classroom. So many kids have a tough time with having dirty hands, or with using their fingers to paint, or with the sound of scraping charcoal on a page. Their neurological systems simply cannot handle it.

More and more children are being diagnosed with sensory integration issues, from a variety of causes. The world we live in is a virtual non-stop barrage of sensory imput. Even watching television now requires the ability to integrate multiple streams of information simultaneously. No wonder we feel stressed! Humans really aren't wired for this. I wonder how the next generation will handle being connected to entertainment and information constantly. I believe that one of the reasons kids do not like to read now is that their neural paths have changed and adapted to the constantly changing screens. Books have not followed suit.

The few phenomenal successes are either outstanding page-turners that allow for true visual imagination to accompany the fast-paced story line, or they are picture-based stories for older readers. (Think grown-up versions of comic books with detailed ink drawings.) These styles of books allow for the young reader to get the same type of interrupted information flow they are used to seeing on television and computer.

I can't imagine where the technological culture is headed, but I do think that we will have to teach children how to relax and rest both mind and body from these stressors. If not, the health community will have a whole new set of stress-induced illnesses to treat.

As for me, I think it will be a long time before I set foot in another mall. I spent a few hours in a casino recently. I won't be back any time soon. By the time I left, I and my companion both had headaches and were physically exhausted from the sights, sounds, and smells that surrounded us, even though I came out ahead (hard to believe I know).

To develop a tolerance for this environment is not a good thing. Rather, listen to your body, and give it the chance to take a break from all the input.You will feel energized and rested rather than harried and exhauted. Here's to our health...mental and physical!

Dishpan Hands

2008-11-25T20:41:00.002-05:00

I had a revelation today. Not that I reveled in the acknowledgment I made, nor did I feel anything was 'revealed.' As I stood at the sink in the art room, scrubbing palettes and washing brushes, I tried to evaluate why I was so resentful that I had to do it at all. I work hard to make the school's budget stretch as far as I can while still providing a quality program. So, I have never been one to waste paper palettes or throw away paint.

"Why," I grumbled under my breath, "did I resent the clean up?" For years I have been doing this. I have the students clean as much as is humanly possible in the 5 minutes allotted at the end of class time, but expecting them to completely clean a palette, the tables, the floor, and themselves in the amount of time given for a class of this many students is unreasonable. I suppose I could devise a clean up day where the students rotated jobs. I do this at the end of the year as we take stock of what supplies can be reused and what must be thrown away. But doing it every week would take away too much instructional time. Our class periods are only 45 minutes to begin with.

So I stick with what is working - I do all the heavy cleaning. And the light dawned.

I spend the majority of EVERY day cleaning! I am constantly picking up around the house, doing laundry, ironing, vacuuming, washing dishes...and cleaning the art room as well. We have recently instituted a rotating set of chores for all the Steins, which is definitely lightening the load at home. But still, I think the majority of keeping things 'straight" - which doesn't really bother anyone but me - falls on my shoulders.

I only know of one other teacher who has the kind of clean up I do (and hers does not require dishpan hands.) So in addition to the regular work that teachers do in between classes - like grading papers, preparing the curriculum, contacting parents, updating the web pages, attending meetings and entering grades in the online grade book, I also have to complete the heavy cleaning as well as hang and take down art work throughout the building.

"Why don't you have someone helping you?" I can hear the collective question in cyberspace. Well, we've tried. Volunteers don't prefer to do menial labor. They aren't necessarily available when I need them. They have their own ideas about how they want to do things. It never seems to work out to actually be helpful. We have asked for a shared assistant for our department. As you can imagine, budgets do not allow such a luxury.

Now that I have recognized why the constant cleaning aggravates me so, I can think about how to resolve it. I am considering (GASP!) throw-away palettes. As I get older, I am learning that sometimes my needs might be more valuable than the pennies I am trying so hard to stretch. This in itself is a big shift in how I think. The fact that I feel I am worth the modification is a step in the right direction to making my days more enjoyable and less industrial. Obviously I don't MIND the cleaning or I would have refused to do it prior to now. But that just isn't me. I accepted it as part and parcel of the job.

I think I probably can make things a little more manageable and less irritating for myself. I intend to ask my students for suggestions. If you have ideas, I'd love to hear them. "Happy Thanksgiving. Hooray!Hooray!Hooray! Aren't you glad you're not a turkey on this Thanksgiving Day!" I, for one, will be grateful not to be doing a kitchen full of dishes!

The Web. The REAL web.

2008-11-16T13:44:00.005-05:00

Yes, I wrote the D'var about which I was so anxious. I ended up having to keep it fairly broad, as we only have a limited amount of time. I didn't want to lose the audience by talking too long and too emotionally either. Sometimes, a very personal speech can have an unintended positive effect on other students and teachers in the congregation. I didn't want to lose THAT opportunity, either. I considered writing a separate letter to this student, for him to take on his upcoming trip to Israel. I may yet - but for now I am satisfied with the words he will soon hear.

I am intrigued by the way different people receive messages. To be more specific, I am interested in learning how the collective consciousness of our "personal population" (a term I just created)communicates. How we connect to one another is officially called social anthropology. I have no doubt, and many of my friends and colleagues agree, that in a few years, there will be college courses on the unique portals of Facebook and MySpace (and similar sites.) How and why they operate, why they are used (which varies by person) and what kinds of 'results' are produced in terms of increased investment in emotional relationships as well as marketing strategies.

How people link to one another and why is absolutely fascinating to me. I studied Abraham Maslow in college, as did many of you. His theory of a needs hierarchy holds a lot of weight in my way of thinking. We engage in relationships for different reasons. Each one fulfills a different need, for that specific time in our lives. On Facebook, I enjoy studying the differing age groups. The younger teens, the older teens, 20-30, 30-50, and 50+ each use Facebook differently. Some of the wider usage has to do with younger folks feeling less intimidated by the technology, and therefore doing more with their Facebook pages. They are not the least bit concerned about what anyone thinks about their page content. In fact, much of what teens publish on their pages is simply for the shock factor - which mirrors their psychological development. Facebook is a social realm (as are the Chat features they use, and IM) that has replaced the rollerskating rink, the telephone (REALLY!), and even the mall. The mall used to be a place to get away from Mom and Dad, but now that Mom or Dad - worried about security - actually stay at the mall with the kids, text messaging is the only way for them to talk to one another without having a parent hovering. There are even specific text abbreviations that mean "I have to go now, my parent just walked in the room." or "I have a parent looking over my shoulder." These messages are in code, so that the person on the reading end understands to change the language and content of the conversation.

So Facebook fulfills a need. For me, it has allowed me to be in touch with a broad range of people that I don't normally stay in contact with. I am not a social person. But the computer gives me my comfort level - I am a much better writer than I am a talker. I avoid the phone like the bubonic plague. But email? Facebook chatting? This I embrace. I have reconnected with high school friends who live across the country, (across the world even) children of high school friends, relatives, acquaintances from 20+ years ago, 10 years ago, five years ago, and new ones as well! I never would have done so via phone. I love knowing what these people are up to - and am surprised that they want to know about me. I really don't see myself the way other people see me. I think we are all that way to an extent.

For me Facebook is that 'Sally Fields' thought process. You like me? Really? It is fun. I am completely comfortable with the technology, so I have no problem switching between the applications that my teenage 'friends' use, and the ones my contemporaries use. But there are times when only the phone will do. The phone has become the technology we reserve for closest relatives and dearest friends. The phone remains how we convey pertinent, time-sensitive information.

So last week, my cellphone screen showed a phone number calling in that I did not recognize. I never answer calls for numbers I do not know. If they know me, they will leave a message. This caller did not leave a message, so I assumed it was an incorrect number. The first time. Over the next few days, this caller kept calling, but never left a message. This usually indicates a telemarketing call. Again - I'm not about to answer it.

Finally, towards the end of the week, the caller left a voicemail. In a weak, cracking voice a woman said, "I'm trying to reach my daughter, but your message keeps coming on, Missy. Please take your message off my phone so I can reach my daughter." I panicked. The voice on the message sounded like that of my best friend's mother. I thought she was so ill that she kept dialing my number incorrectly. It isn't technologically possible for my message to be on this woman's phone - she was very very confused. To make matters worse, my friend was sick. This I already knew. Not only that, but all this was happening in another city - far enough away that I could do nothing but worry. I finally called my friend's father - on HIS cellphone, hoping to guarantee that if my phone really is going wacko that I would be able to talk to someone and find out what was happening.

Well, hold onto your hats. The world works in mysterious ways. I did speak to my friend's father, and to her mother, who had indeed been sick with a cold, but was fine now. We had a lovely conversation, and admitted it had been far too long since we'd spoken. I double checked all the numbers they had and that I had. She had never called me at all! This was a little too bizarre. So I finally called the number that came up on my screen in the first place. It was a stranger. Still weak, still ill. She had been trying to reach her daughter, who lives in Texas. So I quickly looked up the area codes in Texas. There is an area code that is 409. My cellphone is 404. The remaining numbers were the same. I asked the woman if she might have mis-read the area code. I haven't heard from her since. I hope she reached her daughter.

My friend's mother lovingly said that this was merely the way we found to stay in touch - we wanted to talk to each other. I always worry about intruding on some one's privacy. I think it is a Southern anomaly. My friend's family thinks I'm nuts. If I called daily it would not be too often. (But I won't, of course; I hate the phone.)I like to think that the universe, or G-d, or whatever you believe in found a way to use me to help someone. In this way - we really are all connected. I wrote some time ago about how real the 'butterfly' effect is. As the age of computers makes mileage insignificant, the concept becomes even more important. It doesn't matter where you are - what you DO has an impact far more reaching than you might ever imagine. What a responsibility that is! What a tangled web we weave.

Putting it Out There

2008-11-06T21:59:00.003-05:00

A couple of years ago, the administration of my school had to make a tough decision. The number of students was blessedly growing. In the seventh grade year, most students become B'nai Mitzvah. So, as the class size grew, trying to present each student with a gift from the school became a logistical nightmare. The administration divvied up these Saturday morning rounds, delivering the school's gift along with a short speech at the service of each student. But when the numbers grew to the point that it was impossible to continue this lovely tradition, a new plan was devised.

While in school, students read from the Torah on the Thursday prior to their service. The entire student body is present, along with the faculty and the student's family. It is a lovely service, including the giving of a tallit that the students make during their 6th grade year. A couple of years ago, the administration asked the faculty to share in giving the school gift to the students at THIS service, instead of the one on Saturday morning. The tradition has evolved into teachers writing and presenting a D'var Torah to the students based on their parasha and the teacher's knowledge of that student.

I've mentioned this before. I absolutely love to do this. I get to interpret the Torah, and have a direct impact on a special human being for a brief moment. I'm not sure what it is about how I write, but every time I offer a D'Var Torah, I receive countless compliments and words of gratitude. I wish I could speak to EVERY student. I love to write (obviously) and I treasure the chance to make every student feel as if they matter.

In a few weeks, I will be writing another speech. After all this time, I'm stumped. Not because I don't have anything to say, but because I have so MUCH I want to say to this particular student that I don't know where to start or how to say it. I've watched this young man blossom and mature before my eyes. He is often misinterpreted. But luckily for me, his hidden strengths show up in art class. I happened to catch him as he was falling down(figuratively, not literally). His mother has never stopped thanking me. He has struggled socially at times, but is finding his confidence, and will ultimately be just fine. I can't pinpoint what it is about him that touches me so. But we have an unspoken understanding, based in mutual respect that allows our relationship as teacher/student to flourish. This is my third year teaching him. I want him to know that he's going to turn out ok. He will find a girl who loves him. He will make a great dad. Above all, he is a darn neat kid -- just the way he is, and he doesn't need anyone else's approval to be himself.

Thinking about what I want to say to this young man got me thinking that there are words I'd like to say to a lot of people. However, I feel a bit odd just writing these things and sending it to them as letters out of the blue. It sounds too much like I'm preparing to die. Too, because I have a natural love of puzzles, I thought it might be fun to write these thoughts in the form of letters, but compile them into a book. Then, I wouldn't tell these people. It would just say Dear So-and-so (first names only) in the salutation. Maybe they'd find out about it, and maybe they wouldn't. And maybe some OTHER person with that name might read the letter and think it was written for them! Then I would have impacted someone else, (positively, I hope) unwittingly.

I know I'd regret it if I never tell these people how much they mean to me, and what an impact they have had on MY life. So, I'll give it some thought, and start writing. I guess I'd better tackle that D'Var first, though. I still don't know what to say that won't sound sappy or canned, but I'll figure it out.

Take the time to see the fall coloring - it is so beautiful! Now there's a whole message in itself....but not tonight.

Heavier than a 16 lb. Bowling Ball

2008-10-14T22:08:00.008-04:00

Synchronicity. Kismet. B'shert. I do believe that some things are meant to be. Over the course of my many years observing the connections in my life as well as the events in others' I have become convinced that there are unseen forces at work in our lives. I have done a great deal of reading and solo studying on the path of spirituality. I have never understood, though, how average people are able to pick up and leave their families to attend retreats for higher level learning in these areas.

I recently read Ellen Burstyn's autobiography, which documents her life's journey on the stage and screen as well as off. She, like many entertainers and artists is a seeker of higher power - of enlightenment. But unlike me, she had the means to pick up and go to many different seminars, meet with famous 'teachers' in spite of her complicated personal life. She has literally traveled the globe as a seeker of truth and knowledge. So has Shirley MacLaine. (She's not as crazy as the media would like for you to believe.)

While reading her book, I found I could personally relate to so much of her thought process and personal learning. Some of her ideas about the spiritual world are at odds with my own, but in general, I agree with her view of life. At one point in the book, she references an author whose works I have read. She even mentioned the one book that I still keep in my bedside table. Now I know good and well that there is a reason for me to be reading HER book (Burstyn's.) I did not seek it out. I am not a fan of hers. It happened to be in the remainders section when I took Rachel to the bookstore to buy a birthday gift for a friend. The title caught my eye. The price was right. I love to read.

This was no accident.

I learned a great deal from this woman's honesty. She mentioned several other people in the book (including Shirley MacLaine), for the most part casually, that have been 'messengers' for me by way of THEIR writings. When I completed the book, it felt heavier than when I had started it. I had added weight to it by placing value on its existence. I know...I really KNOW that there is something very important happening here.

A few nights ago, I took a moment to sit down in the den as Terry flipped through the TV channels. This is a once-a-year occasion. (My stopping to watch I mean - not Terry's adeptness with the remote) He stopped on a channel that was showing Stephen Hawking. He chuckled, tossed me the the remote and left the room. I was hooked. For the next hour or so, I learned more about the physics of black holes, and the scientific theorems that had been the subject of debate and analysis over the last couple of decades. The scientific community has been at odds with how to explain where the stuff GOES once it slides into the black hole. Traditional physicists say that matter cannot just disappear. It still exists somehow, in some form. So these famous brains have been trying to derive theorems to prove what happens to the matter using mathematical equations.

At the basis of all the arguing is the Theory of Relativity (how all the big 'stuff' in the universe acts and interacts) and how it relates to the theory of quantum mechanics (how the tiniest stuff in the universe acts and interacts.) If scientists can somehow figure out a set of rules that work for both the big picture and the submicroscopic (actually subatomic) world at the same time, they will have answered every question about how and why we exist.

Thus far, the answers remain elusive.

Okay, so back to the book. I know I am supposed to look further in my own search here. There are a number of books and authors mentioned in Burstyn's book that I will diligently begin to read. In fact, I have been wanting to develop a new reading list. So I began web surfing based on some of the titles mentioned in Burstyn's book. An interesting thing happened as I went to the website of the author I mentioned above (the one whose book I keep close at hand.) Imagine my shock when I read a passage of his that is exactly what Einstein proposed.

This is what the Theory of Relativity is all about. To my knowledge, Einstein was not a Kabbalist. But I am somehow getting closer to understanding the relationship between science and religion. Bear with me as I share a bit of Rabbi David Cooper's teachings (the book is called God is a Verb)

"But the perspective of Kabbalah is far more radical than science, for it proposes a string of creations. The Sefer Yetzirah, one of the earliest kabbalistic texts, says that seven specific letters of the Hebrew alphabet symbolize seven universes and seven firmaments. These are universes that are created and destroyed, but there are differences of opinion as to which universe we currently inhabit. As Aryeh Kaplan points out, 'According to some Kabbalists, the present creation is the second, while others state that it is the sixth or seventh.' From another perspective, many universes can run concurrently, as time shifts in meaning once we transcend the universe as we know it. These kabbalistic concepts of multiple universes, whether linear or concurrent, encompass essentially all scientific theory, including evolution, and extend beyond it."

Incidentally, Ellen Burnstyn met Rabbi Cooper on a retreat. I don't think, based on that part of the book, that they discussed the Theory of Relativity. But I do find it strangely convenient for me that the teachings of these two people presented themselves in this way. If you are interested in reading more from Rabbi Cooper, go to his website (www.rabbidavidcooper.com)

Okay, so now things get even more bizarre for me (as if they could). A couple of years ago Caryn had me watch "What the BLEEP Do We Know?" I was mesmerized. It was yet another layman's discussion on relativity, in movie form instead of in a book. I keep getting pulled back and forth between the scientific and religious worlds - it is all so very clear to me. I see how it all fits together. But I don't know what to say or do about it.

The unrest that I felt at the High Holy Days is mounting. I know I am on the verge of some kind of breakthrough, but I do not know whether it is personal, or public, or both, or...neither. I have been feeling like my life is on pause, as you know. As the kids grow and mature, my own personal growth and desires have been put on the back burner, which happens to be turned off. So, I'm not even simmering. I'm just waiting. Every venture (except for teaching) has hit a dead end. I still gain great satsifaction out of the creating I am doing, but I often feel as if I am throwing tomato paste at a dartboard. Even if I hit the center, my efforts slowly slide off and onto the floor. So what exactly is it that I am supposed to be doing?

According to the 'laws' of new age thinking (if you want to call it that - or metaphysics, or whatever word you use to call it) if you do (meaning work) what you love, the universe will support it so that it supports you. So I've often asked, if I love painting so much, why am I not independently wealthy? Okay, so that's being greedy. I don't even want a lot of money - just enough to breathe. The universe hasn't answered me yet.

There are many things I do with a great sense of knowing - my instincts are fine tuned and always accurate, when I choose to follow them. But this part of me - this scientific/religious connection, and the urge to continue travelling on my spiritual path has me baffled. I don't have a clue what to do with it all. I do feel something urging me 'on' - but I don't know where 'on' is, or how I'm supposed to get there. Supposedly, as the saying goes, 'when the student is ready, the teacher will appear.' Trouble is, I don't know whether I'm the student or the teacher. In many ways, I am both, of course. I'm looking for someone else, though. I'm searching for someone to help me use my psychic abilities for more than knowing who is thinking about me and when. (Just like Daisy Gamble in "On a Clear Day") I know of one teacher I should be learning from. But we don't have the funds for me to afford her fees. This confuses me, as I mentioned in the first paragraph.

Another 'corollary' to a spiritual journey is that we draw to ourselves the lessons we need to learn in this lifetime. I wish to hell my former self would be a little clearer on which chapter I'm supposed to be reading this time around. I can see it for many of my loved ones around me. I know when I meet someone who I am OBVIOUSLY supposed to help in some way. I can feel it in their energy. But I don't know what I'M supposed to be learning from them, if anything. I have often thought that I am here solely to help others through their life. But if I still experience frustration in my life, then there is something I am missing for myself.

Alright, so for those of you who believe in karmic retribution, there is certainly the possibility that I am fulfilling my responsibility from something I have done in the past. "Payback time" so-to-speak. But if I ascribe to my theory that multiple universes are existing simultaneously, then karmic retribution doesn't really make sense. That would work in a linear timeline. OK, so perhaps I am trying out life here differently than the way I lived it in another universe (to get really existential, we assume that these two universes coexist simultaneously in the space-time continuum) to decide which is the 'better' way to go.

If this rambling all sounds suspiciously like a sci-fi script you aren't far off. Many sci-fi shows have used as their premise distortions in the space-time continuum (including "Back to the Future") as well as multiple universes co-existing. A lot of people other than me think about this stuff. I wonder though, if they are plagued with the same sense of cloudy headedness that I am. Probably not since their salary is likely significantly larger than mine (like...exponentially.)

Maybe my lesson at this point in my life is as simple as knowing that nothing is as neat and tidy as I wish it would be.

Naaaah. That doesn't feel right. There's more to it. A small voice is whispering to me that all this searching I'm doing will have an effect on my art (of course it will - that's the journey of an artist.) For now, I'll just have to be satisfied with the connections I have made between mysticism and physics. I think there is a very good reason why the Hadron Collider broke down so soon after it was cranked up. (If you don't know what it is or why I mention it, Google it.) Maybe too, this is why each time medical researchers develop a cure for a disease, another one becomes critical. (I'm thinking of how so much has been learned about cancers, while staph has become resistant to treatment.)

While we may seek to understand the creation of the universe, maybe it should not be within our power to create it.

Not Sure What to Think!

2008-10-12T19:54:00.002-04:00

Some years, I am more 'in tune' with the intent of the Holy Days. I work at clearing away the minutiae of daily living to magnify my own thought processes. The music of Kol Nidre and Avinu Malkenu cut deep to my soul, and I enter into a meaningful dialogue with G-d. This year, that connection was missing. Perhaps the uncooperative weather, the hectic nature of having the services fall during the school week, learning how to navigate with one child in a day school and one in public along with the incessant verbal noise we continue to receive about the recession that might or might not be worse than we think combined to make it all too much for me.

I have to say that I definitely got mixed signals from G-d. This year, instead of buying the standard two bags of canned goods to take to school, I actually filled an entire shopping cart with foods with which I would have normally stocked my own kitchen. I bought generic as much as possible to make my dollars go further, and I picked up brand name flavored water as well - but for us since I know that Rachel and Terry drink more water when it is flavored. At the checkout, the cashier, a young man in his early 20s commented, "Boy, you sure are a dedicated customer!" He meant that because I was buying all generic products, I was supporting the store.

I responded,'Well, my money goes further this way. I'm giving all this away." He stopped ringing up the items.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

The girl bagging the groceries replied before I could.

"She's taking all this to the food pantry."

"That's right," I said, "This is roughly how much it costs my family to eat out one night. Why not give it to someone who needs it more?"

"We sure need more people like you around here," she said.

"No kidding," the cashier said, "I'll be needing some of this help."

I didn't explain that our school would be donating thousands of pounds of food, as would our temple, and all the other temples and synagogues, day schools, and religious schools around town. We don't just talk about mitzvot...we do them.

But back to the cashier. As he got to the end of scanning process, he eyed me suspiciously, "Even these bottles of water?"

Well, he had me there. "No," I replied, "Those are going home with me."

"That's what I figured," he mumbled. His attitude had soured. It wasn't enough that I would be helping - he incorrectly assumed that I felt he, or any other needy family, wasn't good enough for me to spend the extra money on them. He obviously resents seeing those white generic packages in his cabinet. But instead of being grateful, he cast a lousy attitude over my efforts. Now I felt guilty for not giving away the water, too. (Which I didn't. It stayed at home.)

The services were as I expected. For some reason, though, they seemed lacking. It wasn't the clergy, it wasn't the choir. The sanctuary was of course filled with the warmth of bodies and their spirituality. But the same prayers, the same Torah portion, the sermons, all left me 'flat' and wanting more -- what? The connection that I usually made to the words and music wasn't there. The service seemed too short. It felt like the Vidui left something out. I know we didn't skip anything in the service, so I don't know what I was looking for. But when the service ended, I felt like it was over all too soon.

On Yom Kippur, I fasted. Completely, and wholly. From just before sundown until I began to get nauseous, nothing passed my lips. All in all, the fasting did, in fact, go easily. Thank you to the many well wishers who offered me blessings of an easy fast. It was! Unfortunately, my body can no longer handle fasting, as I was soon to find out.

About an hour after we broke the fast, I began to have awful side effects. In retrospect, I was probably severely dehydrated and should have gone to the ER for an IV. But I didn't figure that out in time. Blessedly, my doctor has me on medications that seem to be controlling the stone production (me and Mick, yeah...) but the treatment for Crohn's seems to be a little less optimal in the efficacy department. I am now 48 hours post fast, and my body is still not back to normal. (Well, whatever normal is for me...)I went immediately into a 'recovery' diet - bland, starchy foods and Gatorade. But this only made me feel worse because of the glucose reactions that are so expected with intake of this nature.

So all in all, my days of awe have been more like days of "huh?" Okay, so I can understand that I shouldn't fast, and shouldn't feel guilty about it. Perhaps my fast will be to skip A meal - not all of them. But the guy at the grocery store made me think twice about the food pantry effort. I can appreciate how frustrated he must be feeling stuck in a low-wage job and having to eat what is provided - not necessarily what he WANTS to have, but isn't it like that for most of us?

I'm not sure what it is that G-d wants me to take away from that interaction. Should I have given them the water, too? Maybe I bought TOO much? I really don't know. As for the "Missing Piece" at services (my nod to Shel Silverstein) perhaps I wasn't as focused as I thought I was. I can't quite put my finger on it.

As the sun sets and rises, I turn my attention to Sukkot and Simchat Torah, and Rachel's and Dad's birthdays, I feel like a boat that is drifting. No motor, no sails, just shifting my balance with the waves. The next few weekends are as busy as the weeks, and already there is talk of Thanksgiving. The pause in our lives that the Holy Days are intended to create felt more like sweeps of the second hand. I'm not sure how to change that, or why this year felt different than before.

But it is what it is, and probably, I'm not the only one who felt this year was a bit off. If the Eureka moment hits, I'll certainly share my insights. May this be a good year - in every way - for each of you.

Siddur Covers

2008-09-28T14:32:00.008-04:00

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Here are some of the many choices for siddur covers available for purchase. Price depends on book size. Each cover is made of primed canvas, and the image is sealed. A name personalized on the spine and a photograph adhered and sealed are included with the price.

Schnorring

2008-09-20T15:26:00.001-04:00

I used to avoid street corner solicitations like the plague. You know - a bunch of pre-teen African American boys running up to cars, holding up a xeroxed piece of paper that is supposed to legitimize their panhandling. There is a particular area in Sandy Springs where I would see these kids, only occasionally. I always questioned in the back of my mind whether they were being truthful.

It is indeed likely that the Pinckneyville Panthers need uniforms. Whether or not these kids were actually on the team or not, I used to think long and hard about whether to give them money. I don't give it a second thought anymore. The reality of life is that if they were brave enough to stand on the corner and ask strangers for money, they deserve something. I also wonder whether they are being forced to do this by some pimp or drug-induced parental rage. Even so, giving them the money is a good thing, in my opinion, not a bad thing.

Let's say, just to make me happy, that their single mother, who is at home needing a fix, has no food in the house. These kids are hungry, and will do whatever it takes to eat. I'm giving them money.

Let's say that they really ARE on the team. They really do need uniforms, because for the 5th year in a row, the uniforms have been passed down from team to team, and are disgusting and falling apart. But there is no budget for replacement. I don't doubt that it is true - my daughter's high school has the same problem. They have no money for all the students they are required to teach. The building is aging rapidly. New sinks in the bathrooms take precedence over chorus robes. So, Rachel had to sell candy for her part of the choral fundraising. Thank goodness for the generosity of strangers, who believed her plight, she had no problem meeting her quota. With strangers giving her donations of $1, $2, even $5 at a time, she accomplished her task in one day.

I know my attitude is pure Pollyanna. I also know that there may be a lousy reason for them to be scrounging off the goodness of strangers in nice cars. I may very well be supporting the drug cartel. But if a kid is younger than 15, and these were, I'm going to give them the benefit of the doubt. (I doubt it is for a bad cause. I think, deep down, they are good kids.)I know there is no way I'd survive in India.

We have telemarketers calling us daily for donations to causes we used to support. It has become a running monotone for me to say,"I'm so sorry; I know you are hearing a lot of nos, but we just can't give you anything this year." And we can't. But a dollar here, a dollar there, to a kid who doesn't have a clue of the big picture - that I can do. And so can you.

Don't judge the kid. Just give them a dollar. There but for the grace of G-d go I.

The Nature of Emotion

2008-08-29T03:22:00.003-04:00

As I helped my daughter study for her first big science test, I thought about how the branches of science are so compartmentalized. She had to know each of the ten branches of biology - everything from biochemistry to zoology. I don't exactly understand the value of this information for someone like her, other than to know that it exists or perhaps enable her to answer a winning game show question. She understood each of the genres except biochem. "How," she wanted to know, "is it different from just chemistry?" I explained that the body is made up of millions of chemical interactions that affect life's processes. Chemistry on its own occurs in a controlled environment outside of the body.

The next day, my dearest friend and closest confidant and I were communicating via email. "Thank God for email," I was thinking. We are now 675 miles apart. She is always on my mind, and she knows it. I miss her. Greatly. There are moments when my emotions get the best of me. My stomach tightens, the smile on my face becomes a mask, and I have difficulty staying focused on the task at hand. These are all biochemical reactions. But the environment is hardly controlled. The neurosciences are the one branch of biochemistry that has always piqued my interest.

Just how does the body work? How is it that a thought in my head somehow gets manifested as physical reaction? I know what happens, at the cellular level, as electrical sparks jump across synapses. But how does the translation from thought to action happen, and why are we created in this way? The morning prayer, N'kavim talks about thanking God for the wondrous connection of muscles, nerves, sinews that continue to operate while blood courses through our veins. The writers of this particular prayer believed that we are in a different state when we sleep - we aren't dead, but close to it. So in the morning, we are supposed to say one prayer for actually waking up (technically, we thank God for giving us back our souls which our ancestors believed left our bodies when we sleep) and we say thank you for our intricate bodies. In essence - thanks for biochemistry.

I am at odds with whether I would want to be able to control my emotional reactions. Of course there are benefits - anger management and controlling impulsive behavior make life a bit more smooth. But what would life be like if I could turn off sadness? If we could somehow regulate our emotional responses to situations and people, life would be much more bearable at times. Oh wait! That's what Prozac is for!

Well, not really. Supposedly deep and recurring depression is a biochemical reaction akin to a scratch on vinyl record. Like the needle on the record player that cannot physically move beyond the scratch, the body, for reasons unknown, gets out of balance in the amount of chemicals bumping into each other in the brain, and the overwhelming feelings of helplessness, unworthiness, despair, and surrender become more prevalent than the much-needed endorphins. So, anti depressants have been formulated to fill in the gaps and re-balance the brain's emotional output.

But anti-depressants are not meant for the occasional life struggles. At least in my mind, they aren't. I think I am supposed to use the down times to appreciate what's good in my life. Hmmm. It ain't working this time. We are coping in this struggling economy. It isn't easy, but we're managing - with help. For now, everyone's health seems to be status quo (knock on wood...) We are all adapting to the changes in the school environments and schedules. Both cars are running. Cooler weather is on the way. But there is a huge empty space in my life that email and phone calls are not filling.

I can't flip a switch to be happy with what I've got, and let the situation take its course. Am I clinically depressed? No. But the only thing that would resolve my emptiness is the physical closeness day to day that I am lacking. A quick weekend visit won't do. Leaving again would make me feel just the same, if not worse. So, there must be some chemical reaction that is occurring. I'm convinced of it. If there was a 'pill' that I could take to make these feelings go away, how would it impact my relationship? Well, I believe the urge to stay in touch would dissipate. If I didn't have this need to stay connected, it would be easy enough to just find 'somebody to love.' And a lot more convenient, since I would find someone in closer proximity!

The other thing that baffles me about my completely illogical but very visceral reaction to this whole situation is that I don't have this reaction about Terry, who travels all the time. I guess it is because I know that even after the longest trip, he will be back. Okay - I'll agree that there is the chance he could drop dead tomorrow, but so could I. That's not what I mean. The rhythm of his travels for the last 20 years has made me immune to his absence. My life continues in its daily cycle whether he is sleeping under the same roof or not. I will admit that the constant readjustment to his returns takes its toll. But I, and the kids, have adapted well enough.

Being three months into the separation from my best friend has not eased my pain. I expected it to subside over time. I assumed that being back in school would be enough of a distraction to allow me to settle in to doing what I need to do. Nope. Didn't happen. There are constant reminders, day in and day out, of what's missing. Or more accurately, who. I know this is how some people feel when someone close to them passes away. They never lose the sadness. It simply stays with them, and they learn to keep it at bay.

That's exactly what I'm doing. Chocolate covered almonds help sometimes, as does the forbidden ice cream. I can easily see why more addictive personalities turn to alcohol or pain killers. I'm grateful indeed that my body chemistry is not an addictive one. I'd be done for. I guess, in a way I have to admit that being apart is indeed showing me just how important our relationship is. I'm pretty sure we already knew that. Nonetheless, I am re-learning how powerful biochemistry can be. I don't think this is what the school board had in mind for Rachel to learn. But it is life lesson #118, with no standards or benchmarks to aspire to.

As we head into the introspective month of Elul, you can bet I will be questioning what I'm doing, why I'm doing it, and whether change is in order. I suspect I won't find any easy answers. Oh well, with this quiz, I won't have to worry about my grades being posted online. Just my thoughts and feelings. And the little sparks flying in my brain. I hope you enjoy the fireworks more than I am.

Signs along the way

2008-08-23T17:58:00.005-04:00

I am a firm believer in the spiritual world. You know that. You also know that I believe spirits do their best to communicate with us - to help us, to encourage us to laugh, to ease our fears. I am a seeker of higher power and knowledge, and have watched as the universe has answered the prayers of mortals as well as confounded us with confusing occurrences.

I still struggle to understand how to balance the Beshert with personal choice. I wonder still just how much choice we really have, given the seeming randomness of the effects of Yetzer Harah. None-the-less, I try to remember to be grateful, and to vocalize my thanks whenever a sense of clarity or health or peace finds its way into my consciousness.

I've continually battled with a sense of frustration, wanting my "calling" to be obvious. I want to know whether to keep teaching, or keep painting. Or keep writing. Or all three. The obvious constraints of a full-time job and full-time parenting keep my 'solo' time to a minimum. At the same time, I am wanting to develop more of an economic cushion for us - and have evaluated and re-evaluated, along with the help of my closest confidantes - the most effective way to do this. In the end, there is no clear answer. Damn it.

So, I heed the advice of the late Jerry Garcia and keep on trucking. Then I read two meaningful pieces of journalism both advocating painters keeping their 'day jobs.' It was a relief to hear a professional in the industry say that the market has changed so much, and that the channels for marketing artwork are still changing so fast, that if a painter has a steady income, whether from the artwork or not, he or she should consider herself quite fortunate. Until I read this piece, in a journal that focuses on the business side of the art world for artists, I could not give myself permission to acknowledge that being a full-time artist doesn't only mean standing before the canvas for 8 hours a day. I knew this in my head - I don't know a single artist who is ONLY painting full time. Artists have to have other sources of income to survive. Because of the internet, 'cheap art' - both in cost and quality is selling more than authentic, academic pieces.

The new methods of marketing are making tiny, quick pieces more saleable than visual compositions which take knowledge, experience and time to produce. Up and coming artists, those whose pieces will be displayed in museums 10-20 years from now are producing work based on social and political commentary. As with all things in life, there are a few exceptions. But, for a traditionalist like me, whose paintings have a more gentle voice and message, the market seems nearly impossible to reach. Yet I know I must continue to produce. It is a directive deep within me. Perhaps I will be like the artists of old, and my work will not be truly valued until long after I die.
Or perhaps not. I am a creator. Whether or not my creations ever see the light of day, I cannot exist without continuing to bring beauty into the world.

Slowly, ever so slowly though, I am beginning to accept that painting full-time - I mean 8 or 10 hours a day, without interruption - may not be what I am meant to do. It is yet another dream I am allowing to wither and die, but at the same time am understanding the positive results of simplifying my expectations for myself. When one of the students at school came to interview me for a piece in the school newspaper, she asked if I ever see myself doing another job. I thought long and hard about how to answer. I pictured myself in my studio, in solitude, hour after hour. I then imagined myself at an opening of my paintings, champagne glass in hand, attempting to make small talk with people who don't know me. I remembered the amazing positive energy that flows within and among my classes day in and day out. Week after week. I have been doing this for five years now. I am still tweaking how I teach what I teach, and am still convincing myself of its value. I remembered reading in the aforementioned articles how a teacher's own work continues to improve and be influenced by her students.

Finally, I answered her. "No," I said, "I really think this is what I am supposed to do."

Later the same day, I was was scanning one of our prayerbooks at home, seeking the Hebrew spelling for a specific phrase I wanted to include on a siddur cover I am currently painting. My eyes stopped when I saw this poem by Danny Abse (no date given.) At first, I was going to send it to someone I knew who needed to hear it, then I realized. It was also for me.
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Working is another way of praying.
You plant in Israel the soul of a tree.
You plant in the desert the spirit of gardens.

Praying is another way of singing.
You plant in the tree the soul of lemons.
You plant in the gardens the spirit of roses.

Singing is another way of loving.
You plant in the lemons the spirit of your son.
You plant in the roses the soul of your daughter.

Loving is another way of living.
You plant in your daughter the spirit of Israel.
You plant in your son the soul of the desert.

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For me, the question becomes an interpretation of the word 'work.' I think what "works" for me is the work I am doing now. I am reaching a different audience than I intended, but the feedback is overwhelmingly positive. I will continue to create through my painting. However, I choose not to expend any more energy trying to package a product which I do not have time to market. Until I have a partner in the form of a business manager, the status quo of my body of work will have to be acceptable.

Curious...Elul is just around the corner. A convenient time to recommit myself to accepting realistic expectations. I suppose my wake-up call came just a little early.

The beauty of compassion

2008-07-24T01:56:00.003-04:00

Over the last two years, I have spent a significant amount of time and currency in the parking lots of the St. Joseph's medical complex. For those of you familiar with its layout, you know that the original double-decker parking garage became obsolete when the additional doctors' buildings were opened for occupancy. There are two additional garages, one above ground, the other below that accomodate thousands of cars daily for employees, patients, visitors and couriers.

I spend the majority of my time in two specific buildings, and eventually found a place to park that is a longer drive in, but an easy exit. I have learned that, psychologically speaking, it is worth it to have a space that expedites my exit rather than parking close to a door. When I have completed my appointment, I want to get out of the complex quickly. So, over the months, I began parking in the same area, and exiting the same gate.

At some point, the young woman who serves as the exit cashier began to recognize me. She has never asked my name, but always speaks to me with a smile on her face, and gentility in her voice. I believe her name is Janice - she doesn't always wear her name tag, but I am so grateful for her kind spirit. You know the feeling of insult upon injury for having to pay for parking for uncomfortable procedures/examinations/lab visits. Well, having a scowling attendant who treats you as if you are interrupting his very important phone call just makes the experience that much worse.

Well, today was another multiple-hour venture at what I like to call The Wind Tunnel. The space between two of the buildings creates a unique wind pattern - in winter excessively strong and blustery. I found the underground tunnel connecting the buildings so that I won't have to brave the elements in less than desirable conditions. It is a mystery to me why the valet and patient pick up for two of the buildings is situated within the Wind Tunnel. Elderly patients trying to navigate entry into cars picking them up have quite a struggle against this wind. Unfortunately, there is little chance that the drop-off/pick-up spot will be relocated. It is designed to avoid backing up traffic on the main road into the complex.

Knowing that the car could effectively serve as a bakery oven by the time I would be departing, I parked underneath the buildings, and walked through the underground corridors directly beneath the Wind Tunnel. The "service provider" I was visiting was kind enough to give me a discount coupon to help offset my lengthy stay. It was not enough to cover the entire cost of the parking however. So, although my car was a comfortable temperature when I left, I was not. I really resented having to go through the procedure and still have to pay. It seems to me that patients should not have to pay for parking at all. Anyway, when I arrived at the exit gate, Janice was not there.

I surmised that it must be her break time. I was disappointed. I know, based on previous visits, that she sometimes bestows her sympathy and charges me less than the posted rates. One time, she waved me through without paying at all. I didn't question her reasoning, but was very grateful and told her so. Oh well. Not this time. The young man took my ticket and the discount coupon, running them both through the machine. I still owed $2.00. As I handed him the money, he realized just how long I must have been there to have racked up such a large fee.

In the course of a few short seconds, he gave me back my day. He looked straight at me, and asked with visible concern on his face, "Is everything alright?" I responded, "It will be. Eventually." His sense of compassion meant more to me than a month's worth of free parking. Someone actually got it. The receptionist didn't, the administrator (who had me sign the medical forms) didn't, the lab tech, the radiologist, and two assistants - all were merely doing their jobs. Not a single one of them asked me how I was feeling, or if I had any concerns. Actually, they never asked me anything. They only gave me procedural instructions.

But the parking attendant cared enough about me as a human being to ask. Never under estimate the value of a person because of the job they are doing. It is what's inside the uniform that truly matters. I know we all know this. But it never hurts to be gently reminded to treat everyone - no matter whether they clean toilets or diamonds - with respect. I hope you will take the time after reading this, to make a difference in a stranger's day. It will make you both smile.

"Someday My Prince Will..." ahhh screw it.

2008-07-19T13:05:00.007-04:00

"ARE YOU MARRIED TO YOUR SOULMATE?!?!" the headline screamed from the subject line of the latest Astrology junk email that appeared in my in box. At some point in the past, I signed up for the daily brief horoscope. I don't take these things seriously when they don't fit my current mood or situation. But when they do, I like to pretend that there might really be something to the planetary and astrological lineup. So, ever since I signed up for the horoscope, and took a 'compatibility quiz,' I have been getting these mail messages that prompt me to evaluate my life - I mean RIGHT NOW! and determine whether Astrology.com should jump in to help by sending me a 2-3 page analysis based on my birth time and whether I am currently standing on my head or laying on my elbow. For only $19.95.

Obviously a WHOLE lot of people are desperate enough to pay for and believe these pre-programmed documents. Otherwise, I wouldn't continue receiving them as I do, some 3 years later. I am intrigued, though, that people might believe there is one, pure soul in the entire universe meant just for them, like the prize Bob Eubanks saved for the winning Newlywed Couple on that vintage game show, and that they MUST and WILL find that one soul, and, OMIGOSH! MARRY THEM! and have the absolute perfect relationship, just like...like...SONNY AND CHER! Or BRAD PITT AND ANGELINA JOLIE! Or GEORGE CLOONEY AND - oh wait, he broke up with her - so he's still AVAILABLE! For ME!

Curse Disney Studios. There's no prince out there. Even Prince George Clooney is a clod. My friend Caroline and I had a series of lengthy discussions once about the institution of marriage, and how, when the Torah was written, the life expectancy of us mortals was literally half of what it is now, at best. That means that while the men in "Bible Times" (wink and a nod to Caroline)were allowed to - ahem - cavort, have mistresses and such, the women were more often than not in a relationship they did not choose but had to tolerate, for probably 30 years, max. The rabbis tell us that that Torah is timeless in its teachings. This is one of the grayest areas, in my opinion. The rules about relationships are contradictory, and make little sense in today's world - even though many people today are still subscribing to the Biblical interpretation. (I can think of several politicians, many entertainers, and a variety of sports figures - all in the public eye, who have chosen to be married, but carry on with a harem of sorts on the side.)

I have found that there are a number of people in my world that were, without a doubt, meant to cross my path and influence me to make me a better person. But is Terry my "soulmate?" Naaaah. He wouldn't say I'm his, either. We're human. We annoy each other. We do NOT want to be around each other all the time. But, it seems we have a sacred contract. We have agreed to help each other get through life - at least for now. For an entire life? It is absolutely ludicrous, in may opinion, to think that every couple, from the moment they decide to pledge themselves to one another, can imagine that they will still want to be around each other 50 years later.

From my observation of older couples whose marriages lasted more than 50 years, it seems like their tolerance of each others' personalities grows over time - not necessarily their love for each other. There are a few couples I have read about, or have seen, who do truly, deeply love their spouses after such a life. I think those couples are the ones who allow the individuals to flourish. They support each other's endeavors, without judgment. There is no, "Well, if you want to do that, go ahead, but don't expect me to help you." Or, "We can't spend the money on THAT - I planned to to THIS." Or even, "G-d, I love you, but sometimes you are such an idiot."

No, the couples who still fall for each other when they are REALLY falling down, are the ones who respected the person they married to begin with, and believed in them at every turn. I don't think that's what people are looking for in marriage today. With the exception of required pre-marital counseling in some churches, there is no one offering guidance on how to choose a mate that will RESPECT you - who will CARE for you and TAKE care of you. Nope - our guidance comes from the multi-media stories driven from passion. Somehow, we got hormones confused in the gene pool. Darwinian belief says that we choose a mate for reproduction based on subconscious thoughts that make us think this person will indeed help promote the strongest gene pool. Well, as we know, beauty is only one piece of the survival instinct. Not even the most important. But, unfortunately, it still operates on a subversive level.

The more attractive you are, physically, the higher your salary. It is a proven fact. Ability takes a back seat. I believe it was a book by Malcolm Gladwell that I read that examined our choices in political leadership, and demonstrated through scientific testing the truth of this inequity. In addition, height gives you an instant advantage. Whether you deserve it or not, the human population bestows immediate respect on individuals taller than the average. The next time you are in a room with someone taller than 6', watch how people behave around him/her. It is very interesting to me. That isn't to say that someone like me, short and as far from a model's appearance as one might get, can't get a good job, and be paid well - it just means that I have to work harder and longer at proving my worth, and do more negotiating to receive a salary that matches my intellect and background. Unfortunately,I have experienced this first hand over and over again.

So at this point in our evolution as a human race, I am, like nearly everyone, at odds with natural human behavior, and social mores. There is no telling how it will all play out over the course of a lifetime. But I do know that there is no dashing, brilliant, strong, romantic man out there, just waiting to catch my eye from across a crowded room or subway. It is not unlike me to give up on hazy romanticism, being of such a practical nature. As I get older, though, the reality of relationships becomes clearer. Did you know that nearly 70% of young adults marry a spouse that pleases their PARENTS, not themselves? (The other 30% is split between marrying someone your parents despise, and marrying someone you are an excellent match for, who your parents also happen to like.)I think this is true. Until you are at least 35 you really don't know what makes a good lifelong companion. So, subconsciously for most, you rely on your adult parents' reactions and instincts to what would be best for their child. In many cases, everything works out. In others, once an emotional growth spurt hits either spouse, they suddenly see their significant other with different eyes, and can no longer tolerate things that were there all along. Or, perhaps, one of the spouses feels stifled or abandoned. This is the lack of 'flourishing' mentioned above. The physical attraction is long gone.

In our ideal dreamworld, the soul mate stays attractive, is the ultimate caretaker, and supports us financially. Uh huh. We're supposed to just 'know' when we run across this demi-god. We want to feel it immediately - an intense, passionate reaction that makes us suddenly feel complete. What I am finding in my real world, more and more, is that each soul mate I encounter invisibly hands me a piece of myself I never knew I was missing. I am BECOMING complete because of each one of them. But I do not have to be carried off into the sunset by them - what a funny visual that is to me - this group of friends and loved ones all grabbing a piece of me, arms flailing to maintain my balance - as we struggle up a hill before a setting sun.

Thanks, but I think I'd rather walk with you by my side.

The path is unmarked.

2008-07-16T19:00:00.003-04:00

I recently read a quote that said, "You can't get where you're going until you know you want to leave," or something like that. I don't think I have it exactly right, but the meaning is the same. I thought about this for a while, and it took on a different form as I pondered my own situation. I know exactly where I want to be, but can't get there from here. Yet.

Well, theoretically, I guess I could, but it would have a horrible effect on my immediate family. At least that's what I think.

But what if I'm wrong?

What if I took the risk, and made an enormous life change - one that would directly impact the kids' stability? Supposedly, kids are quite resilient. What if things turned out to be even better there than here? These are the questions that make me second guess my conservative nature.

Then a little voice in my head says, quietly, "Not yet. Not yet." Well, we can't go anywhere right now anyway. There is too much work we'd have to do to the house to sell it in a market like this, and the cost of a big move is not feasible right now. A feeling of resignation sets in. I hate that feeling. I have been feeling 'resigned to my situation' for far too long. I've written about it before. Then I feel guilty for feeling that way at all. I don't have a horrible life. Stressful? Yes. Living with Crohn's day to day is annoying, but it is also like living with a ticking clock. There is no cure. Someday, at some point, the disease will advance, no matter how careful I am with my diet. Even with the experimental medication I take, a cell will mutate, and all the prevention in the world won't matter. I live with this knowledge, but it does not consume me.

Living with 3 ADD people - lovely, wonderful, happy, funny people - is tough for me. I'm the only one who is organized. I am the only one who is mentally challenged living in clutter and dust. That means that the things that are important for my sense of calm are pretty much all handled by me, 90% of the time. They aren't lazy - they just don't see the 'stuff' like I do.

Then we have the lovely pretend-it-isn't-happening recession we're in, where inflation reminds me of the 70's, and cutting corners is turning into no more corners to cut. I try to remind myself that I have it good compared to families whose parents do not have college degrees (and many that do.) My salary is meager, but I have a salary. Terry is traveling more than ever, but his paycheck is steady. I do try to think of ways I can use my art for financial gain, but most ideas I have require an initial outlay that I cannot support.

I read about an artist who sold a percentage of his sales to an investor who gave him the start up funding he needed. Basically, the idea is to market yourself as a company, and sell a stake in the proceeds. As with any venture capitalist, the investor was taking the chance that the artist may not succeed, and that the seed money would be gone. This little side story does not have a surprise ending - it didn't turn out to be Picasso. Nope - this guy is just another struggling artist. Whether the investor will recoup his funding remains to be seen.

I know I have a number of people who support what I do. But again, I can't quite figure out how to pull it all off. Part of my issue is that I have more than one direction I could go in. I do not have the business acumen to know which direction would be the most profitable. Then, too, I have the old artist adage ringing in my ears, "Never sell out to commercialism. True artists need to create what is inside them."

All this constant evaluation of my situation makes me just want to scream sometimes. Why am I in such a frustrating corner? If the psychological modus operandi is true- we create our own situations so that we can learn from them - then I am failing class. All I'm learning is how to tread water. I think I nailed that at Ajcomcee (remember that cute little acronym for Camp AJCC?)

Of course I also have other memories from day camp - some good, some horrific - like the time my bathing suit came off in the water when I went off the high dive. The older I get, the harder is is to just 'bloom where I'm planted.' I am restless inside, and cannot quell the feeling. I journal about it. I stay active. (Okay, I don't exercise like I should, but I'm not a slug.)

So I've set a goal in my head. I'm almost afraid to. If I set this goal in stone, how will I feel if I fail, or G-d forbid - I am 'too late?' I guess I can't worry about that. I put this golden (not red) flag in my mind, and will do everything I can to work towards it. I hope that, being a goal oriented individual, having this date and vague intention will give me a sense of calm, a sense of direction.

I know not the road to get to where I'm going, metophorically speaking. But I do know I need to begin on I-75 headed south. Maybe by the time I have packed the house and am ready to go, gas will be back down to $3.00 a gallon!

Well, a girl can dream, can't she?

The Narratives

2008-07-07T21:49:00.007-04:00

ABOVE:

Heart of a Woman

Acrylic, Collage, Marker on Canvas 22 X 28 (NOTATION: Sides of the canvas inscribed with selected words from "Place in the World for a Gambler" by the late Dan Fogelberg)

Welcome to a new chapter in this artist's development. For some time, I have been contemplating a way to integrate my narratives with the paintings that speak so clearly to me. A few years ago, I began experimenting with a new method of applying paint. In the process, 'ghost images' began to appear in my work. I do not define these abstracted figures as ghosts per se, but they do feel like spirits trying to communicate to the viewer. It seems to me these images want their stories 'told.' As I do not have an interest in writing novels, or even short stories, I struggled with the means to complete the paintings. The images themselves seem to be incomplete - not from a compositional point of view, but that merely giving a title to a painting does precious little to explain what I am seeing and hearing in the image.

Recently I came across the new medium of stories being told via the internet in installments. As in serial comics of the past, the story was written first, and then illustrations created for visual interest. In my case, however, I will not be posting 'chapters' to maintain a sense of suspense - but rather the messages that each of these images projects. This then, is a completely new and creative endeavor. To my knowledge, this has never been done before.

What is this woman's story? What does the moment captured in time tell us about where she has been, who she is, and what she is doing?

Send me your answers to these questions, your ideas via blog comments or via email. I will then compile them, along with my own interpretations into a narrative about the painting. Yes, I will certainly give you written credit! Raise a glass as we toast together to blazing a new path!

G-d? What, exactly, does 'honor' mean?

2008-07-02T12:12:00.004-04:00

The annual trek to the white sands of the Redneck Riviera was as lazy and relaxing as I'd hoped. I so looked forward to being on my own internal clock's schedule, not that of my kids. Eating only when hungry, sleeping as often as desired (less than I anticipated), choosing to stay put in the sand chair, with waves lapping at my ankles far longer than the tourists rushing to shower and get to dinner. Once headed back to Atlanta, Terry and I remarked just how quickly those 5 days passed.

Having promised Terry's mother that we would stop in on our way back, we breathed a heavy sigh as we turned off the interstate and into Columbus. I'd like to be able to say that we look forward to those visits, as they are few and far between. But Louise is not a well woman, mentally. Never has been. The face to face contact we have, and the weekly phone calls are made from the commandment to honor thy mother. A commandment to honor -- only. She is a needy, selfish person with a variety of addictions who manipulates situations to make sure the spotlight is always on her. Despite her family's repeated attempts to get her professional help, she is a master at dodging, ducking, lying, and pretending, so that no progress is ever forthcoming.

It was not with any sense of compassion that I got out of the car to approach the group of neighbors with frantic looks on their faces. "She fainted! Twice! We called the ambulance - they have her in there now." Terry and I were in absolute disbelief that resolving this latest escapade would be the end of our vacation. I wanted to believe that something really was wrong this time - that maybe she really did need medical care. But after 6 hours waiting in ER, admittance to the intermediate cardiac unit "just to be sure," and days of tests in the hospital, the doctors found nothing.

Oh Louise was in her element. Making up symptoms, retelling the story of fainting over and over again, she couldn't have been happier with the neighbors who came to visit in the hospital. When Terry called his brother to come to Columbus to take over, his brother refused. Louise didn't want him there, either. She knew that the 'boys' would get her released immediately and the fun would be over. Fortunately for me, Terry had to leave for out of town business. I was harboring an enormous chip on my shoulder, and intense anger in my midsection. By the time we were on our way to Atlanta, we both felt that vacation had been months prior - not days. All the sense of relaxation was gone.

I truly struggle with what I perceive as my 'responsibilty' as a wife in this case. Terry has made tremendous progress healing the wounds made from his upbringing. I am as supportive and gentle as I know how to be. However, the longer I am a part of this family, the less I want to be. I have known Terry for 23 years. The only time (yes ONLY) Louise acknowledged my birthday was in the very beginning, because Terry forced her to. Neither does she acknowledge her grandchildren's birthdays. They've stopped asking why. Fortunately for me, they are old enough to understand that she is the one with the mental problem - there is nothing wrong with them.

After so many years of being ignored and disapproved, I thought I had gotten over the feeling. But old waves of emotion returned on this trip - we arrived to visit Louise the day after my birthday. Never once the entire time we were there did she say anything about it. Did I remind her? No. If I had said something like, "You know yesterday we celebrated my 45th birthday!" She would have responded with, "Really? My birthday is coming up, you know. Next week as a matter of fact." How hard is it to remember that your daughter-in-law of 19 years has a birthday not long before your own? Of course it is a rhetorical question. The truth is that I am not the kind of girl she wanted her son to marry. She wants nothing to do with me. I have never catered to her addictions or fed into her co-dependency. She doesn't like me. I represent having to work hard to actually get better.

So I am back to concern of - how long is long enough to put up with this behavior? 'For the sake of the grandchildren?' Ha! Once they were old enough to realize she didn't really care about them, these grandchildren were off her radar. At some point during the last 2 years - I can't remember exactly when, she said, "I have some pictures for you." I thought this was a wonderful gesture. We have hardly any photographs of Terry's family. Imagine my shock when the large manila envelope she handed me contained all the pictures of my OWN children that she no longer wanted! It took me some months to realize that once they were old enough not to be 'bought' with toys and stuffed animals, they were of no use to her.

I've been unable to really focus on any of the projects I wanted to complete while I was home this week and next. You see, Terry's brother is having the Stein clan (yes, including Louise, assuming she is 'well enough' to make the trip) for the 4th of July, and the days that follow. With the exception of my sister-in-law and my nieces, I have no reason to be there. Why should I endure more of the same? I'm not certain how my absence might impact Terry, but I think I have gritted my teeth and girded myself against this toxic situation long enough. Just because I am married to a man does that mean I must continually expose myself to the negativity that is his family? The older I get, the less I think so.

Fortunately for me, I have a very loving and sane set of parents. They will be home on the 4th. I think it would be much healthier for me to spend my time with them. Dad has had a rough go of it lately; recovering from a bought with pneumonia is how he spent his June. Mom has had a rough go of it lately - Dad had pneumonia. (One eye open, sleeping on the couch but listening out for him...) Mom, in her classical Jewish Mother way of speaking asked, but didn't ask if I would be spending any time with them while the kids are at camp. Yes, Mom, I think I will.

Face the music...

2008-06-17T21:49:00.005-04:00

Several months ago, I created a Facebook page because it was the only way to receive information for an event to which Rachel was attending. I truly did not want to be a part of what I considered the current teen phenomenon of IM and fast hook ups. I never signed back in until recently, when I received an email from a friend asking for permission to access my Facebook page. I had completely forgotten about it.

Revisiting the site, and seeing other people's pages taught me a great deal about how kids communicate today. Social cliques are equally as prevalent on Facebook and MySpace as they are in locker rooms. On these applications, however, you can follow conversations that used to be secretive. I am not shocked at the language and topics of discussion. What else can we expect from a culture that inundates children with images of sexual content and discussion on TV that they watch with their friends and parents, in movies, and in the novels and magazines they read? Their confusion is evident in these online chats, though they don't realize it.

Even in the song lyrics and music videos that are shared among common groups, the themes are hard-edged. One of the teens I have taught and kept up with created a fun and clever version of "Name That Tune" that appears on his Facebook page. I didn't know a single song, and am glad I don't. The lyrics are repetitive, mundane, banal. I decided to make my own version of his quiz as a challenge. In doing so, I realized that the songs on my own iPod tell stories. I suddenly understood why I so dislike rap and hip-hop. True poetry relies on symbolism, metaphor, meter, and inflection to create visual imagery for the reader/listener. Rap, it is argued, is a form of poetry. True, to some extent. I find, though, there is nothing but anger in those poems. No beauty, no sentiment, no observation. The lyrics of this movement are raw, forceful, in your face.

I do not derive pleasure from these songs. Andrew, for the moment, does not like this genre either. I am glad. He doesn't understand why people enjoy getting screamed at. Thank God for common sensibility. I hope it sticks.... Maybe it is because the only thing he has to be angry about is that I made him cut his bangs shorter than he wanted to. He doesn't feel the sense of entitlement so prevalent in the rap community. He doesn't want for basic needs. He feels secure in his surroundings. Thinking about my students, I find that there just might be a psychological basis for the subculture of this horrific (my opinion) music genre that defames and disrespects women and authority. Of course sticking it to the man goes back many generations. But the extent to which this music encourages criminal and dangerous behavior is frightening. The mix of not-yet developed brains and idiotic suggestions (keep a semi automatic weapon handy, and your stash of ecstasy - you never know when the right opportunity might present itself! And if it doesn't, create it.) is a recipe for disaster.

We know that the human brain is not completely developed until after the age of 20. In the final years of growth, some of the last pieces of the puzzle include higher level rational thinking and the ability to make decisions regarding altered states of impairment. That's one of the reasons so many teens have accidents when driving - whether or not they are under the influence of drugs or alcohol. The kids I know who really like rap and hip hop music, not just because it is what the DJs play at dance parties, are ones with unstable home lives. Of course I am making a huge generalization here. I have not done a double-blind study with multiple variables and appropriate control groups. I am going solely on my own observation.

In other words, these kids feel they have a reason to be angry. They make an inappropriate leap about the ghetto environment and their own situations. So they buy into the lyrics, and derive power from the beat and volume. I shake my head. How sad. At last they find something with which they can identify - and it ain't good. There are a number of amazing musicians coming up, though. Storytelling in music is making a comeback. Songs about love, loss, tragedy, pain - they still make the Top 40, and speak to us. And my young teenaged friend even knew some of the songs I have on my iPod! So there is a bright side to this bizarre online community. Actually I found many.

Number one - it's fun! Secondly, it allows me to keep up with close friends in a way that I could not before. It also gives me an opportunity to see what my own kids are up against socially as they head to the high school years. It exposes me to all kinds of media that I never would have sought on my own. For an adult who is able to filter out things I don't want to see, this is a great tool. For the youngsters exploring, it is a minefield. But I'd much rather be prepared and experienced than blind-sided.
Facebook is no longer just for the under 30 crowd (fortunately....) Want to be my friend? I'll have to check you out first.

Just what IS art anyway?

2008-06-08T20:27:00.003-04:00

As I race to keep up with the increasing amount of technology required to be a student and teacher of the Fine Arts, the kinds of classes and seminars I am investigating blur the separation between art and computer. The definition of art is necessarily vague. But, as the Founding Fathers never foresaw or anticipated the ways in which the Bill of Rights and Constitution would be interpreted, what falls under the heading of "art" nowadays is nothing like what the Masters envisioned.

I do understand the place that technology has in aiding an artist to create. I do not, however, value art that is created with the intent of using a computer or digital camera merely for the sake of taking 'short cuts.' Some art, created with a computer produces a more perfect line that an artist's hand can create. An artist I know well creates geometric and often tessellated images using a computer program. These base images are then used as a background layer upon which the artist paints. Trying to create such geometric shifts would be nearly impossible by hand. Even printing the forms using a carved block would not create the uniformity in design and pattern that she seeks.

As for the digital camera, it is both friend and foe. While the age of the 'slide' (how our vacation photographs were enjoyed prior to the advent of web galleries and PowerPoint presentations) is slowly creeping into oblivion, the technological age has made sharing our photos both easier and more prolific. For a traditional artist, location shots, floral close ups, and multiple exposures of the same image in varying light settings are advantages that cannot be replaced, even by en plein air work. But the digital camera has also become a crutch. Every photo can be manipulated infinitely, so that the artist creates an image of the preferred view and composition, instead of what nature provides.

Recently, I took a class on Photoshop basics to get a few questions answered that I could not resolve on my own. The instructor is a professional photographer who made it clear that the industry approves of the air brushing, re-touching, and modification of any image. In fact, she explained ways to use the program to create scrapbook pages instead of actually creating the pages by hand. This idea struck me as both 'fake' and insincere. Part of the beauty of scrapbooking is in the tactile approach to the medium. Creating the same page on a computer would 'look' real, but would be completely flat. I enjoy compiling the layers of paper, color, and other media. Each page is, in effect, a work of art. The same end result, generated on a computer, loses the personal touch and feeling.

I also disagree with the overwhelming amount of re-touching done in all visual media today. She demonstrated, for a birth announcement, how to change the color of the baby's skin, so as to match the background paper for color harmony. Something about that process rubs me the wrong way. Of course, I have only to look at history to see why our modern world accepts such ideas. Prior to the invention of the daggeurotype (the predecessor to the camera), portraits were painted to make the sitter appear beautiful no matter how jaundiced their skin, or how black their teeth. It is true that pounds were added and lost on the easel, to enhance the appearance of Sir Moneybags, or Queen Gilded-age.

But, I am one who believes in b'tzelem elohim. The face of G-d appears in each of us. A person's beauty is reflected from their soul outwardly. We can see a life written in the age lines on a face and in the sparkle of a loved one's eyes. I would not want to soften a single crow's foot. The story of an image is in the imperfections - not the repairs. Indeed, all true artists know that a painting itself is a journey - a path on which the student learns.

So although I do admit to using the digital camera to record information, you won't find me using Photoshop to make you appear thinner. "I love you just the way you are." I do promise to post only those images which place people, places, and things in a positive light. I will do my best to let the artist in me create, while giving my viewer the chance to contemplate and appreciate fine arts as I define them.

(For those of you not schooled in art history, I will explain in another post how a canvas painted completely white can be a masterpiece. Be on the lookout for it!)

A Dolphin or a Poipise?

2008-06-01T16:15:00.003-04:00

I've often pondered what it is that makes us 'get up, get out and live.' I know that people who lose a sense of purpose often become ill, or depressed. Oftentimes, both - as one leads to the other. The common advice given to many who are fighting mild forms of depression is to volunteer their time. Partly, this is a way for that person to have a reason to get dressed and leave the safety and darkness of their surroundings. Depending on the situation, it can also be a means of showing that person that he or she could most certainly be in a worse situation. In other words - go see how lucky you are. Counting our blessings helps us stay focused on what's going well in our lives, instead of what's not.

I understand how difficult it is to maintain a positive attitude when the chemical make up of someone's brain doesn't allow for the serotonin to jump across the synapses. The pharmaceutical industry develops drugs based on what the medical community identifies as the greatest needs - with cost basis analysis having a big say in the process. But in the end, it is still a crap shoot to tell someone who is suffering to take a pill, and assume that it will magically take away the negative feelings. Human beings are individuals. We cannot predict how our bodies might react or not react to the introduction of other chemicals.

After observing a lot of people over many years, I do believe that a person's mental stability has a lot more to do with whether they feel they matter in the world. There is an important semantic distinction here. It does NOT matter whether someone ELSE thinks that they are important. Warding off loneliness and depression has more to do with our own interpretation of self-worth.

Now I'm not a trained psychiatrist, and I don't play one on TV. But I don't think it is rocket science to understand that no matter how many times you say to a person, "You are loved by so many people!" does absolutely nothing to help someone who is depressed. They probably won't believe it. They have to think that, loved or not, that they do indeed have gifts to offer the world - unique ones - and that the world would be altered none for the better in their absence.

To pare it all down to a very simplistic view, we all need to believe that who we are, and what we can do...is helpful. I see this in the kids I teach. I see it in my friends and relatives. We still carry with us the voice of our inner child who is screaming for their parents to shower them with unconditional love and praise. I can identify, without ever meeting the parents, which students do not get positive feedback from their parents. These are the kids who will grow up to be hypochondriacs because the only time they are heard is when they are sick or injured. Kids WANT to help. They only want to feel good about who they are. If they do not get that all important stroking at home, they will spend a lifetime searching for it.

So what does this say to us about handling moments or days or months of depression or feelings of loneliness? It is a reminder to try and see what's really causing the pain. The pain is true. It is not imagined. Is it a chemical imbalance? Your body isn't suddenly going to manufacture hormones if it never did before. Take prescription drugs, if that's what works. But if the issue is one of thinking that nothing you do or say is really worthwhile, stop and really hear what your soundtrack is playing. The value of your self-worth must come from inside you, not from your boss. Not from your spouse, not from your kids. And, not from your parents. I think most everyone reading this blog is grown up (well, on the outside, anyway.) Your parents aren't going to suddenly become the people you wish they were. They are still hearing THEIR inner child, too!

So it all gets passed down from one generation to the next, until we stop and recognize that only WE are in control of how we react to the messages we hear. As children all we can do is absorb pain and hurt. As adults however, we have been given the ability to understand, to empathize, and to forgive. Doing so allows us to move on, out of the shadows into the sunlight. The month of Elul is not so far away. Why wait? Look inside, and let go of the sadness. Give joy a place to live. Need someone to tell you how awesome you are and why? Email me. I'll give it to you straight. (Even if I'm NOT your mom!) But it probably won't help you much until you believe me. Be gentle with one another. We are ALL, each one of us created b'tzelem elohim - in the image of G-d. Every one of us has something to contribute that makes the world a better place than it was before we were here. Whether we choose to use those gifts is entirely up to us. Choose to make a difference. As hard as it may be some days (believe me, I have them too) - get up, get out, and LIVE!

Meeting qualifications

2008-05-26T19:23:00.000-04:00

One of my classes this year pitted my most talented students together with beginners who didn't know anything at all about art. Almost immediately, the bar for this group was set higher than what I expected of even my advanced class. I didn't realize I had been doing this until recently. It took the culmination of a year to remind me what impressionable brains are capable of.

Keep in mind, as I weave my tale, that I was not trained in a university program to teach art. In fact, I did not begin my art journey until after Andrew was born, and never took ANY classes on how to teach art to middle schoolers. My teaching degree is in middle school language arts and social sciences. I did take the state exams for certification in art, and passed them. But for what projects to assign, and what curriculum to teach, I wrote my own. When I presented the program to the principal at the time, lobbying for a job that would reduce the tuition for my own children, I was careful to mark the presentation as copyrighted. I knew that it wasn't what most teachers would teach for this age group. But I cannot tolerate anything less than challenging. So, like it or not, the kids learn art history along with a high school level curriculum that teaches them how to make ART, not crafts. I did not know this is what I was teaching until several high school students came back after taking art in high school to tell me that 9th and 10th grade art was a breeze since they already knew what was being taught.

Along with being on the faculty list comes being the recipient of all kinds of junk and valid mail from all sorts of vendors, societies, and organizations. Some of these mailings are solicitations for contest entries. Some contests I have found through other avenues. Through trial and error, I have determined which contests, local and national, are valid judges of artistic ability. Not all are worth entering.

Some consistently give top awards to students who take private lessons. I consider such classes as unfair advantage. Other programs give no prizes and expect the art teacher to present the work for hanging already framed - as if I have the time to do so! This school year, I felt I had finally hit on the right combination of contests that would allow every student a chance to enter a piece with a personal attachment, but that would minimize the amount of work required by me on the back end.

As the results of the contests began arriving, I announced the winners in class. Much to my (very pleasant) surprise, we had a winner in every single contest we entered. "Oh, isn't that nice!" I hear someone say. Well, nice - yes. The more accurate word is astounding. Such success in a school with fewer than 250 students is unheard of.

I still can't get over it. These are state and national contests - not local ones. One of my 6th graders won a state level award for the middle school category! She was competing against 6th, 7th AND 8th graders. Another student won a state level prize and will be published in a national magazine. A third student has the honor of her work being the cornerstone of the Atlanta Humane Society's "Be Kind to Animals" campaign. Another student's entry was the only Judaic one selected for the Children's Healthcare Greeting Cards Fundraiser for next year. The awards kept coming and coming. What struck me very recently, though, is that all of the winners, except one who I have taught before, are in the one class I mentioned above.

I didn't teach them any differently than any other class. I did, however, force them to keep editing their work all year, until it was the absolute best they thought it could be. In my other classes, the range of behavior,discipline, and learning issues does not permit this kind of tenacity. It was a factor of the makeup of the student body.

This successful group of students inherently grasps composition, design principles, and color theory. They guide each other. "No, don't use blue. You won't have color harmony. Try green." or "Will somebody look at this and tell me where you see the focal point?" Even as the class fell into predictable cliques, they all helped each other grow into phenomenal student artists. They were truly happy for their fellow students who won awards.

This is the kind of success every teacher dreams of. (At least I do...) I keep looking back over what techniques I used to produce such a positive classroom environment. I don't change my style from class to class. I teach all my students more-or-less the same way. (The exceptions are related to kids with attention and behavior issues.) The train of thought led me to a concept with which I have long grappled. The GA Public Service Commission, which grants teaching certificates, doesn't see fit to renew my license unless I go back to college and get a degree in teaching art, specifically. I want to say to them, "What, are you nuts? Come see what these kids produce, and then tell me I don't know what I'm doing." But this is the government we're talking about, and regulations aren't set up to reward success. They are set up to get warm bodies who follow the rules into a classroom, whether or not the person can relate to children.

So I am facing a bit of a dilemma. Over the summer, I will be investigating the possibility of any back doors into getting the certificate renewal, but at the moment, it doesn't look promising. The situation screams of insanity. So what determines whether I am truly qualified to teach art? The classes I have taken, or the success of the students? I'm sure you know how I would answer.

Back to Nature

2008-05-21T19:26:00.002-04:00

My longtime readers know that I have written about deer in our neighborhood. In the past couple of years, I have learned more about their habits, and am seeing them and their tracks more frequently. Too, I wrote about a black cat a few years ago. She had taken up residence in our basement ceiling. Perhaps you will enjoy this update as much as I relished in the events that bring it to you.

A couple of weeks ago, the homeowners' distribution received an email from one of the residents asking us to be on the lookout for a pet who had gone missing. I was so afraid that the cat described had been a coyote's appetizer, as is frequently the case in our area now. We've gotten several warnings about the coyotes, and I have read numerous newspaper accounts of local trappings. I have heard the coyotes myself, at first not realizing that I was not hearing a pack of dogs. It did not take long to differentiate the sound. Just the next day we got an email from one of the neighbors warning us that a coyote had not backed away from him as he took out his trash.

So, I learned to keep an eye out early in the morning, and late at night. As I pulled into the driveway at twilight recently, I saw an animal dart around the front of the house past the garage, into the backyard. It, whatever it was, moved too quickly to be identified. When I got out of the car, I heard a familiar sound. A loud 'meowing' guided me to the back steps where I saw the familiar black cat facing me with a scowl. I must have interrupted a chipmunk chase. This time, however, I knew the visitor. She fit the exact description of the email from the neighbors. When I tried to get close enough to grab her, she scurried further into the yard. I, in my classic 'Here we go again mentality' bent down and cooed to her to come to me. She obeyed. I picked her up, and took her inside to give the neighbors a call. She wasn't too sure about coming inside via the door, but I held onto her tightly enough so she could not escape.

The neighbors came right away, and as I was handing the cat to them, she leapt and high-tailed it around the house again. Fortunately, they were not discouraged. They thanked me profusely and ran home to get some things they knew would entice the cat into their arms. I was so glad that the story had a happy ending. The cat is a pet of their mentally disabled daughter, and would be a tough loss for the young lady, had our original fears been realized. Now, if I see Zipper (So that's her name!)I'll know who to call!

And now for a tiny bit of Mother Nature evening the score. You all know, if you have been reading for a long time, how I feel about my neighbor's koi fountain. These folks had the audacity to keep running the thing through the drought, shutting it off only after repeated citations from the city. I believe they had moved the fish to their backyard pond, constructed after the completion of the fountain. But maybe not, since I haven't been on their grass in 4 years.

Anyway, it was an early morning. We had to be at the airport at 5:30am to collect the world traveler known as Rachel. So before the sun rose, and while the frogs were still croaking from another neighbor's pool, I rolled the recycling bins down to the curb. Only a few steps out of the garage, I heard quick footsteps. My brain didn't register the sound accurately - my immediate thought turned back to the coyotes. I stopped dead in my tracks. What a glorious site it was to see deer scurrying away from the fountain! You go, girls! There's something so deliciously ironic about this. I couldn't be happier, knowing the fountain (which is back on)is providing a water source to the wildlife that the construction (destruction) of their yard invaded. I worry a bit about the coyotes preying on the deer, but the fact that they are still around gives me a sense of hope. Maybe nature has a bit of a chance after all to win the war against habitat destruction! Darwin was right - it isn't the one with the most money who wins. It is the one who is the most adaptable. Right now, it appears the score is even. Hooray!

Lesser is Morer

2008-05-11T12:00:00.001-04:00

Tevye had it right. After contemplating the changing world around him, weighing old notions in one hand, and new ideas in the other, he realized there were no other hands with which to evaluate his youngest daughter's request. I'm out of appendages as well. The vessel in which my soul and spirit reside has always been a sputtering contraption of parts, it seems. Part of me doesn't digest certain foods, another part of me started creating connections where they didn't belong, and of course I have the pleasure of being the world's most prolific stone developer, unmatched in size and quantity.

With my assortment of odd maladies, I am followed by an excellent specialist who requires blood testing periodically. I am a good patient - I go get poked at regular intervals. So, when some of my numbers spiked recently, red flags weren't enough - flares went up. I just have the type of metabolism that mismanages micronutrients. I guess it is a microscopic version of the Jewish mother trying to maintain control. Or, maybe I just keep on creating, long after the lights are out in the studio.

My internist, who is in contact with my specialist, found himself in an odd situation. I would definitely benefit from losing a few pounds. I know this, and he knows this. BUT...there is a correlation between losing weight and gall stone production. I cannot afford for my body to increase stone production more than it already does. I have already been in a life-threatening situation once with this same issue. So he was perplexed as to which way to guide me. If I maintain my current weight, it puts stress on the major organs and joints, and changes the way my body metabolizes. In addition, I have a genetic pre-disposition for unusually high cholesterol, even with a low cholesterol diet.

So, which is the least risky route to take? Hmmm...artery clogging and heart stress, or bile duct blockage affecting liver function. Let's roll the dice, shall we? Upon hearing this lovely tidbit of a medical dilemma, I called Terry and left a voicemail. I was laughing, but he could hear the frustration in my voice. I've been so good about eating! I don't drink alcohol. I don't even take pain relievers anymore, so as not to tax my liver. I haven't exercised like I used to, but that's because if I make time to do it, I will fall over from exhaustion. I'm already enduring stress fatigue from the liver dysfunction(from the gall stone business) and a lack of B-12 absorption from a prior surgery. So, back on B-12 I'll go. But there are no guarantees that the medication I'll be taking again to inhibit stone production will work completely.

I sometimes wonder whether all the advances in medicine are a good thing. In my case,
I often feel as if I'm Dorothy watching the red sand trickle through the hour glass.
There are no 'cures' for what besets me. I'm merely biding my time until the combination of confused organs simply causes a giant traffic snarl in my body. On the positive side (there is one?) the new technology allows for the stone removal without major surgery...for now. Unfortunately, my body cannot tolerate too many more of those, either. I know that my family is blessed that I was treated in time two years ago. It gave me two more years to be here, doing whatever it is that I do.

I wonder though, what the 'added' benefit is to a longer life, if it is beset with continuous ailments. "Quality of life" is a valid concern. Just how much should we experiment and tweak treatments if yet other maladies prevail? When do we say, "UNCLE!" ? (Not the man from....)

Strict subscribers to Torah say to prolong a life....to choose life. Many generations before me have faced situations far more dire and excruciating than mine. I have been fighting for life, off and on, for 26 years. I'm tired. I know that when I wake up tomorrow morning, I will find new resolve to forge ahead. After all, school is almost out, and the beach is calling.

But for right now, right this moment, I can't help but question the effort. I won't do anything drastic - so you don't need to call me and give me the number to the suicide hotline. When I sang the MiShebeirach this morning, I didn't think to ask someone to mention my own name. But I'm asking you to. Or, if you have any old wives' tales, or folk remedies for changing my body chemistry, feel free to share. I draw the line at wearing garlic, however. After all, that was probably one of the ingredients in "Stone Soup."

The apple and the tree

2008-05-04T14:22:00.008-04:00

It was with great joy that Terry and I said farewell to Rachel as she boarded the bus that would take her to the airport, and on to Israel. This 3-week trip of 70 14 year olds and their chaperones is the culminating event of their day school education. Rachel has had many of these kids in her classes for nine years. Over that time, parents have divorced and remarried, 2 were diagnosed and successfully treated for leukemia, a few moved away or transferred to other schools, and a few new students joined the ranks. For those of you who know Rachel personally, you are well aware of just how meaningful this trip is for her.

She has been taught by example that it is her responsibility to heal the world. She cares deeply about aiding rescued animals, and helping mentally and physically disabled kids and teens to experience moments of happiness. She is a young woman whose love knows no boundaries, and whose heart is bigger than all of us. Rachel knows first-hand how it feels to be teased, left out, and whispered about.

As parents of a child with developmental difficulties, and symptoms of Asperger's syndrome, we have worked hard to make sure Rachel understands just how valuable she is to the world, and that she could succeed at anything if willing to work hard enough. She has EXceeded our expectations. She has grown into an accomplished performer with an "A" average, racking up awards right and left for academics, musicianship, acting, and acts of loving kindness.

She continues to amaze us. She doesn't really understand how her inability to understand social cues, conventions or mores has made her time in middle school even more difficult than most kids her age encounter. With coaching and love, she learned to accept the lack of the kind of friendships she saw around her on a daily basis. As her classmates matured, they moved from snide remarks about Rachel's quirks to ignoring them, and her. Although she was invited to the many simchas, as required by school rules, she was never once asked for a dance. Only once did another girl call and invite her out, although Rachel made several attempts to initiate social outings.

So, as the preparations for the Israel trip began, she beamed brighter and brighter. She does not see this trip as an ending, like many of her peers do. She sees it as the beginning of a love affair with her homeland. She is fiercely proud of her religion, even as she struggles with understanding "God" - as we all do. For her to be able to make this trip, without her mother as her safety net, is a huge step for this courageous young lady. Having already made one overseas trip without parents was a huge boost to her confidence.

Just a few weeks ago, she and I were talking, as we often do, about why it is a good thing that she is who she is, and is not more like me. She admitted that just months ago she finally realized I was right. Up until that time, she struggled mightily to be just like the angelic vision of her mother that she held in her head and heart. Life looks so easy for me from her point of view. I can do so many things at once, and learning things is a snap. I remember everything, and hold the house and family together. I'm musical. The kids at school love me. I have friends. Why wouldn't she want to be like me?

I finally helped her to understand just how much of my life was spent alone. I was able to compare myself to another peer of hers who intimidates the other students by her sheer intelligence. This other student has few friends - because no one can relate to her vocabulary. I know the feeling. I used to pretend to make mistakes just to hear people say, "See? I told you! She's NOT perfect!" Eventually, of course, I figured out that the acting business wasn't my best course of action. I LIKED learning. I craved it. I still do.

As the medical field learns more about autism spectrum, more information is being published about this unique brain-based "disorder." I am reading an autobiography by an autistic savant who is a successful communicator. In it, he is able to describe how he sees the world, and how he thinks. I was only somewhat surprised to find that I could relate to so many things he discusses. I've always known I was "different" from everyone else I'd ever come across. I won't go so far as to self-diagnose myself as autistic, but many of the benchmarks are there. My sensory sensitivities. My unusual ability for recall. My need/preference to be alone. My extreme reactions to startling sounds. My creative abilities. My need for order, organization, and structure. The list goes on and on. In my case, there was no 'diagnosis' - I was just labelled bright, quiet, a model student. Now I see why I despised summer camp. Aside from being the target of bullying, being thrown into an unfamiliar environment with constant changes in structure is not a good situation for someone like me. It makes perfect sense in this perspective. My room at home was a haven. (Funny that I lived on a street called High Haven.)

By the time I was in high school, I finally had friends and had developed self-coping mechanisms in large group settings. I found laughter to be cathartic. It was the only way I could express emotion without feeling vulnerable. I found one blessed friend with whom I could truly be myself. Without her I would still be alone. The young men I "dated" all ended up gay. Of the few who did not, I only saw them once. I'm not joking.

And so, I shed tears of joy for Rachel, knowing this trip will be a beginning for her - not an ending. Knowing that she has a greater chance of making friends who are more tolerant in the drama program she will soon enter, I hold my breath. I hope for her what every parent wishes for their child. Nothing more than her safe return, then health and happiness, on her own terms. Of course, that's all she really wants from life anyway - to be loved by her peers for who she is. She is indeed just like her mother.

Chugga...chugga...

2008-04-28T16:02:00.009-04:00

I know I've officially migrated to the 'older' generation. (at least according to the youth of today - kids I mean - not the band from the 80's for those who heard of it) Recently, two experiences gave me the eyebrow-lifting awareness. You know - how you feel when a reaction causes you to raise your eyebrows in disbelief.

At the suggestion of an acquaintance, I accompanied Rachel to see "Pippin" at a local high school. I LLLLOOOOOVVVEEEEE Pippin. It has a special place in my heart, being the first true stage performance that I saw my best childhood friend perform in. He was attending the local high school for the performing arts at the time, and had the privilege of being under the tutelage of a man who later produced on Broadway. My friend is now a recording star in Europe. (No, he doesn't cross over the Atlantic. He lives in Germany.) Anyway, the show was beyond amazing back then. I could not believe I was watching a bunch of high schoolers.

Fast forward to the other night. The show was beyond amazing. I could not believe I was watching a bunch of high schoolers. It wasn't my inclination to see the show in a good light to begin with, I assure you. If anything, I would be hyper critical. The lead, the young man who played Pippin (Charlemagne's son) was far BETTER than John Rubenstein, who played the role on Broadway with Ben Vereen. This kid, barely over 5' tall, has an extraordinary singing voice, and a phenomenally expressive face. When you watch him, you can't take your eyes off him. He doesn't let you. In addition to him were two veterans of the stage, one who had toured in "Seussical" until he got too tall for the costume, and the other who I remembered seeing as the Tin Man in Kenny Leon's local version of "The Wiz." Also in this production were a hilarious young Jewish kid playing the part of Berthe (Pippin's grandmother) - he played it as a Bubbe, and a well-built African-American playing Pippin's half-brother (and competitor.) This was just the guys! (And that's not all of them!!!!) The two female leads, a third girl who was flawless in her comic delivery, and the main female chorus leads were all incredible.

Rachel and I both had the same reaction - the only thing that this show needed to actually run on Broadway was a fuller, more seasoned orchestra. I know that times have changed. These kinds of performances did not exist at the high school level when I was that age. I know. I was in them. I don't know whether it is the cultural climate of the city, or the pool of talent that is coming up, but the shows being staged locally with kids are truly unbelieveable. Of course, I may just be getting old and sympathetic, as well as soft around the edges (okay, the middle too) but I don't think so. I have a bar to compare to.

It is loads of fun to watch, that's for sure! Don't need to pay hundreds of dollars to be entertained. Go see a high school concert or stage production. I was thinking that maybe they practice more than we did, or more than my friend did in his show, but I don't think so. I just think the expectations are higher, and the kids deliver. So, okay, I'm "old" according to these kids. That doesn't bother me. I certainly can't keep up with their energy.

I thought it was a little surprising though, to be though of as "old and wise." I'm not "hip" any more. (Not that I care - never did.) In a class recently, one of my better students was truly depressed that she did not win or even place in any of the contests she had entered. Truth is, she's holding back from putting in her paintings what they need. Her emotions. She is a perfectionist. She prefers straight edges, clean graphic design. It has its place, but not if she wants to win awards. I've been watching her struggle all year - she's in an awkward place in her mental and emotional growth. She'll come out of it, but not until she's ready to let people see who she really is. As she was painting a project that does not allow for neatness, she lamented that it wasn't turning out the way she wanted. I had warned her of this, knowing that she would not like the fact that the process had more control than she did for this one.

As she sat, still painting long after everyone else had finished, I reminded her to just "let it go," on this one anyway. Another student asked her why she was such a perfectionist. She didn't answer. I did. I said, very matter of factly, "She's afraid that if she makes a mistake, everyone will find out who she REALLY is." She put down her paint brush, and turned to look at me with her jaw three feet below its usual position and responded, "How did you KNOW THAT?" Well, the truth is, and I told her, that I have been in her place, and have had all those same nightmares about it.

The bell rang, and she walked out of the class mumbling that I should be a psychiatrist or psychologist, not a teacher. I do tend to analyze everything. I have always been interested in how the brain works. But, I think what I'm doing is loads more fun. It keeps me young. At this rate, that's a good thing!!!

Resignation

2008-04-13T19:32:00.002-04:00

No, I'm not giving up my teaching position. It brings me great joy. I've been struggling for months to find a way to market my own artwork, not my students'. But every method I think of requires more of my time and finances than are available right now. When an opportunity to enter a show comes along, I have to think long and hard about whether to pay the $50 entry fee, along with getting the piece(s) framed. Even though I do the framing myself, a show has yet to give me any return on my investment, other than the self-satisfaction of being accepted.
A few months ago, I was given the opportunity to participate in a show with no entry fee. It was local, which meant no shopping and insurance, and only one of the pieces wasn't already framed. So I submitted my images, and of course, the one piece that needed to be framed was selected for the show.
The show hung for 6 weeks, and I had signed up to help take down the pieces at closing. I went, and met 2 of the 'officers' of the organization sponsoring the event. I had a lengthy discussion with one of them about my struggle to balance teaching full time with getting my own career off the ground. She, it turns out, had been in exactly the same position in the past. She found that she had to minimize her goal to participating in one show a year, producing only as much artwork as she could while maintaining high quality. I understand implicitly. I can't rush my paintings. They unfold as I have time to attend to them. But as my own children enter that stage of very busy teenagehood without the ability to get themselves to all their activities, I finally admitted to myself that as much as I feel defeated, my art will have to wait.
I can't put that much stress on myself. With the economy the way it is, art is a luxury that mid-range income earners tend to eliminate purchasing. So, I cannot justify quitting a job that is helping us financially in two ways - lowering tuition while bringing a steady paycheck home. In four more years, Rachel will be headed off to college (or to the cruise lines) and Andrew will learn how to drive. Then, I will have the time available to devote to producing, cataloguing, and marketing my art. It has been suggested that I develop a line of Judaic holiday cards. I have been asked to paint murals in people's bedrooms. I have even been asked to consult as an interior designer. (I had to laugh at that one.) But the reality is that I want to continue to paint and to develop a style that touches the spirituality in my viewers. My artwork has always been symbolic and full of meaning. I can't justify making commercial art based on this year's interior palettes. That's what some artists do.
So I am willing (I think) to let myself off the hook at least for a while, and accept that I will not be able to teach and paint at the same time. At least not until my kids are a little more self-sufficient. Thus, I have resigned myself to that word I despise so much...later. In the meantime, I will keep recording my ideas, and will keep working on painting when I do have time. I may even try to have a fun open house. (Art and Absolut) I'll be sure to let you know about it!

Off Kilter

2008-03-23T14:10:00.002-04:00

The other day, the Google homepage had tulips decorating the o's. I enjoy the novelty of the change from text - you never quite know what historical or cultural events the decision-makers will decide to recognize. So I sat for a moment, trying to guess what the tulips were representing.
Hmmm...was this a momentous day in Holland's history? Was it the commemoration of a botanical discovery? A botanist's birthdate? I couldn't quite place it. I was in between classes, so the time to investigate disintegrated, and I forgot about it until later. The bizarre weather that affected Atlanta recently came early, I thought. We typically hunker down just before and at Pesach. The cold air masses compete with the warm Gulf moisture, and set storms to rolling just as we begin to open the Haggadahs.
In my family, we have a long history of either plumbing or electrical problems when it comes time for seder. More than one year my mother has missed the first half of the seder altogether as she contends, generally unbeknownst to the dining room guests, with an overflowing dishwasher, digging out candles as the electricity fails, or a clogged sink because the disposal decided to abandon its post. This year, these events are highly unlikely, because Pesach falls in late April. Stormy weather usually hits sooner.
The other sign that chopped liver is just around the corner is the blossoming of Atlanta. Most years, the azaleas are just in bloom for Pesach, or are about to be. At that point, the Bradford pears have already snowed their blooms and are green, and the jonquils are fading. This year, the timing is off. Atlanta is past its first bloom, and well on the way to the yellow pine pollen event. By the time we drink to the 4 sons, it will all be gone.
As well, the change of daylight savings has been a challenge. While the light makes it feel like we're in winter in the morning, we have late evening light, without the warm temperatures we're used to for spring and summer. My body is totally confused. Then it hit me...
Oh! Of course! Google was recognizing the first day of spring with those tulips. I expected it to be something more academic. But it doesn't feel like spring. It feels simultaneously like spring happened months ago, and is coming soon. It is such a bizarre and awkward sensation. Trying to live by the religious calendar, the seasons (duly affected by global warming), and the gregorian calendar, not to mention the 12-hour clock being regulated by the government is all just too much for me.
My brain and body are a giant jumble of confusion about what to do when. At the same time, it is already 4th quarter in school, and forms for summer camp are due! Good grief! No wonder we feel tired and stressed. There is no longer a true rhythm to our lives. There is no downtime - winter was not a time for down-shifting...at our house and in school, we spent winter in full swing of the annual musical production, including hours and hours of pre-production and show week demands.
Spring? I suppose since I already missed that train, I might as well look ahead to the next one...SUMMER! Cropped pants, frozen drinks, ocean breezes. Yeah...that's the ticket! Only 8 weeks until...higher gas prices, air conditioning, and sweat. On second thought, I think I'll just crawl back in bed and hibernate.

Cycling

2008-02-20T20:16:00.002-05:00

Second Place, County Science Fair.
Honorable Mention, State Level Art Contest.
Teacher of the Year.

No, none of these awards belong to me. Yet I am connected to all of them. In one single day, I was made aware of the winners of these awards. One from my daughter, one from my BFF (otherwise known as my sister), and two from my students. Unbelievable. All today! While I didn't win any of them myself, my hand and heart were in all of them. I still am having a tough time absorbing it all.

If there's no message in all this for me, then the world is one screwed up place. I choose to think that yes, there is indeed something grand and beautiful for me to acknowledge.

I suppose I really have found my niche - to help lift others to believe in themselves so they can achieve their own greatness. All of the winners worked excessively hard in their individual situations. Each label is very much deserved. I am so very happy that the awards are being given to people who earned them. In a society that rewards entertainment with large (LARGE) sums of money, on the community level we still hold dear the truest of values: hard work, honesty, and sincerity. I see reflected in each winner the efforts that came from their hearts -

Rachel's science fair project was about sound - she chose it because of her interest in music. It was genuine, accurate, and unique.

The students who won state-level Honorable Mentions did artwork that came from their true feelings about how we are rapidly destroying our environment.

And Our Teacher of the Year - well, she had been nominated before. But she behaves like the Teacher of the Year every single day that she steps into a classroom. And she has behaved that way since she began teaching decades ago. Only now, she is in a school where her teaching strategies are visible. Her successes are recognized. She's always known she was a natural teacher. She is only now beginning to understand that her ability to touch each and every student is exceptional.

And me? I'm beginning to understand just how important those spokes on the wheel are. If I am at the center, and the spokes represent how I positively affect other's lives, then the wheel turns smoothly and gracefully. If I let a spoke rust and break, then the wheel wobbles. I acknowledge that it isn't my responsibility to CHANGE every life I touch. But if by being present, I am able to give someone a foothold on the way up the next hill, or a hand to grab onto, then I am strengthening the chain. I don't need to be the one with my name on a plaque. I have lots of those. It actually feels more meaningful to see those close to me achieving greatness in their own right.

For THEM to be able to see in themselves what I have seen all along is the greatest reward I can receive. Kudos...mazal tov...congratulations to Rachel, Dani, Jenna, and Caryn! You go, girls!!!

A True Jaw-Dropper

2008-02-09T21:18:00.000-05:00

When Rachel's school agreed to host a mini-convention of Temple Youth Groups, we jumped at the chance to be a host family. Rachel is so "over" her classmates, with most of whom she has shared the last 9 years, that this was a great opportunity for her to meet new teens before entering high school. So we awaited our guest list eagerly.

We ended up with 4 girls sharing our home. Andrew readily agreed to move into the basement for the weekend, giving up his bedroom so that all the girls would have a bed instead of sleeping bags. When we met the crew on Friday evening, I chuckled at how small our enormous city is. We had one girl that I'm almost sure is a distant cousin, and another whose parents I grew up with. Terry remembers her father fondly as the local pothead at the SEFTY conventions (Southeast Federation of Temple Youth.) The latter young lady is the spitting image of her mother, has her mother's voice, as well as her mother's 'airhead' demeanor. Maybe her parents continued Dad's tradition while pregnant. Hmmm.

Anyway, they are all really very nice kids. Very considerate of each other, working hard to get along and respectful of each other's differences. I was so thrilled for Rachel. So during the break between sessions, we ended up having a joint baking session. I am not a fan of going to the mall, and they were too tired for bowling. Baking was a perfect activity for spending the afternoon. This is a no-brainer for me and Rachel, who having inherited the confidence and genes for the kitchen from Meme, bake all the time. But even before the hard-core oven heating began, I put out snacks. Grapes. Chips and Salsa. And popcorn. Now I do not eat microwave popcorn. It just isn't popcorn with the chemical flavoring and bizarre odor. I pop popcorn the old-fashioned way. In a heavy skillet with oil, and a lid. It is fun to hear and smell.

Imagine my shock when Carly, the kid described above, gave me a quizzical look as I poured in the kernels. "Is that popcorn?" she asked. She had never seen real popcorn. I thought she was joking at first, but she wasn't. She had never made popcorn. When Rachel and I began taking out ingredients for the cookies, the visitor emitted a second shock wave." We're making them from scratch?" She had never seen or made cookies from scratch. I don't even buy cookies at the grocery store. They taste horrible.

These girls were really clueless, except for one who had watched her mother, who had been a caterer at one time. I had to repeat simple directions multiple times, point out what a spatula is, and so forth. Rachel was as surprised as I was, and realized, I think, just how good she has it. Not only has she baked countless times, but now she's great at it, and loves it.

The girls loved every single minute making chocolate chip cookies. They were amazed at how good the dough tasted, and wanted to eat the whole batch immediately. Instead, they decided to make more, and take them to share at the evening event. It was quite the challenge to keep them from sneaking cookies from the platter. In the end, they'd had enough of being in the kitchen, but were more than proud of their success. The cookies were delicious.

I am still in utter disbelief that this is the exception rather than the rule. Boy am I grateful to my mother for showing me the ropes, and making it all seem so easy. It is such a special gift to be passing it down to Rachel. I will fall asleep tonight wondering what in the world they eat at Carly's house, and what a shame it is that this generation knows how to order dinner, but not how to cook it.

A little too ironic

2008-02-04T20:43:00.000-05:00

Finally the day arrived for Rachel's appointment with the specialist. I was warned by the referring physician that the group was very backlogged. Two months later, we were waiting in the office. For reasons that will be clear later in this post, you should know that this is a pediatric endocrine practice. I had filled out the entire packet of new patient information, faxed it back in advance of the appointment, and generally done everything that had been asked of us (including arriving 30 minutes early, although I don't know why.)

In the waiting room were the requisite assortment of magazines, and the screen in the corner, although I didn't pay attention to it long enough to discern whether it was a video loop, or actual programming. I noticed that the office staff behind the check-in counter was efficient, but not kiddie-friendly. Two of the staff were not just overweight, but obese.

We were called back almost immediately. Super! We might get through the process more quickly. The nurse who did the height/weight/blood pressure was the heaviest employee yet. We were shown to the exam room, and waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually, the nurse came in and apologized, saying the doctor would be 20 more minutes. She quietly said, "You were a little early." I was early? They TOLD me to come early.

Then when the specialist did come in, he was more overweight than the nurse! (he had a bad rug, too, but that's for a different entry) Rachel caught my unintentionial expression. I told her I'd explain later. There's something a little bizarre about the staff of a practice that treats diabetes being extremely overweight. That has to be a confusing message - definitely a 'do as I say, not as I do' situation. Then he proceeded to ask me about who we saw before, as in, the last time we were at the office.

Neither of us ever remembered being there. But the doctor insisted that Rachel was not a new patient. I know I had never spoken to a doctor in that office. I don't ever recall being IN the office, and I have a reasonable memory for my age. He wasn't clear on why we had come, even though there was a letter of referral. It was all very bizarre.

The question and answer session, quick exam and blood draw went very quickly. But the aura of spaciness lingered. I'm still scratching my head. This is supposedly one of two top practices in the city? I guess my idea of what makes a practice exceptional is not necessarily what defines this group. I'm sure if he gets to the bottom of the issues that initiated the visit, it won't matter how efficient or inefficient they are. Nor will it matter what these adults choose to eat. I'm still just a little taken aback by the irony presented.

Maybe the sales reps need to lay off the Greenwood's Fried Chicken lunch and learns. Terry should be laughing out loud at that.

Flash in the Pan

2008-02-02T19:56:00.000-05:00

I am always amused by the conversations of the young people around me. Recently, my kids were discussing which current 'stars' were supposedly 'hot' and which were not. Neither one cares for the current set of teen idols (thank goodness!) But what I was thrilled about was that they recognize that in a few years, the current wave of pop stars will be has-beens.

I didn't tell them this, they knew it for themselves. I am so glad that they are not mesmerized by the pop culture that generates money with canned songs and choreography. In a moment of brilliant insight, they said, "Yeah, they are all DISNEY stars. What a waste! Teenagers don't watch Disney."

Wow. What an astute observation! They understand that Disney is marketing to a specific crowd (the tweens, aged 9-12) and trying to keep them hooked. There really is nothing of value for the kids in the 13-18 demographic. They go from supposedly squeaky clean Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgins (who aren't so squeaky clean) to Shakira and Lil Bow Wow whose dances in music video intentionally mimic sexual body movements. In today's mass marketing of pop culture, there is no Teeny Bop to grow up with. All they have to do is pick a search engine and choose "images" to see provacative poses and come hither photographs.

No wonder there are so many teen pregnancies.

Students in my classes were so enthralled with "Juno" (a movie about teen pregnancy) that they downloaded the script. I was aghast. It is "in" to be pregnant in high school. Of course the end result is a rude awakening for the rest of their lives. But today's sexual activity is what the baseball metaphor used to be. There are no longer years of experimentation and burning desire.
I had to keep my cool in class the other day when an innocent 7th grader turned to me and asked what the significance of 69 is. I told her that she'd have to ask her parents. Our 7th graders do get a lengthy unit on reproduction, but I don't know the detail to which they discuss these topics in class. I have answered straightforward questions in the classroom before, but this one was out of my league. We teachers walk a narrow path. Sometimes you have to let the parents do their jobs.

It made me wonder what or rather, when, the parents talk frankly about sex with their kids. We are very open with our own kids, embarassed though they might be. There is no question they are forbidden to ask; when moments present themselves, uncomfortable topics get air time. Today's generation matures earlier than in the past. It is a fact. There are arguments that it is due to the hormones in the food we eat. Certainly this is a possibility. It makes sense to me. But the issue remains that if parents wait until high school to have any discussion of sex, they are too late.

TV and the comupter provide access to images that these kids just don't understand yet. It will be a few years before they fathom the concept of sex for enjoyment rather than reproduction, yet they are innundated with images of "hooking up," songs about "hooking up," and plots that always involve the suggestion of some degree of sexual activity.

I'm no idiot. I know that we can't turn back the clock, and we can't regulate every medium available to young eyes. The challenge lies in education. The kids need adults to tell them that dates don't have to end in sex. The gangsta culture is just that - a subculture that does not have to be revered or tolerated. Don't think for a minute that these concepts are over their heads. They get it. Let's hope we can get to them before they get 'some'...and get pregnant.

Please, if the opportunity is presented to you to be able to set a kid straight, don't ignore it. Take the moment to be a mentor, a respected adult who is willing to talk straight. If you don't, you might be changing diapers before too long!

The Gender Divide?

2008-01-29T19:56:00.000-05:00

I debated whether or not to do unit on weaving with some of this year's classes. In the past, it didn't generate the 'spark' I was looking for. Even though I really try to create lessons of relevancy, especially when it comes to how technology has changed our lives, I didn't know if it would be worth the whining I'd have to endure to teach what kids would consider a 'lame' project.
Fortunately, I proceeded despite my misgivings. I knew I caught their attention when, explaining about warp and weft and how machines do the work now, I challenged the kids to find the weave in their cotton skirts and khaki shorts. It took less than 15 seconds for the 'aha' moment to erupt. As they peered closely at the fabric, they were able to see the over and under pattern they had just created practicing with paper.
The paper exercise was merely a set up for what was to come. It was designed to create instant success, and it worked. Next, we talked about spinning yarn, and about looms, and about Rumplestilskin and Sleeping Beauty. I saw the lightbulbs going off in heads all over the room. Ultimately, the kids built their own miniature looms and made absolutely gorgeous bookmarks, potholders and trivets. I was impressed with how the older students were able to understand the geometry involved in designing a pattern, then transferring it to yarn. Many students used multiple colors, and several ended up making more than one project, by choice.
What struck me as bizarre was that the boys seemed to enjoy this project more than the girls. I think because I have always framed weaving as a sewing activity in my mind, and because boys immediately turn off when they hear the word 'sewing,' I expected them to do the minimal amount of work, and complain about it.
This just wasn't the situation at all. They boys saw the project as a puzzle using new materials. They were methodical in their procedures, and were just as careful in spacing and tying as were the most detail-oriented girls. They were so proud of their efforts, and didn't even want me to display them - they wanted to take them home immediately.
I'm still shaking my head in wonder. I guess a lot has to do with the fact that they are comfortable taking risks. Even something like this weaving project is a risk. "What if I can't do it? I'll look really stupid compared to everyone else." But the kids helped each other. Some couldn't tie slip knots. Other kids would help when I was busy. Some couldn't understand the complexities of creating diagonals or diamond patterns. Older kids would make more simple suggestions, "Why don't you try using 2 colors and alternating them?"
It gave them all a new appreciation for how amazing hand-woven rugs and artifacts are. THAT was my intended lesson. I think, though, that I learned more than they did this time. Maimonides was right. I'm truly glad I trusted my instinct enough to forge ahead; my students taught ME more than I taught them. I certainly will try to remember NOT to make assumptions based on my own experiences! I can't wait to see how they react when I teach them how to make sculptures out of pantyhose. (Those comments ought to be pretty darn funny!)

Learning to Speak

2008-01-24T21:43:00.000-05:00

This year, our school began a new tradition born from the sheer volume of students that we educate. In the past, the adminstration would say a 'few' words (a speech, actually) about each child who was becoming B'nai Mitzvah. But because there are now so many blessings, and because we did not want to abandon this beautiful opportunity for the kids, the teachers give the 'speeches' instead of the adminstration.

This spreads the load across a larger body of adults, and creates a unique opportunity to make lasting impressions on the children, since the speech is no longer 'canned.' Each teacher is asked to make a connection for the child with his or her parsha. I can't reveal how the students' speech givers are assigned - since I don't know who might be reading this (including the kids!) But I will say that I have had the privilege of speaking about more than one young adult.

The first time or two, I thought I'd pass out from nerves. I've gained more composure over time, though, and am able to express my thoughts, and my love, clearly and with great expression. It appears that my ability to write well comes across when I speak, as it does when someone reads what I write. I know because several people have complimented me on my 'speeches.'

I'm glad about this. I know that the memory I am creating for that child - that brief moment - will have a lasting impression. I know that 30 years from now, when that kid is a parent of a B'nai Mitzvah, he or she will say, "I don't remember exactly what Mrs. Stein said, but I remember that it made me feel really good." And that is precisely what I try to do. Without being saccharine or untruthful, I carefully choose character traits in that child of which he or she can be especially proud.

And, true to form, I end up writing speeches for some of the students who scrape the bottom of the barrel, academically. They are all good and beautiful children. Amidst their daily struggles are growing young adults trying to find their way. I try to give them a moment in the spotlight that they can cling to when things seem to be darker than midnight.

Isn't that my job? Not as a teacher, but as a person. I'm honored that I am able to use my gifts in such a beautiful way.

Going round in circles

2008-01-19T00:28:00.000-05:00

I am in the process of consolidating all my past messages for a special project. Several years ago, I wrote about a particular experience and how it affected me emotionally. The incident itself stemmed from a parking spot in a parking garage. Knowing the whole story isn't really relevant at this point. What is striking to me is that, as I am editing my messages for errors, margin settings and the like, I couldn't find the message. I had edited it once, and then saved it (I thought) after printing a paper copy.

When I went back to further edit the message, I couldn't find it anywhere on the computer. Not only was it not titled like all the others, but when I tried to search for it, it was missing. This is significant in that the original message had to do with my thinking I had lost my car. Here I was, looking for a missing message that was about looking for a missing car.

That's a little too bizarre to be a coincidence, in my opinion. At the time of the original occurence, my reaction was one of embarassment and panic. No doubt because I did not want to lose the respect of the person who was with me. This time, however, I wasn't the least bit flustered. I'm sure that it was partly because my actions weren't affecting anyone but me, but I simply re-typed the piece. It took a lot less time that continuing to look for a title I couldn't seem to locate.

The issue was over and done with. I've come a long way in my mental and spiritual growth since having written the original message. Still miles to go, but oh so thankful for those of you who have most certainly made this journey what it is.

Cartooning: Headed to an early demise?

2008-01-14T13:05:00.000-05:00

I was astounded that many students in my classes did not read the comics. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised - they watch TV, but do not read the newspaper. We still have the paper delivered daily, and my kids fight over who gets the comics first.

Reading the comics requires intelligence, logic, and an understanding of both linguistic and visual humor. So I had to teach these concepts before the students could finish the assignment. They did not know what a 'punch line' is. One student tried mightily to come up with a single-panel strip. He couldn't think of anything that wasn't a story line.

This speaks volumes about how TV is altering the way this generation thinks and understands information. It makes me sad, sad, sad. On the bright side, my own children value Calvin and Hobbes, Zits, Baby Blues, and Lio as much as I do. They don't get the nuances of Pearls Before Swine, but they love the crazy humor of Brewster Rockit.

What a shame that this genre might be slowly going away. It is an amazing tool for learning.

Who named what?

2008-01-12T18:36:00.000-05:00

Rachel has a huge voice, but a tiny mouth. So, when the orthodontist showed me the x-rays and said that some teeth had to go, we forged ahead. Now, minus 1 molar, 2 canines, and 3 wisdom teeth, she's recovering well.

While waiting for her to be brought into the surgical room, we watched a video loop of undersea aquatic life. It is very clever and smart of this oral surgeon to have this video playing - it held our attention much longer than a regular tank aquarium. This might be because it had new age music playing along. Rachel commented how soothing it was, and wondered who the composer was.

As we were watching, she and I were naming all the sea life that we knew. We could recite a large portion of the fish, sharks, coral types, and such because we had just been to the Georgia Aquarium last week. When the video showed a school of hammerhead sharks, the thought occured to me - at what point was this swimmer named? It had to be after the invention of the hammer, obviously. But I wonder what it is called in other languages.

The shark is much older than the carpenter's tool. There are many cultures who must have come up against this bizarre looking creature - what do they call it? I was thinking about what other names it might be given besides hammerhead. Its head also looks liked a bowed 2X4. Or, with its eyes on the sides of its head, perhaps askance is a more likely descriptor.

Because language evolved (and is slowly evolving still) I will always be curious how words make it into our lexicon. Some survive, others don't. I can think of plenty of other words whose appearance and existence do not seem to match our english vocabulary choice. Besides - the animals were here first. What did Adam call them, if he didn't speak english? The thought implies that we're all just guessing.

Indeed, we are.

Welcome aboard!

2008-01-10T20:34:00.000-05:00

At long last, I now have a blog site. I am working to make the transition between this blog and my web pages easy for you to navigate. I will, as always, comment from time to time on my observations from behind the easel, the camera, and the classroom. Feel free to post, or continue to send email. The choice is yours.

I will be posting images of new artwork, but the storypainter website will continue to be where I manage the collections.

After another long day of teaching: acting and puppeteering, art history, general 2-D art, social studies (1869-1890 with Andrew), and algebra (inverse geometric proportions with Rachel), I've had enough for now, and eagerly await the storms promised by the local meteorologists. By the way...why are they called meteorologists if they don't really study meteors?