The new girl was introduced to me about 15 minutes after class started. Often they enter the classroom wearing a defiant look as their armor. This one crept into the room, jumping at the rustle of a few papers, her gaze constantly darting from one person to another.

I usually meet them for the first time while class is in session. We introduced each other. I got her set up with a binder and stickers to decorate it. Then I had her start on a creative activity to break the ice between us. I wouldn’t learn how she came to our school until later, when I could read her file, but another student summed up what I was thinking succinctly, however inappropriately:

“Girl has seen some shit.”

The sad fact is that all of them, the defiant ones and the terrified ones have seen shit that no one — especially not a child should see.

This last week, stories of people fleeing yet another invasion in Syria seemed to dominate drive-time news. I listened, thinking about how something as random as the geography of ones birth insulates a person’s peace from the chaos of uncivil wars instigated and enabled by rulers treating people like plastic disposable game pieces . I thought of the children growing up in those war zones, of the shit they’re seeing, and of the adults that they will become. Then, as happens most days recently, I thought of the hundreds and even thousands children growing up in the ‘mini’ war zones all around us and of the adults they are becoming.

My kids are effectively refugees from those ‘mini’ war zones, and I know my job is to build their sense of peace so that they can get down to the business of learning, of growing up.

But peace is a funny thing. It’s not just the absence of gunfire or sirens or broken dishes for a few nights or even a few months. It’s the calm that comes with the knowledge that those things won’t interrupt life again.

Some of our kids, with a lot of help and love, find that certainty, that peace. When they do, they grow. They begin to share their gifts. They learn to control and redirect their anger which, however righteous, consumes peace and energy and everything around it like a dying star. 

But peace is fragile.  It needs maintenance. It begins (or can end) with childhood. And it needs TLC everywhere we want it to exist. 

#inktober2019

“Mindless”

The craft fairs are done, and, even though most of them were successful, I’m ready for the break.

Last weekend, I was almost ready for a permanent break, suffering from a crisis of confidence after visiting the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge Mass. Usually I come away from that museum inspired, driven. Last weekend, Looking at the work of several supremely successful illustrators caused a nasty case of imposter syndrome – the realization that I could fraudulently be calling myself an artist. Intellect said it’s ridiculous to compare your work to someone who put in their 10,000 hours before they were 18, but I know I’m not the first artist to look at the work of a master and think to herself, “I will never be remotely as good as that.” I look forward to the end of the final art fair as a good excuse to pack up my brushes and paints and do some more writing.

This last Saturday, the last sale of the season was abysmal. If there hadn’t been well advertised, and it was my worst day of summer. I thought that would compound my confidence crisis, but it seemed to cure it. As I sat in the shade of the tent under a tree, contemplating the fall colors and the light, not making a dime, I knew the paint will never be packed up. Inktober and a season of indoor art me change the tools from oils to ink, but The painting isn’t about money earned or being as good as “insert name here”. It’s about connecting with the world and sharing it, and the need to connect doesn’t go away in the absence of income. The absence of income, on the contrary, throws the need to create into relief.

By the time I got home Saturday night I was making plans for my winter art routine. I investigated a larger studio space with enough ventilation to allow oil painting through the winter. I cleared out a new space to make more room for drawing alongside painting and began to rev up my paper and pens for Inktober.

And I made decision not to allow fear or pointless comparisons to stop my journey of 10,000 hours to, someday, become a master of my craft.

Winter is coming, but summer is always on the other side..,

Another Saturday, another late night painting session. This time I’m working on a winter sky for the back side of the screen, making sure I like the design enough to live with it in the very likely event that it doesn’t sell right away at the craft fair. But this evening,I’m not working alone.

Two doors down from my office, Thing2 is busy excavating his room and, inadvertently, letting me know that he’s crossing a new threshold. The boy who was proud to have a room so messy but his mother is still working on a book about it is now at the tender age where He’s no longer content to sleep in a homemade landfill.

I remember when this phase which happened just a few short years ago with Thing1. Thirteen was just around the corner, and, suddenly, he saw his corner of the world just a little bit differently. he needed to make it his, and he finally got him to clean his room.

It’s a little bittersweet. On one hand, the room down the hall will no longer require that we get liability waivers before people enter it. On the other hand, when the room and the world changes like this, there’s no going back.

Summer’s done. Winter starts in the studio this week on the B-side of the screen.

Craft show season is nearly over, but I’m still loading up the bookshelf gallery in anticipation of the last big sale.

I had almost given up on craft shows because, even though I sold lots of notecards, selling watercolors, With all the glass frames, was more expensive and troublesome then profitable. This summer, however, I plunked down my membership fee to the summer market association in Arlington, Vermont and, after setting up a low-budget display of oil paintings, was pleasantly surprised.

Every other Friday at the farmers market and some Saturdays at the craft market, oil paintings found new homes. The money is nice, but watching your stock diminish is definitely a shot in the egotistical arm.

The final market is in two weeks. It’s a harvest fair, and one of the biggest events of the season for our little association. There are bigger fairs in the area, even on that weekend, but this summer has shown that sometimes smaller can be more fun and more rewarding.

Thing1 left for college about two weeks ago. It was a year overdue –a delay caused by his ulcerative colitis and the complete colectomy it dictated last fall. We knew it would be a (happy) change for him, but I underestimated how much of an adjustment it would be for all of us.

It was the middle of the night on Friday, and I was painting when I thought of it. I had planned to start a little bit earlier, but Thing2 and I decided to go for Chinese food. Dinner was a nice chance to talk about missing a brother but also about what was going on in Thing2’s life. That led to the start of a complete Star Wars marathon (including the less good ones), to make sure our Superfan status was in good shape before the next release. Its the umpteenth time I’ve seen the series, and the umpteen and first time for my offspring. I know this marathon will be the entree to another movie marathon featuring explosions and superheroes, and, even though I’ve been there and done those, Thing1’s departure has been reminding me that being here –being present — with Thing2 for every precious action-movie-filled minute I have with him for the next six years is a gift that is far more fleeting than I once thought possible.