"My shrink says: To be/ or to find/ your ‘true self’ pay attention to the moments when you feel the contentment in which you are fully fully engaged and REALLY present and not thinking about it. You are probably being yourself then."
That's easy, right?
"Feel" is a key word, albeit subjective. When do I "feel" contentment?
When I'm writing this blog, learning something new, practicing what I've learned (which tonight is transferring images from high-contrast magazines on Gel Plates). When I'm engaged in a stimulating, honest conversation; getting a massage; tasting something delicious; taking pictures on a long road trip; being with people I love....
Contentment: Peaceful, relaxed, not stressed, not worried, interest piqued, inspired.
Fully fully engaged: Losing track of time, don't care if I do, completely absorbed
REALLY present: not multi-tasking or talking on the phone or watching TV while doing the thing I'm doing, 100% there in the moment, not anticipating what other people will think.
Voila!
That, according to the therapist of a friend of a friend, and probably all who make art every day or do whatever makes them stumble upon delight, is being your very own authentic and self.
Friday, March 8, 2019
Thursday, March 7, 2019
Ross Gay
The Book of Delights is exactly the cup of something delicious I wanted today. I'm savoring it slowly--a collection of essay-ettes by Ross Gay, the poet I hadn't heard of before Pam directed me to his book.
I'm only halfway through the book and several essays are worth copying verbatim, but I'm only going to copy the closing paragraph of one right now to give you a taste of the freshness of his voice in finding something to be delighted by every day.
#24: Umbrella in a Cafe
(closing paragraph)
A guy on his way out, after buying his Americano and scooting by my big red bobbing foot, and smiling softly at me, and me at him, looked at the drizzle through the big plate-glass window, put his coffee down, opened his umbrella, put it over his head, picked up his coffee, then realized (I presume) that he was still inside this bakery. (The window was very clean.) I saw him giggle to himself, realizing, I think. what he had done--let me interrupt to mention that a man with a sack of some sort slugs over his shoulder just entered Choc-O-Pain and exclaimed, "Good morning, Jersey City family!"--and so lowered his umbrella and walked quickly out, with a smirk that today I read as a smirk of gentleness, of self-forgiveness. Do you ever think of yourself, late to your meeting or peed your pants some or sent the private e-mail to the group or burned the soup or ordered your corrode with your fly down or snot on your face or opened your umbrella in the bakery, as the cutest little thing?
I'm only halfway through the book and several essays are worth copying verbatim, but I'm only going to copy the closing paragraph of one right now to give you a taste of the freshness of his voice in finding something to be delighted by every day.
#24: Umbrella in a Cafe
(closing paragraph)
A guy on his way out, after buying his Americano and scooting by my big red bobbing foot, and smiling softly at me, and me at him, looked at the drizzle through the big plate-glass window, put his coffee down, opened his umbrella, put it over his head, picked up his coffee, then realized (I presume) that he was still inside this bakery. (The window was very clean.) I saw him giggle to himself, realizing, I think. what he had done--let me interrupt to mention that a man with a sack of some sort slugs over his shoulder just entered Choc-O-Pain and exclaimed, "Good morning, Jersey City family!"--and so lowered his umbrella and walked quickly out, with a smirk that today I read as a smirk of gentleness, of self-forgiveness. Do you ever think of yourself, late to your meeting or peed your pants some or sent the private e-mail to the group or burned the soup or ordered your corrode with your fly down or snot on your face or opened your umbrella in the bakery, as the cutest little thing?
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
For all you grammarians and writers out there...
I heard snippets of an interview with Benjamin Dreyer, Elizabeth's Strout's editor. Strout is the author of Olive Kitteridge (and I learned a new Olive book called Olive, Again).
I will listen again online after my nap, but wanted to pass this on to all you writers out there in Literary Land:
https://www.wbur.org/hereandnow/2019/03/05/benjamin-dreyer-grammar-guide
For all of us who cringe when we hear certain grammatical rules broken, here we have it straight from the horse's mouth that certain old rules can be broken with impunity. However, if we break them, we have to break them with good reason, and we have to expect other grammarians to raise an eyebrow!
I will listen again online after my nap, but wanted to pass this on to all you writers out there in Literary Land:
https://www.wbur.org/hereandnow/2019/03/05/benjamin-dreyer-grammar-guide
For all of us who cringe when we hear certain grammatical rules broken, here we have it straight from the horse's mouth that certain old rules can be broken with impunity. However, if we break them, we have to break them with good reason, and we have to expect other grammarians to raise an eyebrow!
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Sunday with Art and Birds
Since I had no recording devices or even my iPhone camera with me today, here's a snapshot of what it was like being in Victoria's amazing tree house studio.
Surrounded by her vivid, beautiful paintings, Victoria was sitting on the floor with papers and brushes, bowls and trays, water, alcohol, different kinds of paper, and India ink.
Agile with youth and yoga practice, she's able to move about on the floor with an ease I envy, painting and reaching and dipping.
She gave Elena and me some pre-cut Yupo paper and brushes and we set out to paint, delighted with the action of inks on Yupo, the ways circles bloomed like magic on the page and unexpected dances of color happened.
My own efforts are prosaic by contrast, but I'm a kindergartner in this realm. I'm timed with materials, careful not to break any rules (of which there are none in Victoria's studio), and I tend to make light little lines. Victoria says, "Do you mind if I show you something?" and she takes a great big fat brush and smudges more pigment onto the page. Wow! Now that I see what that feels like I could do this all day!
Elena is pleased with her three paintings, as excited as I am--but as a seven-year-old, she's also wanting to go inside Victoria's house and see Reyna and Mugwort again, so we do, taking Paco along for a bird play date.
I wish I had captured the look in her eyes as Mugwort landed on her leggings. Paco, a baby after all and new to playing with other birds, "hissed" at Mugwort but to no avail. "This is my house and I'll do what I want," said pretty little Mugwort.
Will and Kent looked on, all the while talking fish and camping sites and boats.
"What was your favorite thing?" Will asked Elena in the car as we headed home.
"Everything!" she said.
Back at my house, Elena and Paco....
Surrounded by her vivid, beautiful paintings, Victoria was sitting on the floor with papers and brushes, bowls and trays, water, alcohol, different kinds of paper, and India ink.
Agile with youth and yoga practice, she's able to move about on the floor with an ease I envy, painting and reaching and dipping.
She gave Elena and me some pre-cut Yupo paper and brushes and we set out to paint, delighted with the action of inks on Yupo, the ways circles bloomed like magic on the page and unexpected dances of color happened.
My own efforts are prosaic by contrast, but I'm a kindergartner in this realm. I'm timed with materials, careful not to break any rules (of which there are none in Victoria's studio), and I tend to make light little lines. Victoria says, "Do you mind if I show you something?" and she takes a great big fat brush and smudges more pigment onto the page. Wow! Now that I see what that feels like I could do this all day!
Elena is pleased with her three paintings, as excited as I am--but as a seven-year-old, she's also wanting to go inside Victoria's house and see Reyna and Mugwort again, so we do, taking Paco along for a bird play date.
I wish I had captured the look in her eyes as Mugwort landed on her leggings. Paco, a baby after all and new to playing with other birds, "hissed" at Mugwort but to no avail. "This is my house and I'll do what I want," said pretty little Mugwort.
Will and Kent looked on, all the while talking fish and camping sites and boats.
"What was your favorite thing?" Will asked Elena in the car as we headed home.
"Everything!" she said.
Back at my house, Elena and Paco....
Sunday
Since Nathan's still feeling puny, Will and Elena are coming for lunch today--poppyseed chicken, asparagus, and pound cake.
Oldenheim 12 is captivating, even with subtitles. That and photo transfers kept me up til 2:00 so I'm getting a slow start this morning.
On NPR, I heard an interview with T. Kira Madden, the author of Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls/a Memoir.
https://www.npr.org/2019/03/03/699797236/t-kira-madden-on-long-live-the-tribe-of-fatherless-girls
The interviewer asked her, "What's the question you wrote this book to answer?"
What a great question!
It's questions, posed or not, that drive most memoir-writing, I think. Who was my father, really, apart from the public image or notoriety? Why did I marry Mr. So-and-So? Why was I unable to fully feel the impact of Such and Such? How did this particular event shape my life? How have I triumphed over it and found strength?
Maybe, to start with a question and follow it wherever it leads is key to a memoir's vitality.
Every writer of memoir will tell you that in writing the book unexpected answers surface--much more than just writing a treatise filled with answers already formulated.
Sometimes when a story is told over and over, it becomes a sort of family or personal mythology and it's hard to find ourselves into the crevices of the real story.
We can't do that by "thinking about it" because we'll fall into the familiar grooves and not be open to surprise. So we have to put pen to paper, or open the keyboard, and let the story move without thought of who's going to read it, what they might think, and how to clean it up into a story for others to read.
I love the genre of memoir! When it's real and honest and revelatory, you know it. You may even find parts of your own life in it--as I did this week reading Slow Motion by Dani Shapiro. I've never used alcohol or cocaine to numb feelings, as she did, but I do look back on certain chapters of my life and wonder, as she did, "What was I thinking?" or "How was I so numb to my real feelings?"
Oldenheim 12 is captivating, even with subtitles. That and photo transfers kept me up til 2:00 so I'm getting a slow start this morning.
On NPR, I heard an interview with T. Kira Madden, the author of Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls/a Memoir.
https://www.npr.org/2019/03/03/699797236/t-kira-madden-on-long-live-the-tribe-of-fatherless-girls
The interviewer asked her, "What's the question you wrote this book to answer?"
What a great question!
It's questions, posed or not, that drive most memoir-writing, I think. Who was my father, really, apart from the public image or notoriety? Why did I marry Mr. So-and-So? Why was I unable to fully feel the impact of Such and Such? How did this particular event shape my life? How have I triumphed over it and found strength?
Maybe, to start with a question and follow it wherever it leads is key to a memoir's vitality.
Every writer of memoir will tell you that in writing the book unexpected answers surface--much more than just writing a treatise filled with answers already formulated.
Sometimes when a story is told over and over, it becomes a sort of family or personal mythology and it's hard to find ourselves into the crevices of the real story.
We can't do that by "thinking about it" because we'll fall into the familiar grooves and not be open to surprise. So we have to put pen to paper, or open the keyboard, and let the story move without thought of who's going to read it, what they might think, and how to clean it up into a story for others to read.
I love the genre of memoir! When it's real and honest and revelatory, you know it. You may even find parts of your own life in it--as I did this week reading Slow Motion by Dani Shapiro. I've never used alcohol or cocaine to numb feelings, as she did, but I do look back on certain chapters of my life and wonder, as she did, "What was I thinking?" or "How was I so numb to my real feelings?"
Saturday, March 2, 2019
Saturday
Freda bought a bird bath and plant stand at Nando's shop in Helotes, but we three were unable to lift the bird bath from the back of my car, so Will is going to do that for us tomorrow.
El Chaparral, was--at its been for fifty years--excellent. We got there early and avoided the lunch rush. Although we didn't go, the first Saturday of every month, we learned, is Market Day in Helotes if you're interested in shopping for crafts and antiques.
After my nap, I learned how to transfer photographs onto canvas and was happy with the results of my first efforts. I used three flat small canvases and three reverse-printed photographs.
Here's how:
You print out photos on a laser printer, mirror images. My new Epson inkjet printer is supposed to do the same thing as it uses a permanent ink, but I'd already copied these three at Kinko's.
Be sure to print the photos as mirror images.
Cover the canvas generously with matte medium, then cover the FRONT of each photo with the same medium. Place the photo on the canvas, image down, leave it for a few hours or overnight, then scrub off the paper pulp on the back of the photo with a wet sponge. Voila!
Then you can paint or scribble or write on the canvas around the photo and even on top of it if you like.
I learned this technique on Bluprint. The artist, Adam, used much larger canvases and photographs than I did and he did some cool writing and coloring of the photos and backgrounds.
Now that my canvases are done, and now that I've made two little baby cakes, one for Elena and Will for lunch and one for her best friend, I'm going to watch a Dutch series Betty recommended on Acorn, OLDENHEIM 12.
El Chaparral, was--at its been for fifty years--excellent. We got there early and avoided the lunch rush. Although we didn't go, the first Saturday of every month, we learned, is Market Day in Helotes if you're interested in shopping for crafts and antiques.
After my nap, I learned how to transfer photographs onto canvas and was happy with the results of my first efforts. I used three flat small canvases and three reverse-printed photographs.
Here's how:
You print out photos on a laser printer, mirror images. My new Epson inkjet printer is supposed to do the same thing as it uses a permanent ink, but I'd already copied these three at Kinko's.
Be sure to print the photos as mirror images.
Cover the canvas generously with matte medium, then cover the FRONT of each photo with the same medium. Place the photo on the canvas, image down, leave it for a few hours or overnight, then scrub off the paper pulp on the back of the photo with a wet sponge. Voila!
Then you can paint or scribble or write on the canvas around the photo and even on top of it if you like.
I learned this technique on Bluprint. The artist, Adam, used much larger canvases and photographs than I did and he did some cool writing and coloring of the photos and backgrounds.
Now that my canvases are done, and now that I've made two little baby cakes, one for Elena and Will for lunch and one for her best friend, I'm going to watch a Dutch series Betty recommended on Acorn, OLDENHEIM 12.
D, too, for March 2
Delights:
Pam recommended a book to me: The Book of Delights by Ross Gay.
I loved the title so much I downloaded a sample for my Kindle, and decided last night, reading the sample, that I wanted a paper copy of the whole book to underline and savor.
It arrives tomorrow, and I'll tell you more about it when I get more than three chapters--but I think we're all going to love the honest, poetic, stream-of-consciousness style of his writing as he writes an "essayette" every day (skipping a few days) about something that brings him delight.
I'm cooking for the kids to come over tomorrow for lunch, then to Victoria's for bird and art delights. But first, Freda and Bonnie and I are heading to Helotes to look at bird baths and pottery at Papi's store, then to have my favorite Mexican food at El Chaparral's.
This promises to be a delightful day with friends, followed by another tomorrow. I hope your weekend is filled with delights!
Pam recommended a book to me: The Book of Delights by Ross Gay.
I loved the title so much I downloaded a sample for my Kindle, and decided last night, reading the sample, that I wanted a paper copy of the whole book to underline and savor.
It arrives tomorrow, and I'll tell you more about it when I get more than three chapters--but I think we're all going to love the honest, poetic, stream-of-consciousness style of his writing as he writes an "essayette" every day (skipping a few days) about something that brings him delight.
I'm cooking for the kids to come over tomorrow for lunch, then to Victoria's for bird and art delights. But first, Freda and Bonnie and I are heading to Helotes to look at bird baths and pottery at Papi's store, then to have my favorite Mexican food at El Chaparral's.
This promises to be a delightful day with friends, followed by another tomorrow. I hope your weekend is filled with delights!
B word for March 2: Best Friend
Elena called to ask me to ask Victoria if she could take Paco over to her house (in his birdie back pack) to meet Victoria and her birds.
"Of course!" Victoria said.
That night after dinner, Elena announced to her parents, "Victoria is my best friend."
When Will called to tell me, he did have one tiny caveat--Elena's "best friends" do change often. Last week it was a new boy in her class.
But for now, her Best Friend is Victoria, an excellent choice in best friends!
"Of course!" Victoria said.
That night after dinner, Elena announced to her parents, "Victoria is my best friend."
When Will called to tell me, he did have one tiny caveat--Elena's "best friends" do change often. Last week it was a new boy in her class.
But for now, her Best Friend is Victoria, an excellent choice in best friends!
Friday, March 1, 2019
Speaking of Activating Colors
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iD6GydXg0sg
Here is one of hundreds of You Tube videos by Mike Deakin that could inspire some of you to give it a go!
Here is one of hundreds of You Tube videos by Mike Deakin that could inspire some of you to give it a go!
Agency, Activation, and Angel Andy
Three "A" words for the First of March:
1. Agency : the capacity, condition, or state of acting or of exerting power.
Alexandria O. Cortez (and scores of strong women) exemplifies a kind of agency many of us in the Sixties didn't know existed. (We still had the word, obey, in our wedding vows!)
These women aren't taking superficial answers for facts. They aren't looking away, obeying, submitting, or talking quietly among themselves.
Maybe it took the election of the current occupant of the White House, to bring Stacey, Alexandria, Amy, Elizabeth and Kamala (and a lot more) to the center of the political stage. If so, let's count that one hugely positive result of the 2016 election.
I was in awe of the clear-eyed questioning of Cohen by Cortez at the hearings this week. "So how do we find out more?" she asked. "And who else do we need to talk to?"
And to the way Kamala made Bret Kavenaugh look like an inexperienced first-year debater when he went all mushy in the Supreme Court hearings. "I'm asking you a very direct question, Sir, yes or no? Who'd you talk to?"
And Stacey who came close to winning the Georgia election by, among other things, calling out her vote-suppressing opponent.
https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/discussing-democratic-response-stacey-abrams-podcast-transcript-ncna976151
Women now have agency not only to tell their own truth, but reject claims that what is being done to and for them is "for their own good."
I'm giddy with delight when I hear women way younger than I am standing up to those old voices! No more grabbing, no more deciders, no more jokey little comments that used to be okay.
I can't count the times I've looked the other way, pretended not to see, or even appeared to agree with those who had "power."
When women have authentic agency, the old earmarks of "power" look pathetic by contrast. Like long ties and pushy gestures, buffoon-ish and dated, on the road to extinction.
2. Activation: To make something active.
I'm learning in classes related to painting how to "activate" paint on a page. By spritzing water on wet paint, for example, you can make it run and move in really cool ways.
While doing these pages, aspects of myself are activated, too. I am happy, intent, focused, and sometimes exhilarated playing with colors and shapes, not caring how anyone else might assess my efforts. (School teaches us to care overly much about the opinions of teachers who, as in my case, chasten us when we paint the red courthouse purple or color outside the lines.)
In a state of playfulness, which is a close-cousin of meditation, buried memories also surface. Sometimes the memories are pleasant, sometimes terrible. I might go to bed thinking of something I could do to enliven a page, and I wake up the next morning with clarity about something beyond the page.
Creative efforts activate the psyche to places that need attention or kindness or expression.
It's not the things we make that matter so much as the process of making that brings stuff from out of the dark into the light.
3. Angel: For me, "angel" is a figure of speech, a metaphor for unexpected generosity or kindness.
When I went to get my morning coke, a new-to-me young man was at the window, a curly-haired man with an endearing smile and voice.
I reached for my dollar and he leaned out the window and waved away my cash.
"Are you an angel?" I asked, half-teasing.
"I try to be, sometimes," he said.
It wasn't the free coke I meant. It was something about the way he looked me in the eye that summoned the word. The way he told me his name and asked for mine.
Often, if you look in unexpected places, certain people pop into view who seem intent on giving, not getting, who seem rare and other-worldly in acting from their big, wide open hearts.
1. Agency : the capacity, condition, or state of acting or of exerting power.
Alexandria O. Cortez (and scores of strong women) exemplifies a kind of agency many of us in the Sixties didn't know existed. (We still had the word, obey, in our wedding vows!)
These women aren't taking superficial answers for facts. They aren't looking away, obeying, submitting, or talking quietly among themselves.
Maybe it took the election of the current occupant of the White House, to bring Stacey, Alexandria, Amy, Elizabeth and Kamala (and a lot more) to the center of the political stage. If so, let's count that one hugely positive result of the 2016 election.
I was in awe of the clear-eyed questioning of Cohen by Cortez at the hearings this week. "So how do we find out more?" she asked. "And who else do we need to talk to?"
And to the way Kamala made Bret Kavenaugh look like an inexperienced first-year debater when he went all mushy in the Supreme Court hearings. "I'm asking you a very direct question, Sir, yes or no? Who'd you talk to?"
And Stacey who came close to winning the Georgia election by, among other things, calling out her vote-suppressing opponent.
https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/discussing-democratic-response-stacey-abrams-podcast-transcript-ncna976151
Women now have agency not only to tell their own truth, but reject claims that what is being done to and for them is "for their own good."
I'm giddy with delight when I hear women way younger than I am standing up to those old voices! No more grabbing, no more deciders, no more jokey little comments that used to be okay.
I can't count the times I've looked the other way, pretended not to see, or even appeared to agree with those who had "power."
When women have authentic agency, the old earmarks of "power" look pathetic by contrast. Like long ties and pushy gestures, buffoon-ish and dated, on the road to extinction.
2. Activation: To make something active.
I'm learning in classes related to painting how to "activate" paint on a page. By spritzing water on wet paint, for example, you can make it run and move in really cool ways.
While doing these pages, aspects of myself are activated, too. I am happy, intent, focused, and sometimes exhilarated playing with colors and shapes, not caring how anyone else might assess my efforts. (School teaches us to care overly much about the opinions of teachers who, as in my case, chasten us when we paint the red courthouse purple or color outside the lines.)
In a state of playfulness, which is a close-cousin of meditation, buried memories also surface. Sometimes the memories are pleasant, sometimes terrible. I might go to bed thinking of something I could do to enliven a page, and I wake up the next morning with clarity about something beyond the page.
Creative efforts activate the psyche to places that need attention or kindness or expression.
It's not the things we make that matter so much as the process of making that brings stuff from out of the dark into the light.
3. Angel: For me, "angel" is a figure of speech, a metaphor for unexpected generosity or kindness.
When I went to get my morning coke, a new-to-me young man was at the window, a curly-haired man with an endearing smile and voice.
I reached for my dollar and he leaned out the window and waved away my cash.
"Are you an angel?" I asked, half-teasing.
"I try to be, sometimes," he said.
It wasn't the free coke I meant. It was something about the way he looked me in the eye that summoned the word. The way he told me his name and asked for mine.
Often, if you look in unexpected places, certain people pop into view who seem intent on giving, not getting, who seem rare and other-worldly in acting from their big, wide open hearts.
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