“Traveler, your footprints

are the only road, nothing else.

Traveler, there is no road;

you make your own path as you walk.”

Antonio Machado (thanks Emma Campbell)

 

While we slept the cold crept back and wrapped itself around every tree in the woods. As the sun came out the treetops were sparkling. I ran for my camera but the photos were nothing like what was really happening outside. As the wind blew, gentle crystals softly floated to the earth. My photos could not capture this amazing natural phenomenon. The best plan was to look out the window and enjoy. Without a photograph you can imagine how amazing the dark trunks look standing out against the blinding white snow, a blue sky that that defies any color of paint, and tiny snowy glitter.

 

I make a path through the woods with my snowshoes. I sink and then lift a big puff of snow that sits on the top of my foot. It will be easier on the next pass.

Crunch, crunch

Breathe, breathe,

Foggy sunglasses.

There is a rhythm to walking in the snow and it is hypnotic. Freezing outside, sweating inside and heart pounding on the uphills,

Follow the deer path or make my own.

Winter opens up the world wide and we go.

 

In an instant you are a different person, you are capable, a natural, maybe even talented. How that happens when you hit one lousy golf ball is nothing short of a miracle. You’ve swung a million times in what feels like the same way, but all of a sudden you feel that crack and you know you connected. Your head is down so you almost forget to look up and enjoy the arc of that tiny white ball. It may not happen again so you have to soak it in.

Why after a morning of completely sucking at golf I can hit one ball and all is right with the world? Maybe it is my nice breathable golf shirt, or my glove or the fact that I put the label of the golf ball facing up, whatever the reason my mood has changed and my confidence returns with abundance.

I can’t help but think of golf as I struggle to draw the human figure from a live model. I’ve found a refuge at Palette and Chisel for my need to draw; in many ways it is like golf for me….something I need to work at. But every now and then the stars align and I make a nice drawing, the figure has weight, proportion and even a resemblance to the model. I’ve capture the contra posto stance and created some volume using light and dark conte crayons. Most of the time I wonder if I really know anything about what I am doing and suddenly I’m humming a little tune of success.

Golfer, Ben Hogan describes his joy after a good shot as deeper than enjoying a mint julep on the porch of the clubhouse. “You are neither fully in control nor fully at the whim of your environment. You lose track of time. You are a tuning fork that has been struck and your frequency is in tune with everything around you.”

This only happens once in a great while but just enough to keep us coming back to these sports and activities. We seek that moment of clarity, where for one brief shining moment we are in the Camelot of our day, or week or even year. I wish you all a Happy New Year of connected shining moments.

 

 

I first learned and thought about being a teacher on Saturday mornings in high school. I taught swimming as part of being in Guard Club. I would demonstrate the swim strokes on land, I would explain, and have other kids demonstrate, and then staunchly climbing into the cold pool, I would show them and move their arms for them. I tried every way imaginable to reach all those different kids. We began on the side of the pool and moved into the water. Some kids were brave and took off swimming, doing just what I had shown them, others clung to me with legs and arms wrapped around me tight, and so I would bob around with my new appendages and splash and sing to ease their fears. The outcome was so satisfying because eventually all my students learned to swim. Even the kids who I’d had to pry away from the edge were now swimming away and diving for colored rings at the bottom of the blue pool. Those chlorine filled Saturdays were at times frustrating, but they forced me to be creative, always thinking of how to explain something better, and observant of small increments of success.

I’m such a creature of habit and so when I recently returned to Chicago and headed back to my tap dance class, I was apprehensive when I saw we had a new teacher. The comfort I’d developed around learning was wrapped up in the familiar pattern of our class, but I laced up my shoes and clicked on into the mirrored room. We began with a familiar step and I felt ok, this teacher quickly assesed where we were and aimed for that sweet spot, just beyond our abilities. That is where learning takes place, in that always out of reach atmosphere. I was challenged, nervous, and doing some really crazy steps. The time flew by and my brain and feet were working overtime. I thought more that week about my little dance and tried it out while waiting for the elevator or on a corner. My search for success, comfort and mastery was taking over.

We were a tap class of 5 students, not 30 or 27, but 5. This is a luxury that no classroom teacher has, and yet they all strive for, hitting that sweet spot of learning with each kid. I applaud them and their creativity. I think back on my own career as a high school art teacher, and how everday my colleagues and I would try out methods, and strategize about how we could reach all our students. This was ongoing and constant, because just like our students we were all learning and growing. So this week while I shuffle off to Buffalo I’ll be happy with my tiny bit of improvement and a teacher who keeps trying to reach me.

 

The skeletons are in the lawn, or pulled up on shore and sitting at unnatural angles. Their jaunty, scalloped canopies are gone, leaving only the naked bones wrapped with wisps of dried seaweed. The leaves fall around them and soon they will poke out from snowy landscapes. They look their best sitting in blue water, next to a weather worn dock. They are purposeful and straight when holding in place a shiny boat.

 

The landscape is changing, fields are cut, snow has fallen, and we’ve left the lake for time in the city. Apartment windows at night show far off mini landscapes, part of a couch, pendant lighting, a portion of a painting, and forms that move around the room. Every now and then they come into view, and I wonder if they can see me.

 

The world can feel so different from these various vantage points. People live among trees and lakes, as well as tall buildings and sidewalks. A different world is out there, and it can be hard to imagine, and even more difficult to understand. “What is there to do?” “Is it safe?”, “Is everyone conservative?”, “I’d hate the traffic”.

 

Change can be hard at first, but it wakes me up and makes me think. It opens my eyes to a new appreciation. Some things are gone, but new things are right here in front of me. I store up these moments, each step, each encounter, each smile, they add up to my life. And that blue sky of today is over us all.

“Winds in the east, mist coming in, Like somethin’ is brewin’ and bout to begin. Can’t put me finger on what lies in store, But I fear what’s to happen all happened before.”

These lines from the wisdom of P.L. Travers remind me of the weather today. The last day of summer is tomorrow, as I write this, and the summer friends, like the geese, are taking flight.

The dock feels like an odd concept at this moment as I look down at my rowboat filled with water, and a chilly wet wind travels down the lake pushing summer away. I was hoping it would go more softly, I swam two days ago, but I knew that it may be my last and so I savored the waves slapping me in the face.

Fall is ahead with beauty and a tinge of melancholy that is all its’ own. Pumpkins are on wagons and hay bales dot the fields. I had quite a surprise as I stepped into my rain boots I left on the porch only to find a small stash of acorns tucked in the toes. Maples have been strutting their stuff for a few weeks giving an early warning of the colors to come.

Deborah Byrd writes about a Chinese philosophy that celebrates the sadness and courage of fall. Sadness isn’t an emotion to be avoided at all costs but it can be seen as part of nature and a time to consider our dreams and visions for the future. I will stand facing west, which is considered the direction of autumn and honor the “westness” of autumn. It is the courage to face what lies ahead that is exciting.

Not on a hot dog or a bratwurst but on the street in the shop windows. We were in the hip Marais District in Paris and I noticed it was the color of spring 2018. Mustard yellow seemed to add a great accent to each outfit I saw. There were also some amazing mustard colored shoes, mustard lacy shorts paired with a navy striped shirt. I never considered mustard my color so I did not succumb to the fashion edict.

 

A few months later and half way around the world in a tiny shop on Main Street in Rice Lake Wisconsin I overheard two women talking about a mustard colored blouse and how it was the “in” color. Of course the women of Rice Lake Wisconsin would know about mustard.

 

The universal bond of fashion can bring people together. Fashion is a way to express yourself as an individual and also as a group. Wearing what we want is a privilege denied to some, it has the power to fill us with joy. I remember in middle school wanting to blend in yet feeling daring enough to wear a flowered paisley paper dress to school. I was promptly sent home, but I’m glad I had a brief flash of independence in my mod A-line dress. Those moments might cause a disruption, but they are a reminder of our freedoms and the power that fashion can hold. It can be a way to dissent, show our unique identities and celebrate our differences.

 

This summer, as you pull the mustard out of the fridge and liberally apply to your brat or burger, consider all the choices we have and how lucky we are whether it be spicy brown, stone ground, Dijon or that bright bright yellow we have the power to choose.

 

It happened while we slept. I’m surprised I didn’t hear a thing because it was taking place all around us. The leaves crept out of tiny branches and have now created a yellow-green haze throughout the woods. Naked objects in yards and behind sheds whose looks improve with a shawl of leaves are now returning to modesty. It is an amazing event that we know is coming and that happens every year yet it is always a surprise.

 

Do you have a favorite shade of green? Are you drawn to the spark a kelly green can bring or are you a gentle sea foam person. The bite of chartreuse can be awakening and the sight of celadon makes you feel calm. I have read there are physical effects in the presence of green. You pituitary gland is stimulated and your muscles relax, so bring on the emerald and lime. Green can be stress relieving yet invigorating and we can see that in sage or pistachio greens.

 

A steady week of warm temperatures and longer days has coaxed these leaves out of hiding. Their patient wait is over and they proudly unfurl in a slow but steady way. It is if they know our eyes need time to adjust to the greenness. So welcome back green, we missed you.

I’d like to share a poem by a favorite poet Billy Collins

Today

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,

so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw

open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,

indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths

and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight

that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight

on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants

from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,

holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,

well, today is just that kind of day.

 

I think I’ve become more afraid. I have always been pretty nervous about stuff, but not without reason. I’m definitely a backseat driver, but I’d been in several car accidents as a kid and a teen. I was a cautious, worried parent, but I worked at a high school and the options for danger were pretty evident. My children went to parties, stayed out late, drove cars and went to Europe on school trips, so my anxieties didn’t stop all the good times, although they would beg to differ. But something feels different, now. I don’t know who has changed, the world or me? The times feel scarier.

Speaking of scary, I put on cross-country skis after many years absence due to work, global warming, and having hip replacement surgery. Now the tiniest hill sends me into panic mode. I snow plough down a gradual knoll with my muscles tight and clenching, heave a frosty sigh of relief at the bottom and keep going. I feel a bit less steady and that slippery feeling, coupled with my lack of skill can be unnerving. I tell myself “hey! I’m out here” (and thank goodness no one can see me)

But happily I am not deterred, and my lesson to self was to take the skiing in small doses, enjoy the woods, and breath in the fresh cold air. I take each little hill slowly, practicing my limited techniques, and glide along at the bottom of each descent savoring the joy of remaining upright.

And then something happened. We got a few inches of new snow. This soft pillowy cover provided a natural slowing method and I gently sailed down the hilly trail. What a difference! My confidence returned. I was having so much fun.

My recent ski experience reminded me of how we learn and teach new skills. We can ask ourselves as parents and teachers; did I remember that not every child is comfortable with new material, and experiences. Did I help to make goals attainable? Did I make space for failures? Did I encourage those students who tried, stayed standing, and found success? But more importantly, did I cheer on the kid who fell and still got back up back up? I hope I was that little bit of snow.

 

 

 

 

 

We are huddled quietly in the dark in the middle of my art room. There are twenty-seven teenagers trying to become small to fit in a little space away from windows and doors. We whisper and snicker. They look at me and I at them and assure them were it not a drill I would have smashed them all into the supply closet. But let me go back to the looking…. They are looking at me because I am the leader, the teacher, and the writer of bathroom passes. I hold the power. I can administer an epi-pen, catch a fainting freshman that didn’t eat breakfast, sew a backpack, make a poster to ask someone to prom, and I can teach art.

I studied and practiced many aspects of visual arts, I learned about adolescent psychology, and I am a mandated reporter. There are more things that a teacher does in 1 hour than you would care to read. There are nuances to numerous to name that fan out far from the unit on mixing color, and yet we can always fit in one more skill, one more way to reach, explain or demonstrate in a way that all 27 kids can understand. Teachers will always go that extra step. But no matter how much I admire the people in my profession and think my colleagues are amazing, we cannot stop a bullet. We have stepped in between a fight, made urgent medical decisions, and fixed an outfit gone wrong.

Kids are just that,  kids. They are impetuous, foolish and risk taking. We do our best to keep them safe. Teachers often see on the first day of class the kids who will need our time and attention, the student who might have issues at home or mental health issues, and just like the student with a bad cold or a headache, we try to get help. It isn’t always easy and the process of documenting behavior is ongoing, but the last thing this child needs is easy access to an automatic weapon, a weapon used by our military, used in war. A weapon meant only to kill.

https://www.sandyhookpromise.org