Saturday, August 18, 2018

A Story on Shabbos

My grandmother, Baboo, lived a pious life back in the old country, in one of those small shtetls in Russia I assume looked just like Anatevka. She said that her father, my great-grandfather, Itzhak Mayer, was a scribe to the Rebbetzin. I think that connection must have made her family life a fairly religious one. She saw heartbreak and terror in that little town and lost contact with her older brothers when they escaped Russia to come to America. The story she told was that her brothers carried a coffin, with one of the brothers inside, to cross the border to freedom. Some of her tales sounded outrageous to me but who would make that one up?

Baboo, her sisters, and parents eventually found passage to freedom years later. She witnessed death and separation at such an early age, and then remotely feared everything all over again during the Holocaust. What kind of world did she have to face as a Jew? She did not keep a kosher or very religious home when it was her time to start a family. She questioned how so much heartache could be allowed to touch the ones she loved. She turned her back on what she was bred to believe in, although, I will always remember her being as Jewish as the nose on her face. Religion for us, as redefined by my grandmother, was based on American traditions in Judaism which basically include a matzoh ball in the holiday soup and a Bar Mitzvah at the age of 13. She taught me how to cook matzoh brie the Russian way (as a pancake) and how to measure ingredients with my hands, not with a measuring cup. They didn't have measuring cups and spoons back in the day, but everyone always had a clean hand. Rachael Ray's grandma must have lived in a similar town in Sicily since that is also what she preaches.

If you ask me who I am, I will say that I am a mom, a wife, a sister, and a daughter. I am an artist, I am a woman, I am Jewish, and I still use my hands to do everything.

I found a website that asks people to cross stitch a Torah verse for an international exhibit, called Torah Stitch by Stitch. I was so excited when my fabric and embroidery floss arrived this week. Katie's boyfriend, Shim, (who could easily relate to my grandmother's tale of taking two steps back from Judaism) was educated in a Yeshiva and could translate the verse assigned to me. I started stitching my panel this week, and with each pull of the needle, I feel a strong connection to Itzhak Mayer, the great-grandfather my brother is named for. As a scribe, he must have printed the same letters I am sewing on my canvas. I feel like his hands are guiding my hands. I don't think it is ever too late to embrace the true blessings of family, to honor where you came from, or to discover who you are.

Friday, August 17, 2018

A Little Maya Angelou on the Beach

Not much of a challenge to cool off for these boys

Today, I am relaxing on the beach with all my cuts, bruises, and sore limbs. I never wrote down my thoughts this morning, too groggy and too achy from not sleeping well. We packed a cooler, picked up Zach, and headed down to Ocean Grove. I am attempting to write my Friday words on my iPad. I am glad the sun is not glaring on the screen but even with our Tommy Bahama umbrella overhead, it is still a challenge. Life is full of challenges.

 “My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive, and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.” 

This quote from Maya Angelou scrolled in my Instagram feed yesterday, along with all the other posts paying respect to Aretha. It does befit the Queen of Soul as much as it would apply to Ms. Angelou, Oprah’s favorite lady to quote. I’d like to think her message would apply to all of humanity. We should all live our lives with compassion, humor and a good deal of self-respect, despite the challenges.

A few weeks into my summer, I was facing retirement and thought about what it takes to live a full and vibrant life. Maya Angelou’s mission just about sums it up. My checklist began that day with being creative. It could be working on a painting, but it could also be dicing and chopping in the kitchen and coming up with dinner for my family. Just doing something with passion fills my soul with joy. I continued my list with personal goals, to exercise every day and to spend time with my family and my friends, as I could enjoy sitting in solitude with my art a bit too much. At the end of my list was a checkbox for helping others. That is an important one. I felt helpful to others at school with no expectations for payback. I like helping others, it fills me with happiness. How do I do that at home? Help some other old lady off the floor when she falls?

I soon realized my list could not be complete. A full and vibrant life is a work in progress, constantly growing and evolving. After a trip to a museum, I added inspiration as another box to check off. I feel a rush of adrenaline when I see something that screams out to me to be painted, sewn, or written, at it feels really good inside. For Norman, I am sure he gets a rush from showing off his talent in an amazing one-eyed game of tennis, a skillful bet in poker, or perhaps a blood curling movie he knows better than to take me to. A rush of adrenaline from inspiration gets my clean and vegan blood pumping, the telemeters in my ancient brain growing, and my bandaged fingers ready to move. Inspiration is a fountain of youth and should be a checkbox on everyone’s list.

As I discovered this week, life can be a challenge. Accidents happen when you least expect them, especially when you hit a curb in the road and it stops you dead in your tracks. Hopefully I won’t fall on the street every week, but being challenged may not be such a terrible thing. The last time I got hurt walking the dogs, I broke two bones in my left arm falling on the ice. When I returned to school with a cast, I had to reinvent the art lesson I was going to do with my students. With only one working hand, I showed them how to paint a landscape without ever drawing perfect little houses, trees, and ducks in the pond. Their paintings were beyond impressive, very impressionistic, and a favorite new lesson for my repertoire. That unexpected challenge brought growth to my third grade curriculum and growth to me as a teacher. Challenges can keep you on your toes as long as you don't break them when you fall. Perhaps, as my friend Ellen suggested, I can still grow as a person if I walk down the street in bubble wrap.

What's on your checklist?

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Murray and Madonna

Murray the painting: A work of love still not finished

This happened...
I woke feeling sore with cuts and bruises covering my body and glared at my phone at a gorgeous photo of Madonna from her Blond Ambitious Tour in 1990 at the top of my NY Times e-newsletter. So funny how we all want to think celebrities still look the same way they did in a movie or poster that came out years before. In our eyes, they never age. In our minds, we don't either. Then, when we do see them up close and personal on a big flat screen TV, we gasp. Madonna was quoted as saying that she was always considered to be controversial, but the most controversial thing she ever did was stay around. She has staying power. I want staying power. I just don't want to dance with my bra on the outside of my shirt, thank you very much. I would like her sculpted arms.

Right now, my arms are not only not sculpted, they are sore from a fall. Sometimes you walk along in life, happily getting to where you are going with a pleasant breeze in the air. Sometimes you hit a curb. Hard.

It seems that every time I get hurt, I am walking a dog. I love my dogs. I sleep with them curled up against my un-Madonna-like body and I crave the enthusiastic greeting I get when I come through the door. I even like their slobbery, wet kisses. I love dogs so much that I paint their portraits. Perhaps I should just stick to painting them and not walking them.

Yesterday, we took our daily constitutional walk to add steps to my Fitbit and a bit of fitness to Murray's day. We wandered around Covered Bridge, an altacocker neighborhood that I hate to admit would allow both me and Madonna to join. After hitting a curb, hard, and scaring a couple of really old altacockers, I fell to the ground, rolled and cried. Not a good dance move. I am not Madonna after all. Worst of all, I missed having dinner at our friends' house, something we were so looking forward to. Ted is a chef of no equal in this world. The best. But I could not hold a fork in my hand or push food past a swollen lip. I am still sore but I look a lot better today. Maybe we can come by for breakfast tacos?

Murray the painting and a few other projects are waiting to be finished. Norman was only concerned about the health of my fingers. He knows everything I do in life, along with walking my dog, requires my hands. These bandaged fingers were able to type today, so that is good. Now I just have to see if I can hold a paintbrush and get back to doing what I do best. Perhaps someone else can feel the breeze with Murray today.

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Living in a Bubble


Here is me again, trying not to live in a bubble.
I do read the NY Times e-newsletter after all. I have a Twitter feed but I never look at my Twitter feed. How many hours are there in a day, even with the extra time gifted to a person not teaching anymore? And who needs to get all up in arms over such dribble as the president's tweet, calling Omarosa “that dog” and a “crazed, crying lowlife"? I'd never fall asleep at night. I'd rather concentrate on my posts of friendly faces and friendly creatives on my more friendly feeds.

But as I do every morning, I read the NY Times on my phone. In reply to that unsurprisingly inappropriate remark by our inapproriate president, the White House press secretary tried to defend Mr. Trump by pointing out his willingness to lash out at people of all races. That makes it okay, then?

Would it have been okay for me to hurt the feelings of one student at my school if I damaged the growing egos of all of my students? My kids arrived at my classroom door each week to have a bit of messy fun in their academic day, to learn how to see the world as a budding artist, and to discover their creative voice. So what if a student stretched the boundaries of behavioral acceptance as prescribed by the Ranney School Honor Code and made my life as a teacher hard? It would not be okay for me to lash out and destroy his day, his family's heritage, or his childhood. And lashing out at other kids would not make it okay, either. The press secretary went on to say that the Trump administration had already created three times as many jobs for black Americans as the Obama administration did. That false claim (as proven false by the Times) does not remove the hurtful tone of his tweet. So remind me, because I live in a bubble. How did we get here?

As I wrote in a previous rant, I feel like it is my job as a citizen to keep up with what is going on, not that I could make a difference. My vote for Hillary certainly didn't. This presidency, like all the rest before and after will enter the history books (or the cloud) and be remembered as it will. More determined people than me, such as Ricky and Barbara, may help this country recover, one voice at a time. I thank them as I would thank a doctor for helping people recover, one body at a time. The world needs passionate experts. Listening to the ridiculously funny remarks of the late night geniuses on television does help make the ridiculous so much more than just a joke and adds fuel to my unlikely interest in the news. So I listen to Zach explain to me what is really going on and I read the New York Times in the morning, mostly to see if there are any new obituaries or entertaining human interest stories. I try not to live in a bubble.

Sam came downstairs just now with his ukelele and played a couple of tunes he is working on for the holidays. I started off my morning in a rant and quickly turned around, applauding with delight over his perfect lyrics and upbeat melodies. So, here is my answer as a retired art teacher from a respectable fine and performing arts department in an ​​​​​​​ultra-conservative school... a picture tells a thousand words, making art much more pleasant and reflective than a short, hurtful tweet, and music will help us all heal, one song parody at a time. I like living in my creative bubble. I hope it doesn't burst.




Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Wisdom from a Bear

Pooh Bear from the movie, Christopher Robin


"
People say nothing is impossible, but I do nothing every day."


That small bit of astute wisdom comes from Winnie the Pooh. A movie filled with adorable stuffed animals and Ewan McGregor is not a bad way to spend a Monday night while Norman plays poker with his cronies in our house. The mindful lessons of Pooh Bear are right on. Nothing is impossible. I am figuring that out every day in my quest to do the impossible. Some days, I do nothing; it is my summer break after all. Then I might I redecorate a room and paint a portrait all in one day. The summer is my chance to get everything done before fall obligations kick in. Only thing is that I don't have fall obligations. I am retired. My life could very well be in the hundred acre woods with Pooh and his friends. I can enjoy a day of doing nothing if that's where my red balloon takes me.

"I always get to where I am going by walking away from where I've been."


Now there's a clever little thought from the bear of little brain. I am a big believer in fate and everything we experience was presented to us for a reason. I have changed my identity many times. Commercial artist, graphic artist, illustrator, copywriter, summer camp artist, mom, home cook, pickleball champ, and art teacher. I am now well prepared for a future that might include designing a logo for a pickleball racquet to be used at a camp for retirees. You never know where your past can lead you, even as you leave it behind. Now, I'd like to move forward with the confidence of Pooh and get to where I am going. Which way is that, Pooh Bear?

"Doing nothing often leads to the very best kind of something."


I'll let that jewel steep for awhile while I do nothing. Thank you, Sam, for a wonderful night at the movies and giving me something to think about. Go see the Christopher Robin movie. It's not just for kids, stuffed bears or this retired brain.



Monday, August 13, 2018

Books and Bobbleheads


Funny thing about retiring. I am not only reinventing myself but now I have extra time to tackle changes to my home and my family. I am not quite sure this is why I wanted extra time.

At some point, our daughter told me that I should turn her room into an art studio. It was one of the hardest things to do, to create a space just for me. Now her beautiful room has a different purpose and a very different reason to enter. We used to stand in her doorway and smile at her curly hair spread out adorably on her pillow next to Murray and next to a pile of laundry that always seemed as unmanageable as curly hair could be. Somehow, she managed them both. Now, there is no curly hair covering a pillow in her room. There is no bed or pillow in the room. Just Murray remains to keep me company when I paint at the easel. In my heart, it will always be Katie's room. Just as her name will always be Katie, not Kate. Sorry, 'bout that sweetie. Some things cannot change.

Zach's room has remained empty since December. He comes home every now and then to say hi, to fix a toilet with a saw, to walk Murray, or to join us at the table whenever I get carried away with extra food. I love how close he and Michele are. I love that they can just pop by for a few minutes. With each visit, Zach comes downstairs with another bunch of books, a few shirts, and more random stuff to bring to his new apartment. I don't mind his things staying here. That big bedroom at the end of the hallway still has his name on it. We can hold his stuff as long as he wants us to hold his stuff. Hopefully, he will keep Sundays this fall for watching the Jets in the den. Hopefully, that will not change.

Zach's room was always used as a guest room. He would happily give up his queen-sized bed for visitors and sleep on the couch. Now it really is a room anyone can crash for the night. He has his own queen-sized bed somewhere else. Yesterday, in an effort to attack more areas of the house, I approached Zach's room with the same trepidation I did Katie's room. By noon, the furniture was shifted around, the dust bunnies swept away, and a new quilt fit for a guest is now the feature of the room. His furniture is still his furniture, but in a new arrangement, it feels new. Books and bobblehead dolls are the only visible memories of my son's childhood. It will be a nice place for Dave to sleep when he comes to visit in a few weeks. It is still a nice room, but it has changed. Too much is changing all at once. I don't know how I feel about this.

Katie's room, Zach's room, new bathrooms, and now the living room without Sam's piano. Too much is changing this year. I was envious of everyone else's neat homes during my children's childhood years. I dreamed that I could have a house a visitor could just drop by and not be embarrassed about my mess. In retrospect, it was not a mess. It was never a mess (okay, maybe sometimes it was), it was just a loving, busy home for a family. One by one, each room is getting redefined this year, just as I am redefining me. I can now put a red rope in front of the doors like they have in a museum for people to just admire the spaces. Spaces that are not being used to their advantage. Spaces that are not lived in. My house should be a house for a family. There should be messes, noises, and footsteps on the stairs. Too much is changing all at once. I don't know how I feel about this.

Kasey

"Kasey" 14 x 18" Acrylic on Canvas Meet Kasey. Kasey is a service dog who goes to the hospital with her owner and makes ...