tyranny of the urgent

I was driving to to meet my friend Barb for dinner at Green Sage.  And I had an epiphany.

This isn't a huge surprise.  Barb is one of those forever friends that combines intuitive listening skills with counselor level questions.  When Steve and I moved to Asheville  23 years ago, Barb and Vito were the first couple to invite us out.  I spent way too much time overthinking an uncomfortable, fussy outfit only to find Barb in jeans and a sweatshirt, looking perfect.  

Barb introduced me to Asheville's fine arts theatre,  where we would escape from real life to watch movies with subtitles and explore stories from around the world.  Barb was there when both my babies were born, encouraging and photographing.  During the hardest year of my life, Barb and Barbara Thomas met me regularly at The Chocolate Lounge for liquid truffles and group therapy.

And every time we have gotten together in those twenty-three years, Barb has asked me how I am.  I always seem to have the same answer.  "I'm good.  Just too busy.  Things will settle down when..."  and the current busyness is labeled.  -When I get done with this sermon series.  When the baby is sleeping through the night.  When the boys are in school.  When I finish my residency in Spartanburg and can be home.  When my Christmas shopping is all done.  When my patient load drops.  When I finish these classes.  When we get into the school year.  When. When.  When...

Twenty-three years of "If I can just get over THIS hump, then things will be good."

And here I am in the middle of another, extended crazy busy season.  The summer I had envisioned as my oasis, turned out to be hectic.  And I knew things would slow down once school started.  But it's been months of long days, of always being one step behind, of regretting saying yes to so many things, of isolating myself for survival, of juggling and rushing and hopping from one crisis to another.

Years ago I heard Jim Collins talk about the tyranny of the urgent. When we let urgent things crowd out every thing else.  When our lives are ruled by the loudest squeaks, the most recent phone call, the class I'm teaching in 5 minutes, the next doctor's appointment for my son.  Sometimes the tyranny can't be helped.  There will be busy seasons.  But when the busy seasons last for 30 years I have to be curious.  What is in me that can't say "no" to an opportunity for making money or furthering my education?  What is in me that feels important only when I am busy and in demand?  Am I insulating myself from calm and space for a subconscious reason?  And how will I answer any of these questions if I never have time to think about them?

So I met Barb at Green Sage.  We hugged and ordered and caught up.  She asked me how I was.  And I answered as honestly as I could.  "I'm busy.  Of course.  I have a problem with always being busy.  But I'm sure you knew that about 15 years before I had an epiphany about it on the way here.  And I don't know how to get off the treadmill.  That is how I am."

Our waiter stopped by with my coconut mocha and Barb's ginger carrot juice.  That bright orange juice could restart your heart.  So can a comforting friend. 

We are going to meet again soon!  After my board meeting. And the wedding I'm doing.  And Thanksgiving......

intoxicating

 So I am walking through the school halls at noon.  The sun is streaming in on the scrubbed floors.  The students are all in the lunch room and there is a happy buzz coming from that direction.  As I round the corner to the main hall,  I see a 6th grade student round the corner running at top speed in my direction.  All lean and graceful.  And then he screeches to a halt.  I look behind me to see what made him stop.  Then realize it was me.  That kids aren't supposed to run in the halls.  And I am the enforcer of that.  I see fear in his eyes and don't like that that is his reaction to me. I greet him by name and walk past him.  Today.

I had no idea how much I would be disciplining in this job.
I will get called to speak to a whole class, or a group of girls, or two guys tussling on the field, or a row of wiggling 1st graders after assembly.  Speeches, concerns, expectations, raised eyebrows.  This is so not me.  I don't like being strict, or serious, or intimidating.  I don't like that when asked to speak to a student their first response is to check their skirt length or ask "what did I do wrong?" I don't like this part of principaling.

I had no idea how much I would be disciplining in this job.  
And yet I do it, day after day.  I try to make it reasonable and redemptive, building and not shaming.  But it is still hard and uncomfortable and sometimes tear inducing.  And afterwards I often flop in my principal chair and say to myself "How on earth is this your job Erin?"

I said this out loud one day to my mom and she reframed it for me.  She said "Wouldn't you rather it be you?  It could be someone angry and quick to judgement.  You love these kids and you are as gentle as you can be with them."  And that helped.  Now I try to say to myself "Erin, I'm so glad you get to meet with them right now and not some mean person with an eye for hell fire and retribution." 

It takes a lot of talking to myself to get through a day.

The dictionary defines discipline this way:  Training expected to produce a specific character or   pattern of behavior, especially training that produces moral or mental improvement:

We are all "in training" aren't we?  I hope for all of us the truth of this Simone Weil quote becomes indelibly clear.

 "Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring; Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating."

I also hope you don't run in the halls.

time and again

"We meet ourselves time and again in a thousand disguises on the paths of life."  Carl Jung

This summer started out with a bang. - A hectic ending to my first school year as principal. Right into a week of campmeeting where I worked in Kindergarten, leading a tribe of 15 little kids.  Straight to the beach for blissful sun and rest.  And then back to school to pick up the unfinished pieces.  Getting Jake packed for his summer recruiting gig, appointments and meetings and on and on.

By the 4th of July I was in a full tizzy.  We were invited to a friend's farm to watch a huge firework show.  But Jake was gone.  Josh's birthday was on Sunday.  And on that birthday Sunday, I had to leave for a college in TN for two weeks to take a required class for my job.  I hate leaving my family.  My bursts of panic mimicked the exploding fireworks.

On Sunday evening I loaded my car with school books, a suitcase, blankets and towels, dvd's and an ice chest and hit the road.

Three hours later I pulled up at the university.  I had only been there twice in the twenty-five years since I was there to finish my junior and senior years of college.  I moved into a room on the bottom floor of the dorm Steve had lived in those two years, facing my old dorm.

And it was deja vu all over again.  1989-91.  Wondering if I would get a job after I graduated.  Where would I live? Would Steve and I stay together this time?  Would we get married? Would I pass my classes?  Would I make new friends?  I had to stretch my legs after the drive, so I tried to outrun my past worries by looping the campus and track, passed the religion building where I'd had most of my classes, past the church where I went to vespers as Steve's date, passed the girls dorm where I'd had roommate dramas.  And finally back to my little room - home for the next two weeks.

And then I started to relax.  In that tiny, sunny room I made up my bed, hung up my clothes, set up my desk.  I realized that I was excited to be a student in a class, studying brain function and learning styles.  My only responsibility was to learn.  

For the next two weeks I would get up quietly and leave my little room tidy.  I would walk to class.  I would take notes and brainstorm with interesting classmates.  After class I would walk to the village market to the delicious salad bar, and choose yogurt and fruit for my breakfast the next morning.  I would sit indian style at my desk for hours into the evening reading books and writing reports.  I would watch a movie at night as I fell asleep.

One day I met old friends at a Mexican restaurant in town.  Another evening I drove to another old friend's home and ate popcorn, watermelon and fruit shakes while I got to know his family.  One day for lunch my friend and classmate,  Susan,  and I explored a Peruvian restaurant just for a new experience.  Those were the only three times I used a car in those two weeks.  And then back to my quiet room to study.

It was an incredibly restful, enriching time. Every time deja vu anxiety popped up I got to remind myself that it would all turn out ok.  Way better than ok.  Steve and I would stay together.  We'd move to California.  We'd have a beautiful wedding.  We'd get great jobs.  We'd move to Asheville and have two precious blond boys.  We would have a wonderful, traumatic, interesting, adventurous life.

But today I am a 46 year-old sleeping for one more night on a quiet, dorm bunk bed.   I wish I could pop in on 21 year old Erin and tell her to relax, enjoy the journey, be grateful.  In lieu of time travel,  I will just remind 46 year-old Erin that.

lemons

So you think it is just an ordinary day.  Students heading back and forth from school to auditorium to practice for the big Spring concert.  And then it starts to rain.  I grab my keys and start to shuttle students back and forth so they don't get soaked.  I'm almost done when the last student realizes he forgot his music.  He jumps back in and I put the car in reverse and spin back around.  And then CRUNCH.  There is a horrible sound.  I stop.  And crane my neck  to see the previously invisible light pole on a cement base.  How bad can it be?  I was only going about 3 miles an hour.  The student jumps out to look.  "Oh, it's bad." he says shaking his head.

And it was bad.  My 6 month old, perfect blue car had a huge, deep dent. My passenger door wouldn't open.  I was sick.

There was nothing to do but fix it.  I made three phone calls.  I drove thirty minutes to have the car inspected and made an appointment to get fixed.  Then I had it inspected by my insurance for a quote.  Then I reserved a rental car.  Then I drove 30 minutes back to leave my car for 4 days.  Then I waited.  So much wasted time, energy spent, hundreds of dollars out of pocket, all for a stupid mistake.  I just couldn't shake the angry, uselessness of it.
The day I picked up my fixed car I made a quick Target run.  Walking past the kitchen aisle, a bright yellow ceramic lemon caught my eye.  It was on clearance for $3.00.

In the early 1900's someone coined a phrase "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.  According to wikipedia this phrase is "used to encourage optimism and a can-do attitude in the face of adversity or misfortune. Lemons suggest bitterness, while lemonade is a sweet drink."

I love this 1940 poem called The Optimist.
"Life handed him a lemon,
As Life sometimes will do.
His friends looked on in pity,
Assuming he was through.
They came upon him later,
Reclining in the shade
In calm contentment, drinking
A glass of lemonade."

I bought that Target lemon.  I carried it to my pretty-again car and decided to be thankful for people who fix dents.  Now it is on my desk.  It's shiny, happy yellow reminds me that life will always have purposeless challenges and unplanned bumps.  My dog will have fleas, students will have unhappy parents, my favorite blouse will get stained, and occasionally I will dent something big.  But I will always have the choice of growing bitter, or plowing through with "calm contentment".  It's all about making lemonade.

small exchanges

It's possible to get from our house to school in 7 minutes.  If we hit the light right.  If we don't get behind a school bus.  If it's not trash pick up day.  Today we left the house with 9 minutes to spare.  But it took 13 minutes.  I tried to direct the speed and direction of the other cars on the road.  And I fumed, and sighed and rolled my eyes.  Why didn't I iron last night?  Why did I push snooze?  Why did I ask Josh if he wanted hot chocolate with his breakfast?  I hate being late.  Again. ARRGH.

And then I looked over at Josh sitting quietly in the passenger seat.  Josh is not a morning person.  But he will make conversation as we drive.  He will point out a colorful hot air balloon overhead, laugh at my jokes about downtown Candler, count wild turkeys at the side of the road. Today he sat quietly, looking out the window.  I suddenly wondered what effect my 13 minutes of road rage and impatience would have on my boy's day.

Twenty years ago, I heard a lecture by Daniel Goleman on Emotional Intelligence and bought his book.  These three paragraphs are the main thing that stuck with me from either, but I never forgot this picture he painted.

Say a two-month-old baby wakes up at 3 a.m. and starts crying.  Her mother comes in and, for the next half hour, the baby contentedly nurses in her mother's arms while her mother gazes at her affectionally, telling her that she's happy to see her, even in the middle of the night.  The baby, content in her mother's love, drifts back to sleep.

Now say another two-month-old baby, who also awoke crying in the wee hours, is met instead by a mother who is tense and irritable, having fallen asleep just an hour before after a fight with her husband.  The baby starts to tense up the moment his mother abruptly picks him up, telling him, "Just be quiet - I can't stand one more thing!  Come on, let's get it over with."   As the baby nurse his mother stares stonily ahead, not looking at him, reviewing her fight with his father, getting more agitated herself as she mulls it over.  The baby, sensing her tension, squirms, stiffens and stops nursing.  "That's all you want?" his mother says.  "then don't eat."  With the same abruptness she puts him back in his crib and stalks out, letting him cry until he falls back to sleep, exhausted.

These two scenarios are presented by the report from the National Center for Clinical Infant Programs as examples of the kinds of interaction that, if repeated over and over, instill very different feelings in a toddler about himself and his closet relationships...All the small exchanges between parent and child have an emotional subtext, and in the repetition of these messages over the years children form the core of their emotional outlook and capabilities...outlooks that will flavor their functioning in all realms of life, for better or worse.  Goleman, page 195

Our world is geared for the Big Deals.  Top stories on the news in the morning.  Squeakiest wheel at work gets the oil.  Vacation highlights go on Facebook.

But life is really made up of thousands of unnoticeable, unremarkable small exchanges.  Making lunches for my boys, feeding the cat, greeting students when they are dropped off at school, hugging my husband when he gets home from work.  Small exchanges that, according to Goleman, form and flavor all realms of life for people I love.   If it's true then I want to make the most of the small exchanges.

I only have a few more years of driving to school with Josh.  7 minutes a day.  Or if I'm lucky - 13 minutes.

oxygen choices

I have a thing for sweet, off-beat movies.  That Thing You Do.  Salmon Fishing in the Yemen.  Larry Crowne.  I play them over and over again while I'm unloading the dishwasher, loading the washing machine, cooking.  The boys groan "not again." But then they forget their protest and at some point we end up sitting on the coach watching the end together. Again.

My latest repeat is The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.  About an ordinary man who breaks free from his limited life and becomes who he wants to be.  I have lots of favorite parts, but one that has become The Quote in our family.

Walter Mitty: [taking on cell phone while climbing a Himalayan mountain] Hey Todd, I'm gonna keep this short. I have to make oxygen choices. 

Oxygen choices!  I love that.  For Walter Mitty there is a limited amount of oxygen available.  Does he want to use it to make it down the mountain alive or to talk to the salesman from e-harmony?  It's really a life and death question.  There is nothing wrong with talking to Todd.  It's just not going to help him reach his goal.  

Last night Josh wanted Jake to play a video game with him.  Jake said "Nope, I have to finish my homework.  Oxygen choices, Josh."  

That echo'd in my ears this morning when I got an invitation to be part of a panel discussion at a University 3 hours away.  Interesting.  Informative. Networking.  But also time consuming in an already really busy time.  Two days away from work.  Two nights away from family.  So I said no.  I have to make oxygen choices.

Best over good.  Here is how Steve Jobs described it.

“People think focus means saying yes to the thing you've got to focus on. But that's not what it means at all. It means saying no to the hundred other good ideas that there are. You have to pick carefully. I'm actually as proud of the things we haven't done as the things I have done. Innovation is saying no to 1,000 things.”

Best over good.  No to 1,000 things.  I just found two articles on line that talk more about this.  They look so interesting.  But it's 60 degrees out, the sun is shining and my tennis shoes are waiting.  I'm headed out.  Oxygen choices....

speaking office

This story starts on Christmas Eve and ends today.  A little before Christmas Eve actually....

There is nothing that motivates me to finish house projects more than company.  I had family coming in for Christmas and that meant stuff was getting done.  Our six dining room chairs for example.  Ten years of two boys eating spaghetti marinara, strawberry jello, blueberry pancakes and chocolate ice cream had done them no favors.  They looked like seats from a war zone.

I bought new material.  I borrowed a staple gun.  I just hadn't had time to re-cover them.  And then it was Christmas Eve morning.  The boys and I had the day off.  Presents were wrapped, food was made.  Just time to chill and play together. And re-cover the chairs.  Which should only take like 45 minutes right?

I hadn't counted on how long it takes to pry out 600 former staples and stretch the fabric.  And re staple. Two hours in, I was sweating and had two chairs done. I was getting faster, but a mutiny was forming.  "This is suppose to be a fun day." the boys said.  I had to finish the chairs.  And I wanted it to be a good day.  I had to think fast.

The boys had had a recent conversation about pranks. And I had told them about the show The Office we used to watch. How Steve and I had cracked up over Jim's constant pranking of Dwight.  And then I found the first few seasons of The Office that we'd been given as a gift.  I grabbed Season One and pushed play.  From the moment Dwight's stapler was found encased in Jello, my boys were hooked.  Four episodes later, the chairs were recovered, clean and beautiful.  The boys were laughing.  Christmas Eve had officially started.

So did our new tradition.  An episode or two of The Office when we got home from school each day.  Curled up on the couch together, laughing as we watched every day people, in an ordinary office, form life-long friendships.  I had forgotten how, underneath the funniness, the show had such heart.  The characters learned to see past each other's quirks, to value each other, to forgive and appreciate, to become loyal and grow together.  Without easing up on the unending stream of little tortures and practical jokes of course.

Nine seasons later, we loved them too.  Josh and I finished on Saturday night.  (too fast I know, but what else are you going to do through a long winter if not binge watch TV with your children?...)  We waited until Monday night when Jake got home from a school trip, to watch the finale.  Yes, I cried again.  And was touched by profound statements like Andy Bernard's "I wish there was a way to know you are in the good old days before you actually left them." So true Andy.

Speaking of the good old days....when I started Chaplain school, our supervisor taught twelve of us about the Enneagram, an ancient personality test to navigate workplace dynamics and spirituality.  He told us it would help us understand ourselves better.  And that it would help us see each other's strengths more than our differences.  Most of all, he said that it would take twelve strangers and quickly give us a common language to speak as we learned about each other.

I feel like the boys and I have new common language.  We are speaking Office.  We tease each other about being a Michael or so Dwight.  Any cockiness gets a Ryan label. And me trying to recover the dining room chairs on Christmas Eve?  Such an Toby move.   We are also trying to be more aware how much joy and value are lurking all around us every day.

Or as Pam said at the very end of the show,  "There is a lot of beauty in ordinary things."

spring punch

My friend Barbara was having a party at her house last Sunday.  A Spring Shower.  Women from our church would gather at 4, bring appetizers and desserts, share recipes, talk, laugh and celebrate the end of winter.  It sounded like just what we needed!

 I found a recipe in Better Homes and Gardens for Spring Frocktails - a pretty pink and orange punch with juice and soda and sherbet.  Barbara had a punch bowl so I just needed to bring the ingredients.  I began brainstorming for the most delectable appetizer I could bring.  Stuffed mushrooms?  BBQ meat balls? Mini quiches? A savory cheesecake with crackers?

Sunday morning flew by and I still hadn't decided.  I waded through all the black and gray sweaters in my closet to find a floral blouse and a green sweater.  I was going to look like the first day of spring after a long winter.

I was on call for hospice all weekend.  There was a family meeting at 1:00 pm.  Then I would stop at the grocery store on the way home, make my food, change my clothes and get to the party early.  Plenty of time!

The meeting was right on schedule.  Thirty minutes and done.  Whew!  As I was driving out of the parking lot I got another call.  A family needed a chaplain 20 minutes south.  And then another call. Another patient.

At 3:15 I sat in my car in the hospice parking lot.  The party was in 45 minutes and 35 minutes away. I had no food.  I had no punch recipe.  I was wearing black. I contemplated driving off the nearest cliff.

And then an Elizabeth Edwards quote came to mind.  I think she was addressing people who had recently lost a spouse, or were being fitted for a prosthetic, or had just been driven from their homes.  But my situation felt comparable at that moment.  So I rehearsed it.

Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it's less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you've lost, or you can accept that and try to put together something that's good.” ― Elizabeth Edwards

I decided to stop the rapid breathing.  I reminded myself that no one at the party was watching the windows in hopes that "Erin would wear something besides black."  I chose to believe that really anything can be an appetizer.  And I drove to the nearest grocery store to put together something that was hopefully good.

I grabbed Dole Orange Peach Mango juice, cherry 7-UP and rainbow sherbet.  I found a frozen loaf of my favorite brand of Gfree Rye and a block of dill havarti.  A tomato, a cucumber and a tempting selection of olives from the deli.  I threw the bags in the back of my car and sped across town.

Let's skip to the end.  The party was a blast.  Better than good.  Delicious food.  Easy conversations.  My little grocery store offerings looked pretty on Barbara's glass plates.  The punch was fruity and refreshing.  

And brown.  Oh yes, orange mango mixed with green and pink sherbet turns a very unspringy shade of brown.  We talked about ways to serve it in the future so we could enjoy the taste and not have to see it!

I drove home smiling.  Girl friends make everything seem better.  So does a dose of resilience, creativity and humor.  And getting over yourself.  That's a big one.  It's only punch...


The correct recipe for non-brown Spring Frocktails.
3 cups ginger ale
4 Tbsp grenadine
4 Tbsp orange juice
3 scoops orange sherbet

grit and glory

I was about five years old.  A little girl with a blond bob.  Sitting on the floor in a yellow gingham room, sun streaming in. I was playing "grown up", my very favorite game.  My mom had given me a stack of unused check deposit slips and I was signing my name with a flourish and making check marks in various boxes.  I couldn't wait for the day when I would have a real job and do this all the time.

Today, forty-one years later, I'm sitting in my blue office, sun streaming in.  I have a stack of forms in front of me and I'm signing and checking boxes.  And that's when I had my little yellow flashback.  I'm still playing grown up, and I love this job more then that five year old could have imagined.  I like writing articles for the newsletter, filling in to teach classes, creating board agendas and art curriculums. But it's also harder than I would have dreamed.  Disciplining, hard conversations, budget struggles,  refereeing.  Somedays I don't feel like signing the slips.  There is so much more grit and glory than any five year old can imagine.

I was in 6th grade.  Several of my girlfriends and I made up a game where we wrote letters to each other from our future selves.  We imagined our lives as very mature twenty-three year olds.   Most of the scenarios involved our handsome, made-up husbands taking us to TCBY every evening.  What else would there be to do as grown ups?

Today, thirty-four years later, I can't remember the last time my husband and I went to TCBY.  My 6th grade self would be devastated.  She would also be horrified to know that handsome husbands often come with contrary opinions, and that so much of our evenings involve grocery shopping, playing with our boys and homework.  We have to make a real effort to get out on a date occasionally.  But it's all so much better than those letters ever hinted at.  I didn't know how nice it is to walk hand in hand through the neighborhood with an unmade up man.  Or how safe you feel, curled up watching TV with someone who loves you forever.  There is so much more grit and glory than any 6th grader can imagine.

I was living in the dorm in college when I visited a newly married friend.  She and her young husband had just moved into a brand new apartment that was very 1990's modern.  All grays and purples, sleek lines and minimalistic furnishings.  It was the most sophisticated place I had ever been.  And was immediately the epitome of all my "when I get my own house" fantasies.

Today, twenty-six years later, I see a lot of gray throughout my house.  Mostly in things that once were white and have been used and aged til they are dingy. My style is teenage-aged-boy-lived-in.  Not very popular in the house magazines I pour over.  The washing machine and dishwasher hum constantly.  From where I am sitting I can see a clump of cat hair and a streak of mud.  But it is my favorite place in the world.  The couch where the four of us flop on together at the end of the day.  The table we gather around for Steve's famous Saturday breakfasts.  The porch where we watch lightening storms.  It's where we pack friends from top to bottom for sleepovers, cook Thanksgiving dinner and toast our Christmas tree with egg nog.  There is so much more grit and glory than any college student can imagine.

I still like playing grown up.  Someday I may redo this post by adding to the paltry imaginations of my forties.  Until then I am grateful that life is so good.  And I will soak up all I can of this gritty and glorious life!

aesthete

It was in the Musée d’Art et d’Histoire in Geneva where I realized it was hopeless. 

My family was spending the morning at this art museum and today I was determined to be my best art appreciating/cultured self. We all started together and I slowly wound my way through the museum.  I read all the captions.  I looked for little details in the pictures. I walked with agonizing slowness from corridor to corridor. By the time I circled back to the first room, I couldn't take any more art.  That is where I found my father.  Still in the first room.  Gazing up at a painting with tears running down his cheeks.  "Have you seen this one yet?" he asked with a combination of reverence and passion.  Oh dear.  My art immune, barbarian status was confirmed.  

Growing up in an art-loving family has exposed me to some wonderful art in my life.  I've been to the British Museum twice, all the Smithsonians in D.C.,  the Wyeth's Brandywine Museum in PA, Norman Rockwell's museum in MA, the High Museum in Atlanta and during a study tour in college I got to see art museums in Israel, Greece and Rome.  But I never was captivated by it.  Art Shmart.   I may have speed-viewed many priceless works.  I may have rolled my eyes more than a few times.  

A couple years ago, a road trip with my parents included the de Young Museum in San Francisco to see Vermeer's Girl With The Pearl earring. We had a wonderful day, and I almost felt arty.  But I realized it was mostly because my parents are great company and I got to be sophisticated and urban for a change.

Then, as irony would have it, I became an art teacher this school year.  Yep me.  The can't-draw, can't-craft, can't appreciate girl inherited four sections of elementary art, grades K-8, once every single week.  In a panic I downloaded a timeline called Art History for Dummies.   Appropriate. I made a schedule and plugged in some true artist friends.  And then the routine started.  On Friday I would text my dad with the time period for the next week.  Cave art.  Egyptian art.  Roman art.  Byzantine art.   By Monday there would a set of pictures in my inbox.  I'd sneak to the library and call my dad for an art history lesson.  

Week after week, in the quiet dark library, on the phone to California,  I discovered that art is made up of stories and themes, of artists and countries, of inventions and influences, of talent and luck and survival.  I would take dad's enthralling stories and ideas and find ways to engage my students in the excitement of it.  My interest in art became sharply focused and incredibly enjoyable.  

Recently our library art class time centered on early Renaissance art.  I got engrossed in Giotto, an Italian painter and architect who was first in line of the renaissance artists.  Dad told me about this reportedly unattractive shepherd boy who painted pictures of his sheep on the rocks in his pasture.  He was discovered by a local artist passing through the field who couldn't believe how life-like the chalk drawings were.

Giotto later auditioned to work for the Pope by submitting a single, perfect circle painted in red as his best work.  The Pope was impressed and hired him, wisely, as Giotto's depiction of human emotion in his paintings set him far above his contemporaries.   Dad especially mentioned the emotion depicted in a painting with little angels.  I thought about Giotto all through the day.

The next day I got down to business.  With my scribbled notes I began to look up pictures for class.  I couldn't read my handwriting.  Gotto?  Getto?  I googled Renaissance artists and found Gatti. Italy.  Renaissance.  Must be it.  There was nothing about him being ugly or the painted red circle or the chalk sheep.  But I wasn't surprised that my dad would know way more than Wikipedia.  I found some of Gatti's art.  Ornate, overdone.  Yes there were a few little angels - fat, gilded cherubs. Nothing there to inspire in me the wonder I'd heard in my dad's voice.

It was shades of Geneva all over again.

And then I realized that Gatti was from the 1600's.  I was pretty sure the artist I was looking for was at the beginning of the Renaissance.  So back to Google.  1300's.  And there was Giotto.  There were the sheep and the pope. Ah ha!  I scrolled through some work he had done on chapels.  One caught my eye.  The Lamentation of Christ. It is of Jesus being taken down from the cross, mourned over and held by his mother and friends.  The painting is in beautiful blues, golds and rose.  But what caught my attention was the sadness on the faces of Jesus' friends.  Emotion.  I enlarged the picture.

And that is when I saw the baby angels. Ten of them flying to earth, filling the sky.  They are horrified, heartbroken and in pain at the loss of Jesus. One is plugging his ears.  One is hiding his eyes.  And one little angel in the middle is skidding to a stop mid-air because he can't take in the loss of his God.

I saw all this in the second the painting filled my computer screen.  I heard myself gasp and at the same time realized I was crying.  I resonated with their feelings of confusion and grief.   In a new way I glimpsed what a staggering loss that moment in history represented.  I was touched by their heart broken hearts.  I was moved.

I was moved!  Those little, emotion-filled Giotto angels were the last straw that broke my art resistant back.    I'd finally crossed over from philistine to aesthete -a person who is sensitive to, recognizes and values beauty in art.   It only took 46 years, 65 students, 25 art classes, miles of museums, hours of patient conversations and 10 baby angels.

Gear up Dad!  Impressionism is coming up, and your art-appreciating daughter can't wait to find out what I'm going to love next....

darkness

It is cold and dark.  All the time, this time of year.  I get up in the dark and rush to get the heaters and fireplace turned on.  It is gray on the way to work.  The sun is setting by the time we head home.  The house has been empty all day and is cold.  I pile on the sweatshirts trying to get warm while I do homework.

I have my winter standbys.  Hot baths that leave the bathroom mirror covered in steam.  Burying under fleece blankets with Steve, watching Hawaii 5.0.  My yearly read through of A Trip to the Beach by the Blanchards.  Dreaming of our upcoming Outer Banks Vacation.  These help a little bit. I still feel whiney about the cold and dark.

This winter I read Learning to Walk in the Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor.  She has a different perspective on physical and spiritual darkness.  She draws attention to the non-sunny Bible stories.  Where Abraham, Jacob, Moses, several Josephs and others connected with God after dark.  These night time Bible stories are filled with stars, ladders, pillars of fire, and dreams.  She writes that good things happen spiritually if you aren't always demanding a light.

And then she urges us to enjoy the darkness.
"Here at the liquid edge between day and night, the difference is so unclear that there are many words for it: sundown, twilight, nightfall, dusk...According to the rabbis, the Sabbath begins when three stars are visible in the sky, in which case I am not there yet.  As it turns out, there is a lot of ground to cover between one sunset and three stars."

Steve has always loved the evening.  In the summer he will often call us all out to lay on the driveway as the day is ending.  Or sit on our porch rocking chair.    I'm a morning person.  When the sun goes down so do my spirits.  But since Christmas my new fit bit has driven me out of the house in the evening.  When Steve gets home from work we all bundle up and head out to finish my steps.  The boys will toss a neon football.  Aggie will bounce up and down with joy to be doing something exciting.  We will talk about our days and loop back and forth on our neighborhood road together.

And I have started to enjoy cold evenings in a new way.  At Barbarba Brown Taylor's urging I now look for the subtle differences in darkness.  There is not really light, kinda dark, and can't-see-the-road-ahead night.  I tell the boys "If we were inside we would call this dark, but look how much you can still see!  Look how pretty the trees are!"

Last night we finished the walk before the football game was done.  While the boys played, I laid on the driveway and stared up at the first stars. I looked for ladders and pillars.  There were none.  But I heard my boys laughing, felt Steve's warm arm around me and saw the sliver of the moon.  There on the driveway I realized that coldness and darkness are like any other problems you face.  Bundle up and meet them head on and you find they aren't as scary or awful as you were afraid they were.  You might even find them enriching your life.

Bring it on Winter. :)

promptings

During my last year in high school, our class put on a production of Pride and Prejudice.  We all auditioned for a chance at a big part.  What could be better than playing Miss Elizabeth Bennet to some handsome senior boy's Mr. Darcy?

No shocker but I did not score a major role.  Even tiny parts like Kitty or Charlotte went to others.  As consolation I was given the "very important" job of Prompter Number Two.  I spent every practice and the entire performance perched high in the eaves over the stage whispering down lines to forgetful actors.

Try saying this in a loud but quiet whisper.  "If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.” 

Trust me, not as exciting as it sounds....

I've been thinking about my perch and those whispers recently as New Year's Day approaches.

My resolutions never change.  Over and over.  Bigger heart, Smaller body, Less stress, More gratitude.  It's some form of that every year.  But I wanted specifics this year.  I wanted clear prompts! And I realized that some of the whispers I was hearing might hold the answers.

I got this text from my Maryland friend Lisa a few days before my birthday.  "You have to get a fit bit.  I just got one.  We can encourage each other to move! Get it for Christmas!"  How's that for a prompt?  I pled my case.  I got one.  Not only do I get to communicate with Lisa more, but I have the motivation to get moving despite cold and busyness.

I read this whisper in Bill Hybel's book Simplify, 10 Practices to Unclutter your Soul.  "Find a chair.  Find a spot that works for you and make space to feel the deepest sense of God's pleasure with your life." Not a new idea.  But just the perspective I needed to take it up a notch.  I found a cozy spot, claimed it as my soul chair and am spending regular time there.  I already feel some new life sprouting.

On my bathroom sink is the most precious picture of my two boys when they were 4 and 5.  They are tanned and smiling, standing next to our car.  It's been a favorite for years.  But lately I hear it whispering loudly "treasure each moment."  My boys are growing up so fast. Tonight I drove Jake to driver's ed.  I fixed Josh his 5th meal of the day.  Before I know it they will be away at college, planning their next date or traveling the world.  I'm so glad for this prompt, reminding me that I have them today. Slow down. Soak it up. Enjoy.

Part Holy Spirit, part human, that is how my New Year's resolutions came to be.  Or as Mr. Darcy put it -  "I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.''

So welcome 2015!  I look forward to many more whispers from any eaves...