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my favorite spring flower, if only i could remember her name

All day the quote from Georgia O’Keeffe runs through my mind:

Nobody sees a flower, really, it is so small. We haven’t time - and to see takes time like to have a friend takes time.

It takes time to really see. A lot of time actually. And for the first time ever maybe–I am starting to feel okay with that. Right now I’m experimenting with the radical notion of not rushing with this zine, with letting go of the fear that anything but a breakneck speed means I’ll never finish. Anyone who knows me understands what a miracle this is. I’m the girl who loves to do a lot of things at the same time very, very fast.

So far, so good, this slow business, but it’s still a little bit scary for me. I think it’s worth pushing through though, because I really want to get these pages right. I want to tell the truth, I want to honor the people who told me their dreams, I want to let these tiny stories change me. I want to cultivate a new Mondo Beyondo Dream–one that sows deep into fertile ground seeds of unshakeable hope for myself and others. I want to reveal human grace and beauty in ways that elicit true compassion and mutual respect.

With a zine. I know. But why not, really?

Little by little I’m nurturing a tiny seed of confidence that if I really focus on this work, everything will turn out okay, but that’s still a stretch for me. I worry about money, about all my other projects. I worry about not carrying my own weight in this family (honestly, you should see my kitchen right now :() while I take precious time to figure out how to use color, how to chart the flow of ideas, how to let the soul of the zine take hold in the pages and grow.

But you know how it is. If you don’t take your own unique chance to see the world, if you rush through, if you worry instead of work, you miss the whole thing. I hope today I can work instead of worry, that I can take the time to see a flower really, that I can paint hope so big for you that you’re surprised at how clearly you can see it, too, how your soul already knows all the colors by heart.

It’s Monday morning. We’ll see.

Helpful links related to this post:
Mondo Beyondo from its originating Superhero
the virtues of paying attention from Evelyn Rodriguez
Why I make zines along with inspiration for finding your true North
the Slow Movement

I’d love to hear what you are trying to “see” these days in the comments below. What’s worth going slow for you? What’s calling to your creative soul, asking for more time? Oh, and if anyone knows what that flower is, that would be so great. I love it so much.

UPDATE: Wow, that was fast. Michelle, my long-time blogging friend, identified this lovely as a ranunculus! Thanks M, and I hope I do want to come back! Soon!

favorite (wild) things, Carter and Madeleine, Knysna, South Africa

A random list in no particular order, though surely butter nearly wins first place every time.
1. Buttercups
2. Butter (unsalted on sour dough bread preferably)
3. The sound of my kids laughing so hard they can’t stop
4. Sunflowers
5. The poetry of Mary Oliver
6. Eating ice cream out of the carton while standing in front of the freezer, door open
7. Hot, hot bath with these bubbles and a tangerine/lavender candle
8. Falling asleep in the sun (beach, lawn, front porch)
9. Fresh raspberries
10. Riding my bike
11. The sound of a stream
12. The smell of the ocean
13. This American Life
14. the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator
15. Fractals (the outline of trees in winter against a white sky especially)
16. Maps (subway, street, nation-state)
17. Having conversations with people who do not understand or speak English
18. Talking to strangers
19. Stationery and paper goods of all kinds
20. Graphic novels or illustrated books like this one
21. Lemon anything
22. Unbridled enthusiasm/irrational exuberance/over-reacting in all forms
23. Mindless movies where the girl suddenly realizes she’s an Olympic caliber skater or a naturally talented singing sensation or the only person on Planet Earth who can reform a rockstar
24. Close up pictures of little things
25. Listening to the travails/triumphs of immigrants and other wanderers from far off lands
26. Singing the only line from a Celine Dion song I know– “I believe I can fly! I believe I can touch the sky!” at inopportune times in full voice
27. Having funny conversations with my kids
28. Going to New York
29. Analyzing dreams (it’s one of my superpowers)
30. Crying over something touching (a rare occurence but welcomed)
31. The color yellow
32. Lighting candles ceremoniously.
33. Making things pretty in a room first, cleaning second
34. Entering without knocking as a sign of love and familiarity (bathrooms excepted)
35. Talking on the telephone until I get phone shoulder and then the imprint of the buttons on the side of my face.
36. Making lists.
37. Bending rules, making exceptions, trying to get away with murder, that kind of thing.
38. International connections
39. Buying The New Yorker before getting on a plane or train.
40. Getting lost as a way to discover a new place.
41. Fatou’s laugh
42. Courage in the face of insurmountable odds
43. Meryl’s chamomile tea, Nick’s coffee, Mayorga’s chai
44. The sound of someone practicing an instrument as you walk down the street
45. Walking as a form of transportation
46. putting together a new zine (I love doing this so much I can’t even tell you)
47. Being with my sisters (I have three–Kris, Pache and Kate)
48. the idea of the idea before I actually have to do all the work
49. a certain kind of matching (my sweater/your couch, my scarf/the stripe on my sneakers, etc)
50. the way children look when they’re sleeping and then going to bed myself

As someone who has made a small career out of waking up cranky, I hope something here was a silver lining. Maybe tomorrow I’ll make a list of things that drive me crazy for those of you who are suffering from being chronically cheerful! Blessings all around and happy, happy Sunday, dear friends.

Carter, three years ago, at Great Falls. He’s now five, but not too big for lullabies.

Carter stands next to our bed in near twilight, wakened by the darkness of dreams and some primal need to come home to the place where his heart is at rest. “Mom?” he whispers. I roll towards him, keeping my eyes closed. Just one peek and I’ll be awake for hours, maybe til morning if I’m especially unlucky. “Can you sing me the ivy twine song two times?” I nod, still silent, listening as he climbs over Dave into the circle of my arms.

I’ve learned I don’t really have to sing as long as I say the words in a sing-songy whisper. He used to wake up crying hard from bad dreams, but these days he surfaces confident that just one round is all it will take to put his soul at rest. Sometimes, like tonight, he needs two, but I don’t mind. I’m always left in awe of this magic trick. I’m always amazed at how these particular lines can soothe him–though in part I understand completely. I used to sing this song to myself for years before I had children to coax hope out of dark shadows. It worked.

Tell me why the ivy twines,
Tell me why the stars do shine,
Tell me why the sky’s so blue,
And I will tell you just why I love you.

Because God made the ivy twine
Because God made the stars to shine,
Because God made the sky so blue,
Because God made you, that’s why I love you.

With each whispered line, I feel his little body begin to let go and rest in my arms. By the last line, he is fast asleep, and I am wide awake.

It used to be that I woke up every night at one like this, crying baby or not. I took it as my Muse in need of tending, like an invitation to the world of words. I woke each night with fully formed sentences in my head–a sure sign that all would go well, if only I would agree to sit at the table–my screen facing out to the wide warm moon, my face turned down to the little square letters waiting to be rendered a fine poem or true tale.

These days that rarely happens. I can write in broad daylight, and it feels like a miracle. But tonight–in a different house, where no one knows exactly where the moonlight falls in this maze of windows and doors–Carter needs his song, and perhaps more important still, I need to sing it. I had been dreaming of a page in my zine and a longing for divine connection. Without Carter’s whisper, I might not have known it. I sing in my whisper voice so glad for ivy that twines, so glad for the reassurance of love. For the deep knowing that Carter needs me, that I need him, that we are known by God. That this love is as certain as the sky so blue.

There’ll be hours now until dawn to think of it, to let it wash over me like the waves of the Indian Ocean, but that’s okay. Sometimes you need to wake up so you can know something true, so you can be sure you don’t forget the very thing that holds us all in a divine embrace.

In case you are short on lullabies or would like to learn this one, I made a very marginal recording of this song available below. I feel a little shy sharing it, but I suppose that’s to be expected. Blessings all and goodnight.

Click here to get your own player.

Rachelle, my soulsister and partner-in-crime added some lovely vintage clothing to her magpie girl goods line today. I am oh-so-impressed–mostly because Rachelle’s creative energy knows no bounds and nearly everything she touches positively sparkles by the time she’s through. Go peek and sell her out before she comes to her senses and starts charging the fortune these frocks are surely worth.

This is a little glamour shot of my brand new bike. I used to have a shiny blue girl bike named Bliss, but she disappeared from my back patio last fall, and I’ve never quite gotten over it. I fully expected this dear friend to return to me, until three weeks passed and Dave took me by the hand and gently said, “You know that bike is gone, right? It’s never coming back.” Honestly, until that moment I had no idea.

We woke up Saturday morning to the prettiest Spring day you can imagine–the perfect day to break into your super secret babysitting stash of cash and go buy a brand new bike. I always assumed I would just go get another Breeze–what bike could be more fitting for me than this old friend?–but several phone calls to various people mid-shopping expedition convinced me otherwise.

I bought Bliss–which is a cushy, shiny women’s comfort bike–in part because I thought my mountain bike days were over. I wanted to be comfortable. I wanted to ride my bike wearing long flowing skirts and a floppy sun hat with a puppy in my wicker basket. But then I started riding that bike so often (off to Safeway for milk! to Whole Foods for chocolate! to Mayorga for chai!) that I actually got my sorry ass into better shape. I went on longer rides. I lost twenty pounds. Poor Bliss was exhausted. She was never meant for so much work. And I never once wore a skirt. There was no chance in hell Dave was ever going to sign up for a puppy.

After visiting a couple of stores, I figured out I wanted more of a fitness bike but I still wanted to feel like a third grader with ribbons in her hair. Explaining this to those dull boys at the bike stores was a problem. They kept trying to convince me the boy bikes were better. That Lance himself liked this one, loved that one. They didn’t understand when I said I thought Lance might not be the best judge for a situation like this. After that, one of the dullest boys told me he was pretty sure there was no bike in that store for me. And I was sure he was right.

I ended up slightly exasperated at Griffin Cycle, a friendly neighborhood bike store in Bethesda. I explained my dilemma to Tom, who didn’t seem dull at all like those other bike boys, and he listened. Something that I can ride every day to the grocery store, that can take a basket but also can hang tough on Sligo Creek or long rides on the C&O Canal. I’ll have watercolors and chocolate chip cookies in my backpack. I have cute addidas sneakers with a hot pink stripe. He took in my requirements and then added with total understanding and a twinkle in his eye, “Is it fair to say you might be in the market for streamers?”

That’s when I knew Tom was the bike boy for me.

He took care of all technical aspects, making his own assessment of what kinds of mechanical merits a bike like mine should definitely have whether I liked it or not, and then pointed out carefully the prettiest bikes in my price range. “This one is really cute with the pink,” he said. “That one has a nice shimmer in the sunshine. You’ll like how light this one is when you take it out on the trails.” I was in heaven.

Tom helped me pick a nice women’s fitness bike from Trek and promised it could have a big squishy seat and a basket if I wanted–and then spent an inordinate amount of time rewiring all the cabling to make the basket work. I even ended up taking the streamers at the last minute–even though I hadn’t been totally serious about that–just because I’m that kind of girl.

And because they matched the bike so perfectly.

I don’t know what it is, but there’s nothing like a bike to fill my creative soul. “Jen’s going to be so happy,” I overheard Dave say to Jess over dishes in the kitchen after our little urban family had wandered back to their respective beds after a long afternoon of food and partying. There was a smile in his voice which made me smile, too.

It’s going to be a lovely pink summer.

(more pics to follow)

one of my first painting journal entries after reading TAW, Fall 2005

My friend Laura (and witness to all kinds of strange and inspiring conversations at Blogher Business) wrote recently about her recent forays into The Artist’s Way and this idea that we all in our own ways are creative beings, capable of living full artistic lives. This is a bedrock idea in TAW, and I subscribe wholeheartedly.

Naming yourself an artist, on the other hand, can be a little tricky. I spent a lot of my early days with The Artist’s Way figuring out the hard way that there’s no quicker way to call up your personal demons than to assert to another human being that you are indeed an artist. Nine times out of ten that leads to a conversation about commerce (read: do you make any money?) and education (read: who credentialed your talent?)–which may or may not have anything to do with art, depending on who you are and how you approach your medium.

I wanted to claim that title–not in an exclusive way (like “I’m creative and you’re not”)–but as an exercise in being honest to myself and others about how important it was for me to start living my life differently. Before The Artist’s Way, the thought had never once crossed my mind that I might be an artist. I was the thirty-five year old mother of an infant and a pre-schooler, throwing all my creativity into wrapping presents, making cards and throwing parties. I was deeply frustrated as a stay-at-home mom, overwhelmed with this persistent sense that my life was a total waste–even though my children were happy and thriving.

I spent the my first read through of TAW in a state of shock and deep grief over all the years I had lost. Reading that book, it was so obvious that I had been an artist all along. I wondered if it was too late for me; I had been so convinced that art was a luxury for college students and people without kids or responsibility. Eventually the tears gave way to a new resolve–I would start to take seriously the lost artist inside me. I would coax her out and get her back to health. I would put in the hours in front of fine art and blank pages, and see what happened next.

That was three years ago. It feels like an eternity ago now. Since then I have written over a thousand posts on various blogs, published several articles, made two zines, talked to publishers, learned new mediums and found a whole new world where my creativity is loved and welcomed. I still freak out every time I need to start (or finish!) project. I still have episodes of paralyzing fear and self-doubt. But that doesn’t stop me from moving. I know now I have to be true to my artist self or risk losing my soul one piece of a time. The stakes are about that high.

People still ask me what kind of artist I am, if I sell my art, if I can make a living at what I do, blah, blah, blah, but all those questions don’t haunt me the way they used to. I work for myself now, diligently following my creative path, taking my most keen validation from all the kindness the Universe brings my way. What that means for my bank account remains to be seen, but that’s okay. I’m learning that’s one part of what it means to be an artist, too–learning how to handle the real world concerns of money, income, expenses, etc. Learning how to call up the courage to be financially successful; being willing to surrender the attachment I have to struggle; giving up my sense of limitation.

It’s funny–by taking a broad stroke to the idea of being an artist, The Artist Way helped me find a very narrow and specific path. I’ll always be deeply thankful for that; it’s one more reason why I return to this book again and again as I continue to find my way.

Laura and Andrea had great posts (and comments) about what it means to be an artist. You can read more here and here.

The weather is so lovely here–I’m leaving all the projects and joy in my sunny new studio space to go pick up my new bike. Spring is here! More later.

My sister and writing partner Patience has graciously allowed me to reprint this piece she wrote for her own blog. Her compassion unravels like a perfect poem, and I wanted to share it with you. May kindness tend the weary souls of all who weep tonight.

i held a boy almost too big for my arms this morning. josiah buried his face in my chest and let out a long cry. i assured him it’s good to cry, that feelings like to be free. the ones that are bottled up hate it and find other ways to sneak out.

today the tears are a result of being scared, afraid that he’ll never remember the 7 facts about squid. it’s been all about squid here- squid art, squid books, even pin-the-tentacle on the squid game. it’s just too much for a 7 year old, a 30 minute presentation pretending to be the teacher. the burden weighs on josiah’s mind and heart.

i suggest squid power pancakes as they are magic. if you eat them you will remember all that you need to know about squid and be able to tell anyone and everyone about their amazingness. i kiss these tears and an agreement is made that it is indeed time for the power pancakes can bring.

my puffy eyed boy runs to take a bath and i start my day of 1 million tasks.

i have a hard time focusing. i imagine there is some other mother somewhere not far from me that is starting her day. Only this mother is wishing that yesterday was simply a nightmare and surely her sweet boy is anxious about a presention he must make for his professor. instead she attends convocations, in shock and numb. how will she face today without that boy, how can he be gone?

even further away yet another mother faces a deeper dark. her son’s pain and action changed people’s lives forever. the weight is too great for anyone to bear and i can not pretend to know what will keep her soul from drowning.

i can only imagine that these women wish today was the day they were holding little boys almost too big for their arms. the day where pancakes heal the aches of the soul, the day where fears can be conquered with kisses and tears.

the candle on my kitchen altar still glows from yesterday. the holy mother stares at me while i do the dishes. her face knows great pain and sadness. may she hold these mothers close to her bosom, may she come to them in their deepest dark, may she grant them comfort and peace. amen.

for jarrett’s mom

sunset cruise on Table Bay, from the deck of the Maharani

I wake to the sound of wind swirling around our old house, tiny streams of air slipping between old cracks and windows made of lines not quite meeting in all the right places. Dave is missing from the tangle of sheets and blankets beside, gone no doubt to chase away midnight monsters from under Madeleine’s bed.

We are home after sixteen days away, though our bodies lie and keep Cape Town time out of loyalty to our shared adventure, now so far away. We’ve been walking around the house, feeling strange, remembering the rhythm of this place we call home. I find myself hiding in old routines, not wanting to lose my sense of feeling most myself overseas, not wanting to forget each face, each tender conversation about dreams and longing.

The best way to do this is a zine, I decide. I go through the rituals of preparing quietly as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. I run my hands over hot pressed paper at the art store. I pull the sheets, pet the fat yellow cat that rises from the shop counter to brush his face against my chin. Add more ink to my pile, ask polite questions about watercolor, while mentally cutting the paper in my mind–one sheet, 12 squares? Is that right? Meryl will know.

I promise myself ten days to commit to paper whatever pours from my heart. I promise myself two more at the beginning to make a studio space, now that John who used to rent the attic space has drifted off. I pick a color at the hardware store in under five minutes, a never before imagined miracle. I paint my little cave of light that overlooks the back yard the color of sky–Song Blue. I worry it’s too blue, until I see how the yellow blossoms on the trees come on fire from my perch, until I see how the spring greens speak their thanks from our unruly yard below.

I buy a wall map of Africa online so I can learn a new geography for my soul to flourish and grow.

Everything that happens for the next two weeks will be from a space of creative overflow. There will be times when I can not put another line on the page. I know now from experience that this will be a sign for me to turn back to my keyboard and putter around for a few hours with writing a children’s book. There will be times when I will face a deadend and not know which page goes where. This will be my sign to turn back to my sketchpad and spend an afternoon on something else instead–wide open sunflowers for James with pale green leaves curled upward toward the sun, piles of radishes just pulled from the deep dark earth, one vine ripe tomato in full color.

Being in Africa was a Mondo Beyondo dream come true. Even more surprising than that for me was how being in that place reminded me of other dreams on that same list—things that seem so preposterous or impossible. Unless, of course, you are feeling your soul nurtured under the wide open Africa sky.

Blessings all in these early hours of dawn. I am happy to report that I met so many people in Cape Town, Franschhoek and Knysna, South Africa, who are holding close their own wild dreams, looking for the way to open soon, soon, soon. These stories and more will be my focus for a hand full of pages. Or so I hope on the onset of a new zine adventure.

Tomorrow we make the long trek (almost 6 uninhabited hours!) back to Cape Town from the sea town of Knysna. Here in Knysna we walked with elephants, talked to birds, befriended monkeys and took in the sunset over the bays of the Indian Ocean. It seems like an eternity since we left home, but a happy one at that. Here’s my favorite moment from our trip–overlooking the Cape of Good Hope–a last minute trip that made me the happiest of all as this picture shows no doubt:

Before she saw the mother nesting her egg, before they joined her to swim in the water, before pure bliss.