Mid-July update, and Esme's first faces

As with all summers, this one is flying by faster than I had imagined it would. I've only a moment in between projects, so I'm making this my shortest post ever.

I'm still in home improvement mode, working my way around from room to room, refinishing, re-organizing, repainting. It's pretty gratifying. I've been doing a little (very little) writing, some painting (on canvases), and I'm in the throes of finishing a quilt for Esme. Ada's baby's quilt was done on time. Esme's has been delayed for two years already! Time to get it done. Plus, it's just so inspiring to work with the fabric.

Of course, I am still making little things for an Etsy shop-in-the-works, and things look good on that front. Next week, I will be listing my first paintings for sale.

Esme and Ada are little artists themselves. Esme has been practicing circles for a few months now, and just recently started adding features to make faces. Here are two of her latest beauties. She asked me to put one on the wall, which I was proud to do. We keep looking at it and smiling!

More to come from the blogfront soon. Hope your summer is full of happy moments, too.

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General Guidelines for Girls and Lipstick

When you choose a lipstick shade, make it one or two shades more intense than your natural lip color. Or, for a more dramatic look, choose a brighter color.

If you aren't used to wearing makeup, get some help from your best friend. She will give you an honest opinion of how it looks.

Be aware that you may have admirers, and you should treat them with kindness. After all, your beauty is irresistible!

If you are having someone paint your nails, it is a good idea to have something good to read while you wait.

Your smile will always be your best beauty accessory.

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A Small List

1. Rainy weather is good weather. A cool front has settled over our island, and the weather has been extraordinarily cool and rainy for weeks on end. I love it. I'm not in good company, though. Each trip into town, I invariably run into someone who moans and groans about how awful the summer is so far. I hold my tongue and make sympathic-sounding noises, but really, I want to say: "Ah, but don't you love how cool and green the mornings are? Look how much money we are saving on air-conditioning! Isn't it better to have this than a drought?"

I keep my silence because I could go on and on, enough to alarm my fellow islander. In fact, I am surprised myself at how much I love the weather. I especially love the strange feeling of mystery that comes along with the unseasonable foggy days. There is none of the melancholy that comes with the autumn fogs, no whisper of fading or death that the fall inevitably brings. Instead, there is just this pure, green, freshness in the fog, and it's exciting in some way, like something powerful and interesting and new is right around the corner.

I've also caught myself spending more time at the window, especially when it rains. My favorite thing to watch is the quick moving storm that drops rain so thickly that sometimes it looks like a curtain, and then, just as suddenly, it fades to an airy, lacy spray. On those afternoons, as soon as the sun smudges yellow against the clouds, the girls and I shout "Rainbow weather!" and run out into the yard to find one.

I have been walking in the mornings, and the air is heavy with the smell of honeysuckle and mimosa. The humid air doesn't discriminate about which scents it carries, and it's an olfactory map of our neighborhood. I like to imagine that if I close my eyes, I could tell by the faintly sick and musty smell of the turtles that I am near the pond to or by the wave of the smell of horses, that I am near the little rise in the road. On clear days, the water of the pond flashes blue and bright, and the leaves are silvery in the sun, and that is lovely too. But as I said, there is something special about the dense feel of the air and the light on a misty day. I think it makes me want to walk around in it more, and that can only be a good thing.

2. We are in a fix-it mode, as our house is about to celebrate its 4th birthday. It's clear that we need to attend to the little things projects now in small increments, or suffer the house needing more extensive work later on. Among our projects are cleaning out the garage, painting the outside trim on the doors and northern windows, cleaning the windows themselves, hanging blinds, repainting trim and doors inside, and repainting any areas that have excessive wear. The list keeps growing, but I must admit that doesn't detract from my happiness when I cross off an item I've completed.

The biggest and most intimidating is the painting. I might enjoy painting a canvas, but I am really poor at painting a wall, on which you are supposed to eliminate brushstrokes. I'm practicing and hoping to get better as we work our way around the house. My husband is much better at making it look neat, so he gets to do the second coats. It's slow work, and the rain makes me space out the steps--prep, tape, paint, paint again, touch up. In between each of these is the cleaning up, and the waiting for the paint to dry or the rain to stop or in some cases, both. It's paying off, though. The laundry room is done, and bright and happy in an orangey shade called Nasturtium (honestly, though I hate the vagueness of paint names, I love the names themselves. Regardless of how it actually looks on the wall, nasturtium has sweet ring to it, doesn't it?). I did the laundry room first because I spend enough time there, and it may as well be cheery and clean. Plus, it's a good testing ground. If I ruin it, I'm the only one who would really notice. I'm glad to say that it came out perfectly. Yay me. Now to get the stuff in there folded, ironed, and put away.

The front door was a more obvious place to begin, and we've been working on it in little phases. As of this morning, it's done! I just put the finishing touches on the front porch by polishing the aluminum threshold. I put away the polish, and felt the good gratification of a job well done when I stepped back and saw our red door and clean white trim. I think I'll keep walking back over there to give myself a mental "pep talk" when I feel like quitting...

3. In all of this, I have been writing in the lucid way that comes when you are writing in your head. The repetitive motions of moving the paint brush, wiping window sills, or pushing an iron are all equally monotonous, and in that, they are equally freeing. Ideas, phrases, and sometimes fully-fleshed out paragraphs come to me while I'm engaged in non-writing activities. And it is writing. I've always believed it so. When I was teaching, I even took the risk of telling my students that "writing in your head" counted. It does count, because even when it's in your head, it's clearly writing, differentiated from regular thinking because it's formed with expression and structure and-- and this is the the biggest difference--an inescapable desire to save it onto paper. Of course, when you're writing in your head, you are the only reader, but it's important to remember that the self is a worthy audience, perhaps the most valuable audience you have.

Now don't go imagining that I gave credit for "writing in your head" when I was teaching. As I would point out to my students, while writing in your head counts, writing counts even more once you put it into text and share it with someone. It was my hope that giving them permission to ponder and listen to their own writing voice would improve their confidence. I like to think it did. When I read my students' work, it was obvious to me which students allowed themselves the space to form their writing before they actually wrote it. Their writing was that much stronger, their "voice" that much clearer.

My voice is coming clearly to me these days, as I wind around the pond. I'm eager to share some of it with you in the next few weeks.

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Open Heart Letter 4: to my Mom

Because there is not enough space and time, this is a short take. For all the love I have for you, Mom, it would eat the bandwidth of the internet...

To my mom:
As I write this, the kitchen is filled with the scent of peonies, and I cannot walk into the room without imagining you are here visiting me. How I wish you lived closer to us so we could spend time doing just the very basic ordinary things of life. We could pick the flowers in the garden together, fill the vases, wash the dishes, knead the bread. These are simple things, but I know how much you appreciate them and the space to enjoy them. It is one of my dearest wishes that you have that opportunity to take a breath and just be in the now, relaxed and free.

I know that when I was a very little girl, you spent many hours in the now, keeping house, baking bread, trying new recipes. You sewed my Halloween costumes and bedspread (and matching Holly Hobbie curtains!), dusted and vacuumed and helped me make lemonade for selling in a tiny stand at the end of the driveway. My mind was a fertile place of imaginings, and you kept me safe and cozy and let me wander in my own little world. In the process, I know you inspired my love of a homelife, and it continues today.

Of course, in those intervening years, you lost your own time to do those things. The business you own with Daddy actually owns you. It is a harsh master, and you have been in its service at the cost of your own desires. For all the good and opportunities it has brought you (and many, many others), it costs you a little bit of your dream each day. I ache to think of it.

What I admire is that in everything you have done for others, in all you have sacrificed, you remain sunny, bright and lovely. You did not have the best start in life, you have been handed a fair share of meanness in a variety of settings. But you rise above it all, and shine. It's funny: you are not unlike the peony in the garden, flourishing unexpectedly in the sand. You are quietly strong, filling the space around you with beauty, generous with yourself. You are unforgettable, and once someone meets you, they instantly love you.

I am constantly astounded by how many people flock to you. Each sings your praises, and makes a point of reminding me of how special my mother is. "I know!" I say, and I do. I think it is wonderful how you shine so clearly. "I am so lucky," I tell them, and I mean it. What a great gift I have in life to have you as my mother. I don't fail to think of it every single day.

Amidst all of it, you remain unsure of your own value. Humble as always, you doubt your own worth. You fear you haven't done enough. You, who is always, always doing things for others. I will be quick to remind you that you are so very much more than you do, you are extraordinary. And if you didn't do those things, you would still be extraordinary you. You are bright, and dedicated, and enthusiastic. Your optimism is contagious. Your energy is sometimes intimidating! You are lovely, and funny. You have many obvious talents, and just as many undiscovered! (While you doubt it, I know you have a great eye for color and an aptitude for art if you would let yourself try!) I wish you could see yourself the way others see you. I will not tire of reminding you that you are very, very special. Oh, how we all love you so very much!

It's a great coincidence that your given names describe you so well: Bonnie, of course, the beautiful. And Angela, the angel. You're those things, and so, so much more. I love you. I can't tell you that enough. But that won't stop me from trying.

I love you.
love,
Kirie

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Coming Along

I am a good cheerleader for myself. When I'm working on a painting, you might hear me talking to myself softly, saying, "Well, he's coming along."

The he in question here is Zeus, a lovely dog who belongs to my friend Dana. And while I don't know Zeus well, he is pretty strongly set into my thoughts these days. He comes along with me wherever I go; you might see me staring out into space sometimes lately while I try to figure out how to capture the brindled colors of the fur near his right eye. The photo above is a not-quite finished version. But it's close. This morning I've been puzzling over the details of his snout, Dana's hands, and those tags...If I am lucky, I will grab another hour this afternoon, and he will be done! What fun it has been getting to know him.

I must say that it amazes me that he even looks like a dog. I am not an artist by training, but I am one by will. This year marks 10 years of my practice with drawing and painting, and I feel as though I have more projects in my mind than ever. And lucky me, a few of them are close to completion! Zeus shares my thoughtspace and studio with 3 other paintings that are also "coming along." It is a quiet thrill that I carry them in my head as I go through my day...

UPDATE
Esme's naptime gave me chance to put the finishing touches, et voila!

Here is Zeus, just waiting to be signed and put in the frame. It feels great to finish a project.



UPDATE Again! Okay, I'm obsessed. Here he is, done, framed, signed. Whee! The last step is to get some nice giclee prints done so I have some copies. Now to get the skin tones blocked in on the beach painting.....



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Not sparing myself the humiliation

Is it not normal that I love embarrassing moments? Regardless, I do. I love them especially if they happen to me. That’s not jinxing myself, I hope, because I don’t need a ton of them. What I’m saying is that I just really value the collection I have. I love having those memories because they make me laugh at myself. I think there is something wonderfully freeing about re-envisioning yourself doing something ridiculous. And I love laughing. Give me a good and funny story, and I will laugh about it for weeks.

Today my friend La Belette Rouge posted a hilarious account of a recent embarrassing moment, and so I’m taking her cue and posting an account of one of my own moments of humiliation. I have quite a few, but this one is near the top of my list. It happened in 1993, and it has been worth years of laughter for me:

A little background first. I did not grow up a sporty kid. I wasn’t completely a klutz, but I have never been on a team sport; I don’t have that natural grace of someone who is a practiced athlete. But I do love trying new things, so over the years I’ve enjoyed a few attempts at more or less adventurous activities like rock climbing, or kayaking, or skiing. It bears mentioning that I didn’t try any of these until I was into my 20s, when any hopes of being a “natural” had long dried up…

Anyway, I had an amazing opportunity to visit the Olympic sites in Norway in late 1993, just weeks before the opening ceremonies. My parents took us to Oslo with them, and then, in the interest of skiing, my brother and I made a trip to a town just north of Oslo, a place called Oyer, in Lillehammer, Norway.



In preparation for the trip, I had gotten an adorable little ski jacket and snowpants, great goggles, ski-cap, etc. I was prepared to be cute if not good at skiing. I danced around in my little size 4 outfit and dreamed big--who knew? Maybe I would be good at this sport!

We stayed in a strange little hotel that had giant keys for doorknobs and a stagnant pool that felt like the set to the horror film. I couldn’t help but conjure images of trolls with big hands turning those key-shaped handles and languishing in the scummy pool. But I digress.
Bizarreness aside, there was an air of magic to the whole trip, and I felt like I was about to discover something special on my first skiing experience. Yes, that’s right. My first skiing experience was to be on the same hill where there would soon be Olympians competing….what an honor! What a thrill!

The grand plan was for me to get a lesson from an expert Norwegian and learn the right way from the beginning. Ah, plans. The first problem was that we arrived an hour early for the lesson. I figured I would play around on the bunny hill, just getting used to the feeling of skis on my feet. My brother, of course, was an excellent skier already. He had been on the high school ski team for years, and he didn’t want to waste any time waiting for my lesson. So off he went.

I put on my skis in the warm little ski hut, shuffled outside, and found out that skis are HEAVY. Or these skis were. I had been expecting to “shhh” across the perfect snow, but I felt myself fighting just to move forward. I really needed some practice, so I headed over to the tow-rope that went up the bunny hill.

The bunny hill here was actually a bunny hill. It was small, and seemed accessible, and it was populated by at least 20 little kids who flew down the hill effortlessly. Some of them had to have been younger than 3 years old, and most of them had no poles at all. These were clearly the future ski instructors of the area. I was intimidated, but I pressed on to the tow-rope.

This tow-rope was a pretty simple contraption—a continuous rope that was punctuated by little buoy-shaped pieces that you were supposed to grab, slip between your knees, and rest on. The strong motor in the wheel-house did the rest.

The little skiers grabbed the rope as easily as they cruised down the hill. I watched them for a few minutes to see their technique, and then I made my first attempt.

I got in line, grabbed the rope, sat, and ….tipped over to the right. No go. Maybe I didn’t have that buoy-seat right. Try again. And again. Same thing.

By the fourth time, I was getting some good advice from a few of the kids. "Let your skis pull you.” “Keep hanging on.”

All good advice. No go for tries 5, 6, and 7. Now a little crowd gathered. The wheel house guy made a point to stop the rope completely when it was my turn now, and made it go very, very slowly. Still, I fell off. Great. My cheeks may have already been red from the 10 degree temperature, but I can assure you they were warm with my blushing by that time.

Mr. Wheelhouse stopped the rope, came over to me, and explained, in very slow and deliberate English, the method the kids had shown me a few attempts earlier. He went back to the wheelhouse, turned on the rope, et voila: I fell off.

At this point, a weird American guy I had met earlier at our hotel showed up and tried to rescue me. He had registered very high on my creep-o-meter when I’d spoken to him before, that feeling just increased as I saw him him charging up the hill with a here-I-come-to-save-the-day grin on his face. My stomach curdled a bit.

Creepyguy had taken off his skis to get to me all the faster, and he was running. Before I knew it, he was standing next to me in line. When the time came for me to try yet again to get on that cursed tow rope, Creepyguy stepped up behind me and, without even asking, sort of bent down, leaned into my back, and tried to push me up the hill. (If he had asked, what would that have sounded like anyway--I cringe just to think of it.) Despite his best efforts to shove me, I didn't budge one inch up the hill.

I had been laughing and smiling, and even waving a few times to the growing group of gawkers, in that sort of self-effacing “got it under control” kind of palm salute. But I swear, this time I was close to tears-- you know the kind, the ones that start as a laugh but end in big sobs. So, with Creepyguy still at my backside, and with the rope tugging mightily at my knees, I started the big laugh-cry. Then I lost control again, and tipped, but this time, I fell onto my back and into the center ditch between the up-rope and the down-rope.

I lay there like a overturned beetle, my arms and ski-heavy legs flailing above me. That was it, I decided. I think there was pointing, and I know there was laughing. I was going to be done with this and I planned to beat a hasty retreat to the spooky hotel.
The only upside was that at least Creepyguy had stepped to the side. So I lay there, planning my escape for what felt like a long time like a sad ski-beetle, laughing those big tears down my face until Mr. Wheelhouse came to help me up. As he reached to grab for my arm, he got a good look at the bottom of my skis, and he smiled a big smile that showed all those lovely Norwegian teeth.

“Miss, it is your skis! They are iced.”

I had no clue what that meant, but within a minute or two, I had a ski instructor at my side, removing the skis to show me that the bottoms were indeed coated with a good inch or two of clumpy ice. Instructor Arne (to be pronounced AR-Nuh), was to be my very own instructor, and he quickly fixed me up with a freshly waxed pair of skis that were not warm enough to gather an icy coating, and what do you know?

I got up the tow-rope.

I put my humiliation out of mind for my hour-long lesson. During my lesson, I managed to get down the hill several times, too, without injury or incident. Arne, poleless as the two-year-olds whizzing around, skied in front of me, going backwards at high speeds, and insisted I grab for him if I felt myself falling. Arne, wherever you are, you were nice, but that is just not a position I want to get into, ever. I think the thought of plummeting down the hill in his embrace was enough to keep me upright.


The lesson ended in time for the sun to set at 3:30 pm, and my brother met me at the ski house as I was returning my skis. “How was it?” he asked.

On the scale of embarrassing moments? I give it a 10. And worth 16 years of laughs, at least.

Now your turn: What is one of your best embarrassing moments?

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On Memorial Day

Memorial Day is a day of grilling and celebration, children eager for the end of school, pools and beaches newly reopened. It's a time to celebrate the beginning of a vibrant season.

Of course, we all also know the bigger significance of the holiday, but it's not the focus of the "celebrations," is it? Perhaps it's too much of a contrast with the liveliness of the world at this time of year. I find it hard to focus on the real meaning of Memorial Day, too. It's heartbreaking.

For those who have served and returned home bereft of friends who died in the field, the day must feel otherworldly. Their focus must frequently fall on remembering, not just today, but every day. And what is today like for those families who have lost someone? What must it be like to watch the little flags waving along a parade route, to see the fliers advertising Memorial Day sales on watermelon or hotdogs or lawn furniture? How little the normal world recognizes the bizarre contrast between picnic parties and remembering those who won't return home to share another family holiday.

Life certainly goes on, and celebrating summer is important, of course. But I'm making a point today to stop, with gratitude, and recognize that today is also about the people who willingly step into harm's way to serve in the military. Think what you will of the war in Iraq, or Afghanistan, those who serve there are made of something special to do what they do.

Last year, I received from a dear friend of mine a book that details the heroic service of just one of the many Marines who have served in Iraq. The book is called The Gift of Valor. In it, author Michael Phillips draws the vivid portrait of Marine Corporal Jason Dunham. Heartwrenching and illuminating, the story of this brave young man and those with whom he served stays in my mind. It is worth the time to read to get a feeling for the type of work that our military service members do every single day. While not all of them have to make the sacrifice that Jason did, they are cut from the same cloth: they will step up and give whatever they have because they have sworn to, because they have a sense of what it means to honor their commitment to each other.

These are huge thoughts that try to flee my mind because it's just too hard to hold onto them for too long. But I pull them back and back again today, and I'll say a prayer of thanksgiving to know the brave service members I do. I'll say another prayer of thanksgiving for the service of those like Corporal Dunham.

The vets will raise their flag in our small-town square this afternoon, and certainly their thoughts will honor their friends who didn't get to come back and mark the beginning of another summer. I will join them, with my hand on my heart.

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