Hillel Neuer's Question Put to the UN

Here is the video. There is not a peep in the room when he asks this question at the end. Apartheid is real....but the truth will surprise you.

Watch Eyeless in Gaza (streaming on Amazon) to understand how journalists fearfully self censor and are forcefully censored.....silenced so we are unable to hear the truth.

Shelter

A Bertie Wooster Day

"As I sat in the bathtub soaping a meditative foot and singing, if I remember correctly, 'Pale Hands I Loved Beside the Shalimar', it would be deceiving my public to say that I was feeling a boomps-a-daisy."   -P.G. Wodehouse 

....it would be deceiving my public to say that everything is swell, so I am going to remind myself that I have had an incredible life (and the story isn't even over yet) by doing a random wordy free fall bungee jump...right on the threshold of....something....new? It came out just like this, in this order. My life, it's so big. I forget sometimes to be awed and grateful.



I’ve lived in California, Idaho, Florida, Colorado, North Dakota, Washington and Alaska. I’ve seen

Petra, the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Med, the Red, the Dead, DC, Ohio, Iowa, Florida, Kansas,

Nevada, Arkansas, Georgia, Tennessee, Arizona, New Mexico, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi,

California, Alaska, Minnesota, South Dakota, Nevada, Idaho, Hawaii - Maui, Big Island, Kauai,

 Oregon, Montana, Maryland, Jordon, Israel, Germany, Scotland, Ireland, Austria, Wales, Australia,

 Tasmania, British Columbia, Alberta. I’d like to see Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Maine,

Pennsylvania, Virginia, Wisconsin, South Africa, isle of wight, Cornwall, The Hebrides. I’d like to

bicycle around Lake Michigan, the Great River Road, Paddle parts of the Missouri, the Snake, the

Columbia, and the Colorado Rivers.I can cut hair, cook for crowds, build with wood, weave baskets,

sculpt, weave, embroidery, crochet, make paper flowers, draw, paint, give affection, have amazing

orgasms, take pictures, edit, write poetry, write, I’ve been obscurely published 3 times, I’ve met

Kathleen Norris, Nigel Goodwin, Gregory Wolfe, Jeff Overstreet, Scott Cairns, Lucy Shaw, John

 Hoyte, Gregory Orr, Patricia Hampl, Warren Farha, Michael Card, David and Karen Nee, David

Dark, Sarah Masen, Charlie and Andi Ashworth, Over The Rhine, Steve Laube, Jerry Root, Earl

 Palmer, Dick Staub, and Eugene and Jan Peterson which means I might as well have met Bono. I

had a beautiful garden and a hospitable home. I’ve served thousands of people food. I have 2

daughters who love me and husband who’s been faithful, undeservedly. I have seen nuns ride horses

 in full habit. I’ve seen the northern lights. I’ve heard rocks roar and felt the ground tremble in

Hawaii. I’ve heard the rocks sing in Yelapa, Mexico. I’ve watched a young man shoot heroin. I heard

God laugh - twice. He danced with me once. He teased me on the beach twice. I’ve watched a

silversmith engrave, a cowboy braid leather in the round for a whip, a potter wrestle 15 pounds of

clay into a bread  bowl for me. I’ve seen a horse trained and a donkey pack. I’ve milked a cow and

collected eggs, I’ve butchered chickens and cried for my butchered lamb. I’ve seen had a lamb and

 dog put down. I’ve picked corn, hoed beets, planted beans, stacked hay, and dug potatoes. I’ve

harvested berries and filled a freezer. I’ve said “maybe next year for years. I intimately know the

mystery of sourdough and am still fascinated, after 35 years. I yearn for an outdoor stone hearth oven,

a place by the salt water, a whitehall slide seat row boat, an ocean kayak, I think horse toots are the

sweetest perfume. I have given thanks because He asked me to. I’ve hiked Tasmania’s Overland

Track I’ve wept more tears than I knew I had. I’ve seen, picked up, saved, and given away thousand

of heart shaped rocks. I feel blessed when I see rainbows, shooting stars, and pennies. I have gambled

with a quarter doing heads or tails with God. It didn’t turn out well. He didn’t want me addicted to

knowing for sure. I have crossed latitudes and divides, great rivers and oceans. I have seen old man’s

beard dripping to the ground and gravestones resting beside the sea. I have seen mill stones used for

gates keeping happy sheep. I saw a wallaby stretch her pocket out for her joey. I’ve laid down new

flooring and painted a 2 story house. I think I felt an angel correct me at the wheel. I believed I heard

God’s audible voice once as a child. But it must not have been. I’ve imagined myself into Little

House on the Prairie as well as Pride and Prejudice. I feel the punch or cut or birth pangs in movies.

 Blood makes me faint. I get motion sick on merry go rounds and swings -now that I’m old - which

makes me sad. I crave avocados, roasted vegetables, filberts, peanut butter and raw milk. I play piano

badly only in the key of C. I used to play accordion. I can pick up an harmonica and make music. I

wish I played the banjo. I want to learn more about stone boats, stone soup and hearthstones -

anchoring hospitality to safe harbors where people commune together. I love to garden with my

 daughter. I’ve seen opium poppy fields. Moab’s Arches is my favorite National Park. My favorite

 childish memory was watching my father fell and chop trees. I come from a formidable family of pie

 snobs. Everyday I pray to notice and learn how to love. I've tried to incubate eggs in between my

 breasts. I read several books simultaneously. I have a compulsion to read every word I see and can't

stop myself. I used to suck my thumb as a child. I'm currently homeless. I just found out there was

another child like me long ago. Her name was Catherine. Laura Riding wrote her four letters. I read

them on Brainpickin's and now know I'm not alone.

After the Flood

I tie the letter around the neck 
of my imaginary owl and release him — 

hoping he comes back alive

with one green sprig

He returns with an unopened

letter because it's impossible 
to find trees growing 
in salty places 

I break the seal and read --

pretending to be 

the intended 

recipient

If we could replay 
the regrettable past

I'd bookend a repair
to restore order
to this jumbled mess

we made

I'd talk to you like 

you're someone I love

I'd finish by 

holding you tight

The old zero sum game 

magically morphs from 

one or both of us losing --

to both of us winning

a future to prize 

I do

I do 

I do

miss your light 

Prompted by Talk To Me Like I'm Somone You Love by Nancy Dreyfus and Hold Me Tight by Sue Johnson. 

Parents and Small Gestures

They stand framed in the window

waving goodbye. It's a small gesture. 

It feels like they're glad we came.  

Now we stand 

waving as you leave. 

It means you matter. 

We cherish making

new memories.

You wanting to come

home to be with us 

is a gift. Believe

you're beloved. 

It's good to see you.

When anyone left their home, Craig's folks always went out on the porch and waved them off. They said it was a Norwegian custom. One time Craig's cousin left while the full house of relatives finished stories and cake. We all noticed him leave, but neglected waving him off. After a few minutes we saw lights coming up the driveway and snow flying as he did a donut in front of the picture window. Todd came in shaking snow off his coat and boots. He stood crestfallen, waiting for us to quiet down, then he said, "We need a redo. I'm going to leave again. Nobody waved to me from the porch. What happened?" 

We gave him the best send off in the history of the family. Babies were held up. Toddlers looked through legs. The window framed us all waving with gusto and laughter. A longstanding tradition stood firm, unchanged. 

Maybe these small gestures keep us off the streets?  

Wallace Falls

When did the 

stones and roots 

stumbling me 

become

stairs leading 

me toward 

higher ground? 

Wallace Falls ~ Goldbar, Washington ~ June 21, 2012 ~ Tough Hike ~ Worth it.  

What Wendell B and Eugene P Taught Me

Happy Easter Sunday. Happy Resurrection Day. He is Risen. He's Alive.

As for me and my house, we're "practicing resurrection" multiplied by two.....whenever it is now.

A. Practicing as in learning to master something 

B. Practicing as in practicing law, or medicine, etc. 

Practicing so we can indeed practice being real and alive.

Jesus. Pinocchio. The Velveteen Rabbit. You and me.

Love In The Room

The waiting room is full of people coming and going for check-ups and x-rays. Most of them don't look like they feel well. My friend is there to see her M.D after her first round of chemo and radiation is finished. She is weak and fragile. The palms of her hands and bottoms of her feet are burned and peeling from the inside out. She smiles from the sunshine as we come through the door.

I have lots of time to people watch. One older couple in the corner sit and visit comfortably with each other. Smiles and tender touch hint at comfortable intimacy. He looks at her like she is the only woman in the world. This makes her beautiful.

Wanting to catch them before they go in to the inner sanctum, I go over and sit beside her. She moves her walker for me.

I ask if they are married.
"Sixty five years."
Do you have children?
"Five, but one died at 16 from a brain tumor, but it's OK, I know where he is."
How did you meet?
"I sang in the church choir in high school with his brother. When he came home on leave from the service, we met and married six months later."

I took her hand. With tears slipping down my cheeks, I told them they were a beautiful couple with a wondrous glow of love between them.

That morning had been a difficult one. Could have been the moon, my lunar cycle, circumstances, vitamin D deficiency, someone hacking an online account, whatever.......

But in that room of worry and sickness, despair and turmoil ~ a whisper surround sounded me ~ Love matters most. Then it echoed softly again ~ love matters most.   

As they tottered in to see their doctor, the wife waved at me and pointed with a glowing smile to the pretty nurse beside her.

"This is one of my daughters."

It does a body good to agree with that whisper. Love matters most.

Take it to the Garage

Life sails along without a hitch for a few seconds a week, a few days a year. The rest of the time things get messy, muddy.

Loverby and I stopped today and took a breather. Our marriage and our life needed a tune-up. It is painful and uncomfortable to put it up on the hydraulic lift and look underneath. Every thing's exposed. The wear, rust and deterioration are obvious.

Loose bolts have to be tightened. Sputtering mufflers need replaced. Tires get worn out and lose their grip. Fluids lose their viscosity. Parts need lubed. Chips in the windshield need stopped before they turn into cracks. Wipers need replaced to clean properly.

If feels overwhelming to take our marriage and life, individually and as a couple, into the garage and deal with it, but it is the only way to have the quality of life that is worth living. It is the only way to have enough leftovers to give away to a hurting hungry world.

Our garage is the marriage bed with the door locked and the lights turned down low. The garage isn't the place for movie set sex.

It is the place for tears, affection, safe conversation, confession, dreams, and naked truth. Needs are expressed, wants and desires are spoken of out loud, failures are forgiven, prayers sent, disappointment heard. Hopes are risked, requests asked for, depression admitted, fears quieted. Feathers smoothed. Tears wiped.

When we take the time to go to the garage, we realize how much we miss playing, teasing, flirting, smiling, and especially.....laughing. Mostly, we remind ourselves to relax and not take everything so seriously. We remember again that  beauty saves the world, not worry.

We remember that it takes only a little bit of creative thinking and planning to bring a romantic moment to fruition.

When the lift sets us down on the floor, our thankfulness leaves us purring.

P.S. Our mechanic doesn't charge a thing. He has a mysterious way of sending notifications for when it is time for a tune-up. They don't come with a stamp....

Sucker or Succor?

Packaging, advertising, and the right color at the right time lures me. I easily believe and buy if these conditions intersect with impulse. This little plastic gizmo was $9.99. I know better, yet placed it willingly on the check out counter. It was bright green.

The other day I had a cooking disaster with the simple syrup for pear tarts. Recovered from the trauma, I started over the next day. The pears from our tree needed used immediately.

The tart gadget promised picture perfect miniature pies all the same size and uniform shape.

After the pears were peeled and sliced, spices and syrup added ~ I rolled out the pie crust. Opening the gadget I made two boring tarts that didn't look anything like the glossy picture. It took more time than usual and brought zero pleasure, so I stopped and went back to the way my sisters and I, my mom, her mom, and her mom's mom have been making them since forever ago.

It was satisfying to roll out uneven rounds of crust, put some filling in, fold them over and do the familiar pinch around the edge. The result was pleasing. Rustic. Natural. Honest.

Tarts are pockets of love.  They are able to deliver succor to the recipient who is given a batch.

The plastic didn't deliver anything. Turns out it was just a trickster making a sucker out of me. Why do we so easily believe the glossy is true?

I'd be glad to send a gadget your way, postage on me. Just ask. :)

Chickadee Feathers

The flies have been pests in the garden and yard this year. I put out a few fly traps and some fly paper strips around the yard. It is a gruesome solution, but I was desperate. 

I took down the gooey sticky paper strips though. Never to be used in my yard or life again. Never. I didn't know. Now I do. 

As I was watering, I looked over to see a young chickadee crucified to one of them. Its wings were stuck fast, spread wide. It took awhile to loosen the little fellow. I brought him in the house and used warm water and soap to clean as much of the stickiness off as possible. His heart was thumping too hard for its size. I separated each feather and blew gently to dry them off. Many were missing, still stuck to the death trap not intended for a baby bird. 

I set him gently in a sheltered spot. He immediately tried to fly. It was an unsuccessful attempt. My hurting heart couldn't follow him where he hid under some brush. I couldn't save him from the troubles he was in. I hope he lived, but have strong doubts that he could heal properly. 

Grieving, all that day I kept thinking about "not one sparrow falls to the ground without your father knowing and noticing." 

There was a time about ten years ago when I truly believed that he cared about sparrows more than he did about me. It is because I had always misunderstood the verse. 

I thought he kept the sparrow from falling. Why then, couldn't he keep us from danger and sickness. Why didn't he help us when we were in dire straights? Why was he silent most the time. Why didn't he act? 

Now I live and think and trust differently. These things I know:

He sees. 

He notices. 

He cares. 

He's always there. 

I'm never alone. 

He waits to bind up my wounds gently, with profound care. 

He feels my heart pounding too hard. 

He calms my wild eyes. 

He washes the stickiness off. 

He binds the broken parts. 

Puts me in a safe place. 

He hopes that I fly again. 

He does. 

He loves me this I know. 

Every single hair of my head is counted. 

Even the ones that are falling out by the bushel, making it easier to number them I'm sure. 

Time for Tom Waits

Every year at this time, this seasonal between time, I spin Tom Waits' song around and around in my head. You Can Never Hold Back Spring is reassuring me again. 

I was messing around trying to refine my skills at hand lettering today. Using thick, cold pressed, high quality water color paper, good ink, and a fine nibbed dip pen, I spent the afternoon making swirls. Trying to make them graceful and uniform was the point. It was practicing with a purpose for a project page. 

More than halfway through, the nib let loose a few blobs. I tried to blot them - unsuccessfully - away. Then my hand accidently rubbed across a still wet letter. Discouraged, I proceeded to finish what I had set out to do. I had wanted to make something pretty, but the results were already disappointing. 

As I filled in delicate spots with water color, it overflowed the outlines. Wait, messy wasn't supposed to happen this thoroughly!

Life is messy. I smudged up the rest of the letters to match. Now they are all uniformly messy. Mud always happens, in the spring that always happens. 

We were longing for it, weren't we? Get out your muck boots, friends. Hip waders for some of you. Wade through it. Get to the other side. There is another perspective. It looks pretty - from a distance.  

  

My Space

The cranky lady next to me on the plane jumped out of her seat to frantically keep anyone else's luggage from harming her Ferrari (?) laptop. She didn't want to put her second piece under her feet, but it was a good thing for two others to put their only piece under their feet. Everyone within a four row radius knew her opinion about my space.

I was angry at her for being so self centered. Later I softened when she told me of the places she'd been, the businesses she had started and been successful at. She needed to be a spitfire to accomplish what she had. When I found out she was eighty, it was hard to believe. She looked 60. Begrudgingly, I came to admire her as we parted. Still, I thought she was completely out of line and selfish.

A few days later I felt the grinding ugliness of my space. The beach was sparsely populated. Brita and I had a sweet little spot under the sun filtered fronds of three palm trees. A group of senior citizen's with visors and clothes screaming Tourist tottered over and plopped their chairs right between us and the water. Inconceivable! The whole beach beckoned..... and they picked that spot? Ruining my view? My afternoon? My vacation? My life?  

It was unbelievably rude and inconsiderate of them. They didn't notice my scowl. They were oblivious of my offended huffing and puffing as we laboriously moved our pile of stuff to another place.

They wrecked my space. It was mine. I was there first. Acquiring two year old emotions came easily.

As lady dragon smoke continued to puff out my ears and nose, the frail older man who picked their spot came up to our chairs. Extending his hand he apologized. "We come from the East coast where the beaches are packed like Honolulu. I didn't realize we were sitting between you and the water. I'm sorry."

His timing churned my stomach. Brita had just been reminding me that they probably had been oblivious and weren't purposely being annoying or mean. She gently helped me remember times I had probably been unaware myself.

What could I do but blush and welcome him to the human race while taking his warm, wrinkled hand in mine? It was hard to make eye contact. His knobby knees had become fascinating.

David Rupert at Red Letter Believers does a monthly roundup of featured posts at High Calling. Check out the other featured posts Around the Network. 

Outside the Frame

I want to know what is outside the perimeters of what the camera lens is panning, or framing. If it looks catastrophic, I want to know the rest of the story. Is there help? Is there also a flower bursting through the blood stained ghetto street? 

Then, the happy pictures and posts of everyone else's wonderful lives, happy families, and idyllic vacations ~ you know, the Christmas Letter version of successful living? The kind that make me feel like a loser? Our vacations seem like a disaster? Our real lives extremely, painfully dull, and real? 

Let this comfort you. Please. 

Look at two pictures from the album I posted on Facebook from our last camping trip of the season, this weekend. 

Idyllic. Pristine. Premium spot by the quintessential babbling brook. Luci Shaw's Breath for Bones, a journal, and falling leaves surround my peaceful interlude with nature. This is how what I show you looks: 

Here is what you can't see, can't know. We got rained out the first night. The ocean was socked in, so we came inland the next morning. I cried with disappointment. We set up our soggy tent in what seemed like a perfect spot. By the time it dried out, we were regretting our choice. Our neighbor had his radio on full volume. Loverby asked him politely to turn it down. It canceled out the lovely quietness for the rest of the evening because he refused common courtesy. 

The next morning, he fell out of his motor home cursing the dogs tangled with his legs. Two young boys with a live, beeping geiger counter started scouring the empty space next to us. This was all before seven o'clock in the morning. We forgot a flashlight, the dutch oven lid handle, the briquette tongs, and hot pads. 

Loverby got cranky at a new rip in the tent. I got cranky at a slow leak in the air mattress. We both became cranky at the non-stop traffic on the way home. 

There is a "however" ~  We did make glorious coffee. The brook did babble all night only a few steps from our tent door. The aromatic steam from the dutch oven meals probably made the neighbors drool. We did stay warm and dry. We did snuggle like a puzzle all night. And oh, the stars......... 

Next time you see a disaster framed, know that somewhere there are beautiful hands taking a swipe at the ugly. There's more beyond the frame. 

Next time you see someone's marvelous vacation pictures, realize they aren't showing you the blisters, disagreements, leaks in the tent, or breakdowns. There's more beyond the frame. 

And that steep granite mountain I'm nose to nose with right now? Thankfully, there's more beyond the frame. I can't see it, that's all. 

 

Sight

The Indie movie, The Sensation of Sight is one that I am unable to quit thinking about. Excruciating pain and exuberant joy mixed by a group of artists/compound pharmacists into a prescription for deep living and understanding. Compound pharmacists are a rare breed these days. 

David Strathairn's character seems strange. He trudges along throughout most of the movie with the questions following close behind. Wondering and wandering, but not hopeless. To me, he is brave and courageous for not separating himself from the pain, loneliness, lack of understanding, and unanswered questions. 

Unpredictable hope dangles dangerously in front of him, making him seem awkward at times, but only at first. He seems comfortable with being uncomfortable, which makes him eventually become irresistible. His pain creates massive doses of compassion and empathy which he absorbs for himself first, then offers it to others. He learns how to live in redemptive time, inviting us to join him. 

I rewound the end several times to take it in and absorb. I hope this ending quote won't spoil it for you. To me, this is an unforgettable film. I feel lighter, and can't help but wonder why. 

"Light ~ a basic element of the human environment. Cannot be defined in any terms. Simpler or more directly appreciated by the sense, than by itself. Light certainly is responsible for the sensation of sight." 

We may all still wonder why. It's the nature of man ~ the asking animal. We may be too afraid to live, too afraid to die ~ but never afraid to ask why. We may be alone and afraid, naked before one another, searching for something other ~ but always asking why. We may be searching to belong or searching to be lost. Searching for anything ~ and always asking why. We may be afraid of what may be found or of what may not, afraid of ourselves, afraid of each other ~ still always asking why.

 Well, I am weary of asking why, and yet I do. But I do believe that Chesterton put it well, The world will never starve for wonders but only want for wonder.

 Well then............... it seems to me that one can't help but wonder why." 

Mt Hermon

I like to take a tooth pick and throw it into the forest and say "You're home!" ... Mitch Hedberg 

This is a good way to describe how I felt at Mt Herman Writer's Conference last week. Santa Cruz is home. The ferns, bracken, eucalyptus and redwoods make a powerfully pungent memory scent. This combination is unique to the area. Childhood memories flooded. My blog's title is a tribute to the history I have there. Almost paradise again, in a fresh way. 


For the first time in my life, I mingled with a huge group of strangers and felt at home among them. Like I fit. Belonged. I kept thinking the well producing the tears would finally dry up. It never did. A silly smile and leaking eyes became my signature. Happy, grateful, amazed tears. There must be a dried, salt crystal trail where I walked. 


There were seasoned authors, newbies and wannabes. Agents, editors and publishing reps. VIP's and invisible people working behind the scenes. The food was made with love. The complicated schedule honed to manageable. There were old timers who made it welcoming once again. Some had been coming for 26 years. The friendships between them were sweet to observe. 


Everyone had a story to tell. Adultery, intrigue, abuse, memoir, fantasy, sci-fi, poetry, burn survivor, war survivor, etc. It was interesting to hear them pitch whatever they were writing.


My major morning track, the intense one - was with Steve. Not knowing the who's who list, it wasn't until the end that someone whispered he was like THE SIMON COWELL of the publishing world, right underneath Jesus in due reverence. I'm glad I didn't know. But now that I do, it would be a high honor to write something he would enjoy reading. His heart and mind were acutely attuned. He took us deeper. Offered words of life. 


Charlie Peacock and his wife Andi were the special treat. They are lovely people. Charlie is one of the last warrior poets. Easy to imagine him in a kilt and sword. Troubadour. They sort of embrace the L'Abri lifestyle, in Nashville. What they offered was so encouraging to life and to writing. He too, offered words of life. 


The last day, I talked with a 90 year old woman. She had a raggedy story filled with missteps and betrayal, mixed with vibrant living in between the pain. She used a cane, walked shakily, and carried a smile around that lit up the room. 


She was still writing poetry and cramming it unread under her bed. She still wanted to start her memoir and redo a dramatization series on video. 


I'll remember her forever. Her story did not yet have a happily-ever-after ending. But it did, because it will. She is finishing well, pen in hand, still writing her story. 

Shattered Glass

A glass coffee table top shattered. I stacked the shards as high as possible then ran the hose over the whole pile. It fascinated me how such an innocent thing as water completely softened the razor edge.

This is clear glass, and yet like a glacier or a diamond, gathers color. It entranced me. 

Iced confusion. Broken, shattered dreams. 

Piled up, the pieces are beautiful 

Light. Stacked. Captured. As a whole, enchanting.

Nancy's photo of layered 'found' paper inspired this. 

Colors of Promise

Rainbows have magnetic appeal and attraction for me.

There are traditional rainbows of the arched variety. Sometimes doubled. They range from thin to thick, close up or far away. Some are more vibrant than others. There are sundog patches in the sky. Moon rings around the moon and lunar rainbows.

Lunar rainbows are quite rare - I have seen only one. It was the time between dusk and nightfall. I didn't know its name, but it entranced me. I tried to get people's attention to see this unusual, improbable and seemingly impossible occurrence, but few came. A stranger and I stood for a long while in silent appreciation and awe. Wonder knitted our hearts together without words. We both knew we were witnessing splendor.

I have experienced rainbows that have been gifts, sent to speak comfort, give courage, help me cope, promise hope, reassure me of protection and assure me of love.

I have driven through them in a car, had them wrap up our house and follow our ferry's wake on the Puget Sound.

Once I had an extraordinary experience of driving many miles with the fat foot of a rainbow directly outside my car window, keeping fear from crawling in the door.

Sometimes I've seen a rainbow and absolutely known it was for someone else. I passed it on.

There have been many times when I've sensed there was a rainbow close by, but I couldn't manage to see it. It still mattered.

Sometimes, I shyly ask for them, like inviting a caress. Once, I asked and didn't get a real rainbow but immediately heard "Rainbow Connection" on my shuffling ipod; He chuckled, I had to laugh.

Do you have a rainbow story. Tell me, share it.......... please?  

Mix It Up

Many years ago when Victoria magazine first debuted, I subscribed for a while. A quote from one of their contributors has served me well since then. The author needs thanked, but her name is unknown.

"Put your skirts on the table and wear your curtains" or something like it. She was an artist. A creative thinker. Most of all, she regularly changed the context of the medium she used to create with.

This one thought always helps me turn a new light bulb on. It illuminates and highlights what would otherwise be invisible or unthinkable.

Going to Lowe's or Home Depot or an old authentic hardware store from the past can jump start a creative surge. Slowly I go up and down the isles picking up things, turn them around and upside down, wondering how I can change the context. What could it be used for instead of what it was made for.

One Father's Day, I went to Lowe's for ideas to decorate the table in a masculine way. I came home with 8 huge over sized black bolts which held a votive candle perfectly. The dollar store had some made in china tools which I stuck in a bucket like a bouquet. Manly decorations for under $10.

My sister has used black, recycled motor oil to give patina to wood, walls and more. She used a copper over sized pig scalding basin for a kitchen sink, complete with handles and a hole punched for a drain. Her kitchen is full of surprises tucked here and there.

Turning things around, upside down and inside out, makes interesting interpretations of the common.

Many books I read don't fit the context of my life, but I switch the principle to fit my life. Sieve the information, gleaning and discarding. I adjust songs, tools, books etc, using the idea in a different way. From a different perspective, a different point of view, everything is new and fresh. It is illuminating and stimulating to explore the possibilities. I probably won't ever make it to Shackleton's South Pole, but I can still go on expeditions.......and archaeological digs.

Staying curious is the playground where I really like to hang out and play.