Sunday, December 30, 2012

Dinner time now and then

He dipped his finger in the fry sauce, you know the gourmet mixture of ketchup and mayo, and declared that it was delicious and he did like it.  He even dipped his fry in the sauce and took a bite. Welcome to the big time folks,  dinner with kids, showing seven nights a week everywhere.  The kid, he tried a sauce,  a wet, non-solid substance, a miracle, I’m sure.

Then he boasted in trying his dinner, I tried it, I did. 

The boy, he tried the fries and ignored the fish, but you know, good job for effort.

Dinner time around here is a struggle. I’m nearly certain kids were only meant to eat two meals a day. Nearly certain.

The other day, after refusing whatever I was serving, something tasty and made from scratch, he gave wild praises about, wait for it, buttered toast.  The best butter toast ever, he said. 

Huh.  Perhaps, I’ve been trying to hard.

Well, today, when the fry sauce was so wildly exclaimed, that’s when it hit me.

I’m going to make a list of all the dinners, they don’t want to eat for the next fourteen+ years and when they go off to college and tell me how awful the food is, I’m going to send it to them.  That’s what I’m going to do.

That will teach ‘em.

And one day, they’ll beg me, they’ll plead for a delicious home cooked meal.

One day, friends, one day.

Friday, December 28, 2012

On the new and ending the old

Yesterday, I stumbled upon a document on my computer titled, Morning Pages.  For the past five years I’ve kept up with the practice on and off, ever since completing The Artists Way, (highly recommended).  It’s the practice of free writing three pages each morning, to spill your every thought and question, thus creating home for them, so that the open spaces of your brain can be filled with creative energy.  It’s never meant for anyone else to read, so there’s no pressure to spin words perfectly and it does wonders for a head that feels blurry and full—you know, when you’re grasping for thoughts, but they flutter just out of your reach like colorful butterflies in hyper drive when you are stuck in slow motion.

When I opened this document, I expected to see the last date of 12.26.12, instead, it was 12.28.11.  Apparently there are a few of these floating around the corners of my computer memory, but a funny thing happened, as I glanced over the words I had written a year ago, they carried the same questions, truths, and dreams that were on my heart a year later.  Almost identical. And that’s not to say that there hasn’t been growth in this year of 2012, but in the area of creativity and business, I know the journey is so young.  This blog is nothing if not a testament to the various creative enterprises that I’ve tested out and all of them had lead me one step closer to here or there, whatever “that” place is.  I don’t consider them failures, because with each one I learned, expanded my skills, and perhaps, found the courage to try something new. 

When I read the words I wrote from last December, it was just the push I needed to take yet another step.  For a while now, months, even longer, I’ve been weary of selling my art online.  As an artist, a piece of my heart goes into everything I make and then to slap a price on it and say, “hey hey, pick me, pretty please”  is the opposite of inspiring, it’s almost soul-quenching.  It interferes with my creative process as occasionally the thought will swirl around, could I sell this?  And that’s the killer right there.  I will never stop making art, ever, not even if my hands fall off, but I’m tired of the selling lingering in the back of my mind.

And while I have some ideas that I will be pursuing during this next part of the adventure, I have come to a great understanding, or rather have come to the same understanding in a greater way,

I want to write.

I want to write.

I want to write.

Sure, I could do both, but I found myself in a fearful place, when this truest words resounded from my most honest soul, but if I don’t sell my art online, will I still be “considered” an artist?  How will people find my work?  Can you even stand the putrid nonsense of that? I can’t.  Of course, I’m an artist, of course.  Shut up.  And I suppose that when it comes down to it, the right people will always find you, if you are following your heart. If you are taking brave steps that lead you to doors waiting to be opened.   If you roar your dreams into the night sky, they will not go unheard.  The internet is just a tool, a silly/useful tool.

To be even more vulnerable, in the early fall, when I was considering this, I dared to suggest to God, that if I closed my shop, how would extra money even come?  Ha, as if the great creator of the universe was limited to supplying our needs via my tiny little website. And, as it happened, I haven’t sold a piece of art online since August, not a single one.   I know, what a ridiculous thing to say.  I don’t recommend it.

And then the inevitable question that we all come to when we are going forward in any part of life, will you surrender the good for something better?  Your hands will be empty for a while, but only then can they be filled again.  Sometimes, the “good” isn’t really much of anything is, we’re just afraid to let go and hold on to that which we can’t see, because, then what? 

Well.. then anything, really.

And I like possibilities, you know.

All of this to say, I’m closing the shop for an indefinite amount of time on Monday, the 31st.   So if there is anything you’d like to order, do so this weekend.  If there are any original paintings that you have been wanting, send me a message about any offers (I’m open).  

As to whatever happens next, I will be writing it here.

With 2013 just around the next Monday, I am filled with excitement for the new days and opportunities, for the friends that will be made, for the places we will go, for the creativity that will fuel and connect us, for the encouragement and signs that will carry us forward to what awaits.


Molly: You remember when I was a little girl and I could play Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto and everyone was talking about my potential?

Mr. Magorium:  Mhhm.

Molly: Well, I am 23 now and everyone's still talking about my potential but if you ask ‘em to play the song I know best... I'll still play Rachmaninov's Second.

Mr. Magorium: May I suggest you stun the world with Molly Mahoney's First?

Monday, December 10, 2012

like blankets of snow

In the middle of the afternoon, I’m washing dishes, because I’m a rebel of such matters. They are playing in the living room, I hear loud, rambunctious laughter.   It will end with tears, because it will.  Four is having so much fun and little miss nearly two thinks she as big as him, but it gets too rough and then the tears. 

What happened?  I asked.  Harper got hurt, because she fell down, he answered.  I pause and assess the tiny, red mark on her cheek, my eyes studying his.  Did she just fall down? He thinks for a minute and then our eyes meet, honesty pours out of him, with no fear.  No, Harper got hurt because I pushed her and she fell down.  I’m sorry, mama, we were just playing. 

There are hugs and kisses and all is well, she adores her brother and she holds no grudge on these long winter days. 

Daddy works long hours with a new schedule, but down from two jobs for two years to one, we are thankful.  Inside we’ve created a world full of cozy and cheer.  Robot towers and train tracks and well-loved baby dolls.  Coffee in the morning and coffee in the afternoon, meals in-between.  Toys decorate the floor by day, the silence of the tree lights by night.  The new possibilities that may come with spring sit bundled on a shelf, with a sign that reads, do not open until later,  and right now feels good.  Exhausting, but really good.  For one of the first times, probably ever, I am not wishing away all the moments that lead up to what could be.  I find myself walking throughout the house, doing normal motherly-artist things and I’m aware of a feeling that is not to be taken for granted. 

Contentment covers me like the thick blanket of freshly, fallen snow outside my window.

Just Write