Thank you

Thanks for the comments and messages dear friends. We got home about midnight and will go back 150 miles to LR this afternoon if nothing is different. The family has gathered there. We had some things we have to take care of so we came back last night, got a nights sleep in our bed and attended the animals who have missed us extremely.
My mother-in-law's condition is about the same. She is much stronger than any of us thought she was, though through each of these episodes, she becomes weaker and more confined. There was no indication that she was coming out yesterday, but she was not deteriorating either. Either way, it's difficult. It's similar to my father's last six months: cycling illness and recovery, thinking it's the end and then seeing it was only one more episode in a downward spiral.
My mother-in-law is an awesome woman who worked hard, lived simply and loved immensely. Her faith, character and integrity have blessed many through the years. She raised 2 admirable, character filled sons and 3 funny, giving, loving daughters. Her ethics and kindness are evident in their ideals and actions. A 2 hour trip is hardly a hardship for all that she has been and given.
Well, I'll read you again on the other side of this. Take care.

Not a Good Day

Not a good day, not a good day.
My husband left for Little Rock yesterday evening about 7 PM to see his mother. His brother called and said better be here. She's not doing well.
At 6 AM he called to say he was in a rest stop over an hour east of here with car trouble. I dressed, coffeed, scraped windows, warmed up the car and took off. A day of waiting, good samaritaning(a guy with a dead battery), cleaning my husband's tools, asking more stupid questions, two trips to the parts store many miles away, asking more stupid questions, putting away tools he was using at the time, calling off classes, asking more stupid questions and getting the tools back out I had so dutifully put away left me rushing to the one class I was not able to cancel.
I was supposed to pick Hobbes up from the animal hospital before noon. When I rushed in, I called and told them what happened and that I would be there before they closed. They were nice, but I felt like a bad mommy. Hobbes isn't sure he likes me at all. He was developing nicely; they're gone! Add to that the fact that I couldn't find the cat cage and brought him home in a box - get your act together lady. He did seem happy to see his food dish and tent.
I got two pieces of info right after my class. Louis had trouble with the part, is replacing it, doesn't need my help (hello!), was in the parts parking lot at least and will be home in time to take a shower and leave again.
They've shut down the machines. They weren't doing any good. This is a hard time. It's been a hard day.
The picture was taken a year ago at his sisters house at Christmas.

Critique Tension

This composition does not represent real events, but a commentary on critique I created some time back. The piece above is a poor picture of a sculpture I created in college which has shown well and inspired both discussion and controversy.  It used to stand on it's end.

“It’s named Tension”.
“But look how the pieces depend on each other for support.”
“I think they’re struggling.”
“Naw, they’re leaning.”
“That Nike part, that’s the guy. That exclamation thing, that’s the chick.”
“If it represents male/female, then Nike was a goddess and that other thing- it’s like an exclamation point with no point. Get it? Pointless. That’s the male.”
Focusing elsewhere, the artist smiled, stifling a laugh. She moved inconspicuously to the space behind the couple and mused,“I’ll bet it was an assignment. Like ‘Create a sculpture that expresses tension,’ or something like that.”
Looks of disdain from the onlookers greeted the comment. They turned away. “So, I guess she’s the critic of the hour. Why would a work chosen for this show be that shallow?”
The artist surveyed her work trying to see why onlookers assumed that the two wooden forms joined by a single hidden piece of hardware was a gender argument.
‘In our day, everyone thinks everything is gender related,” he offered over a cup of coffee. “You have two forms, joined in the middle. They’re opposites. Yeah, I see it. In fact, it’s downright erotic.”
She hit him.

Remembering the time years ago when the piece had caused couples to interpret and argue the gender roles and meaning of her piece, she cleaned and polished. Since that time, she had reoriented it to a horizontal piece, elevating it with a block of glass mounted on a large thick piece of the same wood. She liked the change. The graceful figure others had referred to so long ago as a Nike supported the shorter more abrupt piece. This time it would show to a much different crowd. It would be valued for its artistic form and workmanship. She still labeled it Tension, because it still seemed to fit.

Sipping from her glass as she surveyed the other pieces, her ears tuned to the couple standing in front of her sculpture. “It’s very likely related to the mistreatment of rice workers in Asia. Or perhaps, colonial slaves.”
“I think it represents freedom. It’s like a small animal running through a field. Will it be trapped, killed or allowed to live a natural simple life among the vegetables. Is the need of the farmer – the big guy - greater than the need of the animal?”
“Perhaps it represents both,” she stated, interrupting. “The glass could indicate that the form has no real support. The curvature gives it a feeling of motion, maybe indicating constant wariness. It’s called ‘Tension’ so it probably involves pressure of somekind. Maybe a struggle to survive or to provide or for dignity and basic individual right.” She spoke as though she were a casual observer interpreting the work. She spoke with passion.
“I see what you mean,” commented one of the observers. The three of them had a spirited satisfied discussion of the implied intentions of the piece. As they walked away, a slight smirk flitted briefly across her face. She stared at her drink smiling and then resumed her viewing of the various pieces in the show.
“Maybe it’s not so important,” she observed quietly.

Creativity

The picture is of a castle I'm making to set on a shelf I'm making to set by another shelf I'm making to replace the ugly plastic shelf I put in my fishtank which has turned amazingly yucky shades of green and brown. When it makes it through fire and all that, I'll post another picture this time taken with my really awesome camera and some creative juices.
The following post is one I've played with for a couple of years.

She was a dreamer. She’d stand for unknown quantities of time beside the old oak pedestal table in the long dining room with its hardwood floors polished to a slick shine. She’d stand there on her toes and not her tippy-toes, mind you. She’d seen them do it. Deep in her heart of hearts she knew that if she stood there by the wobbly table with its cracked, patched claw feet long enough she be as graceful and satisfied as they were. Oh yes, they knew perfect bliss. She’d been to the ballet, she’d seen with her own eyes. It made her toes and ankles hurt, yet she persisted. She never took ballet, she never owned point shoes, but for most of her childhood she knew it was just that far away from being hers. She would struggle to lift herself to her toenails raise her arms roundly above her head and rest her feet in a solid T shape on the wooden floor. Motionless she stood until the crowd in her mind reached a fevered roar. Then gracefully, with delicate reserve she would give in and bow. She took a modern dance class in high school. The teacher said she was very dramatic.

Her parents sent her to a piano teacher when she was six, but she was a dreamer. She hated the teacher who smacked a student’s hands with the wooden ruler if they didn’t hang just right over the keyboard. She practiced, but those songs were so boring. Her daddy loved piano music. He bought records full of songs that made her heart sing and dance. The music swept through her, carrying her to places she could not describe in words. That was the piano she loved and wanted to play. But alas, she hated the teacher. The huge antique piano with its heavy design and carved book rack wanted to play those other songs and sometimes it worked as hard as she did to make the dreams reality. She would struggle for some fantastic sound that for one moment ignited her whole being. Then she’d step up from the bench, turn around and bow to the countless souls who were listening in her mind. They were enthralled. The applause rolled over her in waves. She actually did learn to play the piano: three teachers and many years beyond the severe matron with the wooden ruler.

She drew her fantasy in broad stokes and vivid color. Her sister was a painter who had studied art and could draw most anything. It didn’t seem to be much of a dream to draw and paint the ordinary. She had been to the gallery. There she saw paintings of which no one stood around and said “Now isn’t that pretty; my, it looks so real.” Yet these stirred her mind in new ways that the pretty paintings didn’t. She won a contest in 3^rd grade. The teacher accused her of cheating. That was pretty silly. How can you cheat on a drawing? Well, the principal made the teacher send it and she won. Yet those other paintings were the ones calling her in her dreams. She could have her own show. Some day she’d do just that. She could feel the people mulling about, hands on their chins, nodding and muttering. She’d smile condescendingly as they shook her hand and spoke of her intense creativity and the profound effect it had on their thinking. Meaning well, her mom bought her paint by numbers for Christmas several times. They reminded her of the stuffy piano teacher and with each stroke, her hands felt they were being smacked. Years later, she sold a lot of commissioned paintings: lovely bouquets of flowers for the space above the couch, or deer feeding in the woodlands for a mantelpiece, or stuffy portraits of stiffly poised people to hang in a hall. Each time she watched a painting go there was a little sadness, but not for the painting.

Her father watched opera. He made fun of it. She did too, but not when mama was around. Mama loved opera. She was a little taken by the right to sing/scream something mean into another persons face and have the whole world clap. Then she went to a real concert in an open air amphitheater: the lights, the crowd, the feeling. She was hooked. She would sing before the mirror, tirelessly. She held notes longer than anyone could. She would hit a high note, then stop for a dramatic rest that said “Did you hear that?” and continue. She held onto that last final note, sometimes cataclysmically high, sometimes sultry, until the throng of onlookers in her head nearly took her hearing with their applause. Mama and the world in general agreed. “She was not cut from the professional block when it came to her singing voice.” Yet she and maybe her father had hope. She had dreams: big dreams. She just needed the right song. She began to toy with the idea of writing her own songs.

Somewhere in late elementary, she began writing epic poems. Long involved stories set to meter and rhyme. Her father was a natural with rhyme. It seemed to come naturally to her as well. Her love for dance and music supplied a sense of rhythm. When she had to find a poem in a certain style, she’d write one, make up a name and turn it in. The teachers never asked questions. It gave her a certain pride that either they didn’t know or they were satisfied enough with her knowledge to grade her well on the effort. This sort of un-plagiarism intrigued her. For as long as she could remember, she had made up fantastic stories while waiting on sleep. She began writing these down, poetically or not, attributed to pseudonyms, of course. Teachers figured this out and were thrilled. “Stay with this. It’s a gift.” She knew she would smile gracefully and lovingly as she autographed her third best seller and placed it in the hands of an adoring previous mentor. The problem may have been that the adoring crowds in her imagination became disillusioned with a real challenge. Or maybe it was another disillusion that kept her from dreaming too much about being a writer. But always she thought “I could do that,” and it was a nice comforting thought because down deep she knew that she was a “good” dreamer.

Wounded in action

I've been away. It's been a rough week. I made clay up for my Thursday night. I prepared for classes. I taught classes. I reclaimed clay. I made fire. I burned the Christmas tree. See rituals - oops, I didn't post that! I eulogized this past Christmas as I laid it out for final viewing in my spare room. There it lay waiting to be entombed until next year. (Except for the stuff either soaked or frozen on the outside where we've had a collective 5 hours of sun since Christmas day. We're over double our normal rainfall for January.) Then I fell off the stepladder.
It was a simple thing. I had one more entwined string of gaudy sparkly stuck to the wooden thing in my dining room. The rickety ladder with the bad hinge was there, the good one was at least 30 seconds away. I needed to just get it done and go get ready for my class. My husband put the brace on my ankle, while I winced and cried, so I could get through the classes. Then while I cried at the computer, he cleaned my studio and asked what else needed done and did I think I needed to cancel and go to the emergency room. No, no, no, no. My compulsive nature got me through the classes. The latest one, a private lesson, was cancelled due to the student being out of town. So I had all night to gripe and moan. And I moaned, took pain killers and laid around most of Saturday as well.
Sick of the couch and the house, I accompanied the man to Lowes and Wal-Mart where the pain finally got the best of me and he dragged me back to my couch and blankies. Sunday was better, I was slow, but I made it okay only laying down to rest about 4 times. The ankle and hip are simply sore spots now. The back is convulsing some, asking "what did you think you were doing?"
My cat isn't a comfort cat. I love him lots. My husband says I make him ornery. He's followed me for three days chewing my fingers, the good ankle (he seems to know) and my face, pulling at my fleece wrap, dropping a toy mouse on me and then pouncing. He howls and growls. Expressive howls and growls, conversation? yes, purring? no. He has no clue why I'm not up and about. He has soft fur and looks like he'd be nice to pet. He's not. Even as I write, he lies on the floor and touches my feet and legs, looking up lovingly. I reach down to stroke him and he grabs my hand and bites it, smiling all the while.
We had a visitor today. He came in while I lay with my foot up and my back fairly straight. I struggled up and went in to help my husband get what he needed when I realized the guy was there. Louis could barely contain the smirk as he asked me where things were and I gave him vague, put you off answers with a total stranger standing just behind the couch I was on. We came out with the goods to find the guy and Hobbes in the sunroom. "This is the sweetest cat," he said, stroking my plush feline.
They left, I took Tylenol and then hobbled back to the couch, my fleece blankies and my attack cat.

The color grey

If you mix all the colors in the spectrum and mix and mix, you get grey! It's like what happens in the bottom of your mineral spirit jar from washing your oil paint brushes. In the beginning it's green or blue or something like that depending on the picture, but in the end, it's gray. It's a rich grey made of colors that loose their identity, but not their character.
So winter has washed my brush and my being.
In spring, I'm pink or yellow: bright happy colors that seek for their soulmates in the flowers and skies. Willing to brave a chilly morning or a cool rain to work, watch or just refresh. My philosophy is that the earth will find a way to grow. I will work with it for fulfillment of us both.
In summer I'm green: tough, thick, persistant. Even when things get dry, I find the water source and keep my color going. The sun gives heat, I grow. The sky give rain, it's okay. I swim and garden and work and worship. I meet the day early with a prayer and remembrance and then I'm ready to tackle it. I know what it's made of and if I am surprised, I find my balance pretty fast.
In the fall, I'm golden, flame, sienna. I am surprised with the strong effort of nature to get my attention. I am ready for what comes even if it means dormancy. The bugs will die. The earth will rest and will come back strong in the spring. I am busy preparing myself and my world to face the cold, the loneliness and yet right over that next hill, around that next bend is the most awe inspiring color I've ever seen and I give myself to its glow.
Winter never truly comes until after the holiday business has dribbled off into forever. The red and green and gold and silver inspire. The lights and presents are accompanied with a little snow, a little cold; yet the heart stays warm. Then the light fades, the purpose wanes. We walk through a grey land, a virtual colorless purgatory. Turn up the music, turn on the lights. Busy yourself with the vestiges of life. Good food. . I'm not really that hungry. I feel cold. I light a fire and sit in it's golden glow. One or two days a week I get out while it's still light, but it's cold and rainy or icy and my heart runs back to the light of the fire. My spirit has turned grey. The individual parts of my life which normally bring brilliant contrast fade to a dull mixture in this sludge. I see a cardinal with its deep winter color flitting in the baren branches. It's a reminder of the past and the future. It's hope. But for now, we endure the grey together and huddle by what fire we can.

Remembrance

The picture above is of my family when I was between 2 and 3 I think. Clockwise from top left: My sister Barbara, my mom, my dad, my sister Patty, my brother Bill and in the middle? me of course.
I've tried restoring it some. There's a long way to go on that effort.

My sister would have been 69 years old this January had she lived. We were always quite close. Oh, Patty wasn’t good about writing and stuff like that, but she was fun, devoted and so inspiring.
She was in High School before I went to kindergarten. She was a superb artist with a strange sense of value and self respect. When I was small, she would never finish a drawing for me without ruining some part of it. I’d scream and kick and cry and she’d say “Well you’ll just have to learn to draw your own pictures.”
Patty was never cruel or bossy as can be with some oldest children, but she was usually in some kind of fix. She laughed at life and when young, may have avoided some of her responsibility, but no one could help loving her. She was witty, beautiful and light hearted. She went away when I was 7 and came back two years later with a husband, a little girl and a son on the way. They lived in our home for a time.
Life was not kind to my sister. She had 8 children she adored and a nervous breakdown half way through the number. Her 4 children stayed with us while she was in the hospital. Her oldest daughter was only 8 years my junior and seemed more like a sibling at times. I left the baby in the mid day sun and burned her pretty bad. I wasn’t much of a caregiver, being the youngest and only spoiled child of our four. But I loved their mom.
There was seldom any financial or material bounty in their home, but she made it work, somehow. She had a daydreamer’s matter of fact approach to life if that’s possible. She did what had to be done. I would have babysat for her for free, but she always found a little bit to pay me and always recommended me to others who would pay me quite well.
Once, in 1982 I went to visit her. She was short on transportation, so she walked to work. She drove a bus and she took me home after I had walked to work with her. That afternoon, we walked the familiar roads of my childhood to go to the store for a few needed items and a few simple pleasures. I was an active person who regularly exercised, swam 2 miles a day, and road horseback twice a week. The next day, I could barely make it up from the room I stayed in downstairs. She laughed a little and took off on foot by herself for her job.
On one visit, she was working on her car. I, who am mechanically inept, surveyed the neatly arranged parts. Every screw, every black thing, every part was lined up along the side. She explained that she really didn’t know enough about mechanics to recognize one thing from another, so by lining them up, she was able to get it all back together right. It was a true sign of her resourcefulness.
The last time we spent together was in the summer of ’92. I had planned and put together a family reunion at a state park an hour from our home and though she lived over 800 miles away, she was determined that she and all her children would attend that reunion. All but one did. Only she knew at that time that it would be the last reunion she would attend. It would be our last “fun” time together. We walked, talked, shared, laughed, cooked. We spent every waking moment of three days relishing each other’s company and then she headed home.
A short time later I received the call from her that admitted she had cancer. It had gone too far. She hadn’t wanted to fight, but now she did and she was afraid it was too late. It was.
I saw her once more: a short visit at the end of a mountain trip. She wanted me to come, though it tired her greatly. She was so thin and weak, but a couple of times I saw a short sparkle in her eye as we visited. There were suddenly things she knew she would miss, tasks that seemed unfinished. She was not happy about dying, but knew it was coming. It was as though in this hour, she was comforting others, still doing what had to be done. I still miss her. Happy Birthday, Patty

Brain Loss

With classes filling, and terrace building,
I find my brain plagued with holes in the spread.
With cement setting, Oh, Hobbes needs petting
I’m getting stuff done but not stuff in my head.
With fire tending and friendship mending
Significant loss of grey matter I find
With phone calls screening and studio cleaning
I’m working like heck, but I’m loosing my mind.

Apologies for getting the days and people mixed up.

January is for birthdays

I have four birthdays to remember in the next week. One, my sister, is a true rememberance more than a celebration.
Cody and Olivia share the 8th.
Both are redheaded, fairskinned, blueeyed. Other than that, they're not too much alike. I mean, they're both human; both eat, sleep and like attention.
Cody was a robust baby, born with a room full of well wishers and a tired, totally surprised mom. He was supposed to be a girl! He's had a full, sometimes frustrating 10 years. He's spent a lot of time without his mom and wants and needs her so desperately.
He plays chess with his grandpa and is getting pretty good at it. He feels the sting of injustice and his anger often errupts into physical altercations. He has a strong wild sense of humor and truth. In the past year, he's gone canoeing with his grandpa, helped his grandpa build the roof for the studio porch and put in guttering on the sunroom. He loves to get up on the roof.
In kindergarten, he had the highest scores in the city, but of late he's stuggled with his education as well as struggling with his social skills. His aunt, whom he lives with, has a house full, but she took him to a movie, just the two of them, in honor of his birthday. When he talked with his mom, he described the intricacies of the plot in detail. Basically, he's a bright eyed, well cared for, intelligent kid who wants his world fixed now. Hang on buddy, it's coming.
Olivia, on the other hand is grandma's girl. Yeah, they all are. But Liv lights up like a flash when she sees me - which does absolutely nothing for my ego. Yeah.
She was born to trouble and doubt, and has turned out beautiful, intelligent, funny and mostly healthy. She's lived with her aunt since her second day. Of course, she stays with grandma whenever the two of us can work it out. She's a thinker and a quick study. She can be soft as satin and tough as bark.
In her two years, she's seen her mother less than a dozen times, yet, she knows her and responds to her when she does see her. She figures it out quickly and takes her cue from the way the other two behave.
She can count fairly high depending on her mood, and can say and sing the alphabet. She knows O is for Olivia or "Oleeleeah". In December, she stayed with me for the better part of a week while her aunt went to Jon's graduation from basic training in Illinois. We looked at pictures and she told lots of stories about her trip to the big water (ocean) and her time with her cousins.
Frafra is one of her best people and he loves her as much.
So happy birthday sweet children. May the years lead you to the best you can be and bring you all you were meant for.

What was I Thinking

What is it makes me think that I can do it?
“I can” has often wreaked its havoc on my world.
With lofty eyes I put my hand to it
Then oft' times into turmoil I am hurled
Along with others who may live to rue it.

Why am I prone to think that I’ll manage
What those who stand much more informed and fitted scorn
Exuberantly I strike out from my vantage
And soon I find I’m weary, bruised and torn
And struggling my hardest fears to banish.

And though perhaps ‘tis ignorance I follow
And other’s eyes and hands are truer than my own.
Adversity becomes my candle’s tallow
The heavy challenge does my spirit hone;
Without which my existence would be hollow.

2006 DW

Remember the rules

Oh yeah, now I remember!
Almost 2 years ago I painted a picture of the ocean at dawn. I loved painting it, but I really didn’t love the painting. I loved the idea of the painting; I loved the resources I gathered for the painting. The painting just wasn’t right.
This was a dawn like none I’d seen. It was a cold grey dawn with a heavy sky and a nip in the air. It was also my first trip to the Outer Banks. We had arrived the day before and the ocean startled me. It wasn’t the size that surprised me, I expected big and endless and all that. The relentlessness, the roar, every cliché I’d ever heard or read about the ocean suddenly made sense. It was a powerful stimulating experience just to be there.
But this dawn was like none I’ve seen since. We waited: the 4 of us, cameras in hand. We took pictures of the water, the birds, the sand, each other, the waves, the seaweed, the shells. We waited.
The sun was slow getting up that morning. It was wrapped in thick, insulating, billowy clouds and we waited while it debated it’s appearance. Seagulls flew by in groups as did the pelicans. Busy little pipers ran just a wingtip away from drenching and scoured the sand as each wave covered and left it. A fine color seemed to be ready for our view and then sucked back in as though the sun had put forth a toe and decided to snuggle back in for the rest of the dream.
Just as it might seem that we’d stopped expecting the grandest dawn of our lifetime, a small hole in the cloud bank allowed the light to shoot through in sharp shafts. The sun had, unaware to us, climbed to a point where each break focused a beam of light on the waiting world. Our hands clicked the camera shutters again and again midst cries and squeals and exclamations as the suns rays danced one direction and another and another revealing this color and that. Writing about it, I still feel the surge of the moment.
When the two film users got their results, the four cameras gave an awe-inspiring account of the reward of our early rising endurance.
My daughter shared one she was particularly fond of and it became the inspiration for my painting. I amassed the best photos from the moment for resource. I felt every sun ray and every wave. I heard the roar while I painted. I felt every fiber of me energized. It was the ultimate experience, but it wasn’t the ultimate painting. I know that photos aren’t paintings and paintings aren’t photos. That wasn’t the problem with this painting. It had a beautiful awesome sky and powerful, rolling waves with light sparkles in all the right places. I reviewed my sources again and again.
The primary resource for the light was a stunning picture in which the precise configuration of the clouds at that moment fashioned a heart shaped corona with a white dove at the center. I was amazed and decided to honor that symbolism. A friend felt it looked a little schmaltzy so I tried to soften the surge of symbolism. But that didn’t really fix what was wrong with the painting. Then I got the darkness too bright, not too light, but too bright. I worked and reworked. At last I sat the picture aside, painted another of a long look down the shore and another of the Hatteras Light through sea grass and allowed the disappointment no more than a nag now and then.
One night in a worship service, I took my small sketch pad and my colored pencils and scratched out my memory of the light. There in that moment I wrote: It’s all about the light. Of course I found moving internal applications to that experience and have written them up in their own blog. Yet the statement has always pulled at me.
A few weeks ago I just knew. I felt foolish. How could I have missed that. As a teacher, I’m strong on academic knowledge. It’s the foundation we must build creative thought on. You learn how to do; then you learn to create. You learn the rules; then you learn to break them, if necessary, to stay true to the work. But you always respect the rules. My painting had broken one of the first rules. There was no subject. With a handful of gorgeous resources I had stumbled ignorantly. In my desire to represent it all, to live it all again, I walked all over the canvas with no intent, no purpose, no subject.
So today, I pulled it out and took out the payne’s grey and ultramarine, served myself a good dish of medium and pulled the clouds and waves into subordination to the light. Amazed, I survey it now. It has unity, it has purpose. It was all about the light. It was all about the rules.

Winter Dance

The picture was taken with my new camera. If you blow it up real big, it won't be clear, but I still like it. I had to shut down all auto programs and go with totally manual settings. It's a long time since I did serious photography and this new toy is going to take some getting used to. I love it!

Anyway, I went back in and looked up this write. The moon made me think of it. I hope you enjoy it.

It’s funny how things remain the same. Most of the time, I think in terms of how things change, yet when you look, things do remain the same. I used to tell my 21 year old daughter that she would never be what she was not becoming. If you’re not moving that direction, you won’t get there. Most of the time it was about self discipline especially in relation to grades. Sometimes, it was about relationships.
Yet here I am 50 something and tonight, I was a girl - just for a moment.
Winter cold was never a deterrent for me and the out doors. Of course, there were the coats and mittens and hats and lined gloves that we ignore in Arkansas except on the coldest of days. But frequently, as a girl, I would venture out into the winter night just to dance in the moonlight with Orion. I was familiar with the legends and such, but I had my own ideas about the winter warrior. He was my secret admirer. He loved to watch me dance even in a coat and boots!
Tonight I walked out into the sunroom to look for something, and realized that the vents and shades were open. As I was closing a vent, I saw a star shining in and the strange squiggly lines the moonlight makes on the Lexan. After closing the vents and checking the settings on the stove, I stepped out into the cold winter moonlight. There he stood, spread across this winter sky and I remembered and began to dance. I dropped my disguise and though my dance was much slower, much shorter and less acrobatic, I danced with my heart.
I came in cold, shivering. I came in aware that my body is not 12. I came in a little melancholy. Yet I was smiling inside.
Some things never really change.

I pray you dance

The picture is my own quick color sketch. It inspired the write. Hope you enjoy.

If you’ve come through a withering drought and your spirit is dry
I pray you dance in the rain with your face to the sky

If the Valley of Shadow of Death has darkened your days
I pray you dance in the sun and bask in its rays

If criticism, cruelty and doubt have knocked you off track
I pray you dance on a stage with the wind at your back

If an arrogant self-serving snob has shown you disgust
I pray you dance and smile while you paint “I love you” all over his shiny new Lexus.

Note: artists acrylic can be peeled off and buffed out but it will make the heart go pitty-pat and the neighbors snicker. Oh yeah, wear gloves!

Disclaimer: No legal responsibility is taken in the event you are strange enough to really try this.(with a Lexus)

Suggestion: A kinder and quicker retribution can be had by painting the words in several thick acrylic layers onto a piece of waxed paper. When fully dry, these can be peeled off, moistened and they will attach to clean paint quite securely but removably. For best relations, they need to be removed within a day or so. There is no way you can claim impulsive action here.

Testimonial: Once my senior high students saved their palette peelings and while I was not watching, attached them all in a grand spray on the main glass door – just before a visit from the super!