Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Friendship Inspires Creative Horizons

Originally posted on June 20, 2013

Starting a new venture is daunting. Especially when it is discovering an art and allowing it expression. Divine Appointments brought people into my life who believed in me when I was not able to believe in myself. Jeannie Hart entered my life first. Weekly coffee which birthed through adversity became an oasis of empowerment and love. Through her encouragement, working through my art possibilities developed from a hobby into a pilgrimage. Learning how to make mistakes with flare are the spice within creativity.

Jeannie introduced me to Aaron. A small business owner and artist in town. He wanted to sell my quirky products. He didn't care what they were. He was happy to give light to anything I attempted. First came towel embroidery.

It surprised me how well they sold. I kept making them and people kept liking them. I played with floursack and bar towels. It morphed into custom orders. Play began to pay off.


 GirlyK needed an new messenger bag. Money was tight and I had clothes heading for Charity. Inspiration hit and using old jeans, a vinyl jacket and sheets, this bag was birthed. I played with pattern making for the first time.

Jeannie fell in love with it and ordered an Ipad bag, I blended denim and upholstery fabric samples.




Next came a purse for myself. I found this Buttercup Bag pattern online and fell in love with it. Her design has a magnetic enclosure, but I added a zipper to mine. Confidence grew
within my abilities. Bag making became a fun experiment. Each one tweakishly different from the one before. 

One day, Aaron suggested I try aprons. He like the ones which looked like vintage cocktail dresses. Like Dr. Frankenstein, I retreated into my laboratory. A little frightened of what might come to life. Joy of surprise flooded as I watched them take shape.

 Skeleton Toile                          Nutcracker                                  Sugar Skulls



Not to be excluded a pile of The Counting Mutant's shirts headed for Charity called out to me. They wanted to be mutated into something different. Of course I couldn't disappoint them. Thanks to pinterest and Grow And Make this happened:








Then, as with all moments of art and crafting, the greatest surprise of all, a person I never met loved the sugar skull apron concept but wanted something different. Gary Smith wanted a muy macho version. Retreating into my laboratory of creative madness I experimented. Many times, I started, then walked away because it just wasn't working. It sat on the wire form in the work room taunting me with desire for a testosterone infusion. Images of barbecue tools and a cold beer in hand kept me motivated. After months of wrestling with inspiration, it conked me on the head. Last week I finished it.

An etsy store is waiting in the wings for inventory. Soon it will be up and running. I do take custom orders as well. With each project, I feel stronger and braver as the next creative puzzle is faced. Without people such as these, my artistic spirit would not fly as confident as it does today. Their company breeds freedom as this artist looks for a true north. I am deeply grateful.


A Mother Life

Friday, November 15, 2013

The Unlovely Around My Heart

“Be angry, but don't sin - don't let the sun go down before you have dealt with the cause of your anger; otherwise you leave room for the Adversary.” Ephesians 4:26-27

I thought I was over it. But my brain has a mind of its own and every holiday season I am reminded of what is missing.

I want to be done.

More tears have been spent on making myself be peace about the circumstances. I have forgiven those who misrepresented me. In my own strength extended grace to those who choose to believe gossip. I understand that who I am will never be accepted. I don’t hold it against them. They have their own pain to deal with. I cannot judge them because I did have a part to play.

I have owned my part. Offered amends for my shortcomings and accepted that the damage is irreversible. No longer do I feel the need to be understood or validated. I only wish them well on their life journey.

Yet…something irritates.

I re-examine Forgiveness: analyze it from their point of view. Where were my expectations unrealistic? What life experience motivated the choices they made. I feel empathy. I understand. I check to see if I hold any expectations of justice or reconciliation with them. I almost feel peace.

Then… something burns under the surface of my soul.

Anger is checked and I filter through all its definitions:

Anger is a secondary emotion, find out the primary source and resolve it. Then anger will diffuse-check. Did that.

Anger is a messenger. Ask her what the question is, answer it and then anger will be satisfied- check. Did that.

Then GirlyK and I were watching Bones. Sweets interrogating someone said, “Anger is triggered by unmet expectations.”

A glowing hot spear stabs my heart. I missed my own feelings. I never allowed myself to simply feel. Every examination has focused on them. Empathy, sympathy, forgiveness and grace extended to them, but never for myself.

My brain recoils: that’s selfish. That’s not Christlike. Indulging my sin nature gives room to all kinds of evil. I am not supposed to think about me in this situation for it to be resolved. They were the ones wronged. Not me…

But I must. I must filter through it all again this time granting permission to feel. The tools of recovery have taught me only through truth in love can real healing occur.

I awaken at 3:00 with the realization of this unlovely truth: I feel resentful. As I try to fall back asleep, Holy Spirit gently unravels the thick black wire shield which encases my beautiful pink heart. Looking closer I see barbs which point outward, intending to protect my heart from harm. The Still Small Voice calls them resentment. On the inside of the wire are smaller, sharper spines. Still Small Voice calls them bitterness.


In the hands of Divine Love I understand that while I protected myself with frustrated resentment, each time my heart encountered those people, the shield pressed into my heart. Those little spines of bitterness added pain which triggered a landslide of anxiety. Longing for freedom I submit to the Healer. As I release my own feelings, a healthy prettypicket fence will surround my heart. With healthy boundaries I will have clarity.  True grace will I finally be able to extend


And the best gift of all: Shalom.


Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Of Toilets and Boys

Originally posted Feb 28, 2013


I had no idea. Raised in a house with one bathroom, five females and one male, I never realized the bliss I was in.

As chores go, cleaning the bathroom was a breeze. Heavy cleansers for the caked on hairspray and other nice smelling beauty accouterments on the counter. A quick scrub of the bathtub ring with scrubbing bubbles. Easiest of all was the toilet. A squirt of cleaner under the rim of the bowl, swish with a brush and flush. The bathroom sparkled. We spent twenty minutes tops cleaning the room.

I remember my Mom telling us about what her friends with boys said about their bathrooms. She would shake her head in disbelief and say, "You're Dad isn't that bad." The four of us would look at her and agree: how could it be so bad? A large mouthed bowl. The target is big enough. Boys like to shoot things so, how could they miss? Hitting a bulls eye is what they do best, just like Robin Hood.

Then I grew up and had boys.

When they were little, it was excusable. They were short, the lip of the bowl was taller. On tip toes they would aim and mostly make it. Little Cheerio targets would float, waiting to be sunk. M&Ms were the reward when the offending wheaty O melted to the bottom.Once in a while, the unattended seat would slam down on the tender weapon and screams of agony would shake the walls of the house. I felt sorry for them then.

Find them at amazon
As they got older, it became a game:  How far away from the bowl can I stand and still make it? Or, my favorite;  Let's pretend there is a forest fire in the whole bathroom and put it out. The first thing in the morning cold land mines were special. I would giggle to myself, pull out the cleaner and get to work.

With pink rubber gloves on, bleach poured into the toilet itself. It is a bucket with clean water, right? Sponge dip into the cleaning concoction, the wiping and rinsing began. As the cleaning moves toward the baseboards, small yellow dots appear. Rinse sponge and re-moisten with germ busting liquid, I wipe the lip of the floor. Sitting back with satisfaction, I examine a job well done, only to notice streams of yellow on the wall. A snicker accompanies the reloading of the sponge. Scrubbing the lines turns into washing the whole toilet alcove. Perspiring, I follow the amber lines down the baseboards.  Sweating with discontented murmuring, the hidden puddles behind the toilet are scrubbed. Aching arms scour the floor joint and bolts. In full cursing surrender, the complete outside of the toilet is bathed. I am afraid to even look at the seat.

"I did this three days ago." I say to myself setting back on my haunches.

An archaeologist could find prehistoric bugs in the amber droplets encrusted at the bottom of the seat. The sponge is forced with a death grip into the bowl of bleach and wrung to within an inch of disintegration. Excavation begins and the grease in my elbow sprouts a leak. Soon all that is left is the fossil evidence. Laying the seat down, I scrape the lid, bolts and bridge that holds the bowl to the tank. Then disinfect the tank itself, including the top.

The simple task of cleaning the toilet took me 30 minutes!
Find it at amazon

I thought, as the boys grew it would improve. I. Was. Deluded.

Discussing this over coffee with some girlfriends, comradere was thick. One girlfriend wants a urinal put into her bathroom so she can have the toilet all to herself. Another suggests a fly sticker next to the drain. This has been put into place in some public bathrooms: . Research shows that aim improves if men have something to aim at.

I need those flies. Maybe then, my daughter will understand what a clean toilet is.


A Mother Life

Monday, November 11, 2013

Remembering Veterans

Today is Veteran’s Day or Remembrance Day. 

My Dad is a veteran.

Now it is popular to be one, but when I was a kid it was not. Dad wrestled with shame, like many Vietnam Vets. He felt a little extra-because he was stationed here.

He worked personnel. Many faces passed through his office. Some were on their way over; some on their way home. He would tell me about the guilt over the ones he sent over and the question that nagged-which ones came home.

We were stationed at Kirkland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, New Mexico and Hill Air Force Base in Logan, Utah. My Mom played the chapel organ, my Dad worked at the radio station. I would listen as Dad would talk about the new music coming on the scene; Christian Rock which shared hope, all the while being relevant.

As an observer-grown-ups don’t realize how much kids really catch-I watched his pained face as the black screen with names scrolled after the news. When in the car, listening to the radio, songs quickly changed with the push of a button because of a lyric. One time after work tried to run him down. He was in uniform.

The other kids and I had a secret:

We loved our lives in base housing. The roar of jet engines and helicopters lulled us to sleep. When other kids stopped playing because of a car, something in the air stopped us because we couldn’t hear each other. Everyone was welcome because tomorrow they might live somewhere else. Being lonely was never an option.

We were proud of our Dads for wearing Blue. For giving their time to our country because the country needed them.

It didn't matter to me if he served in a jungle or in an office. In a jungle he would face bullets, mines and enemy lines. Here in the states, he faced media, people and the feeling of being left on the bench.

Each place held scars.


Both missions held dangers.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

About Me: NO vember

NO vember is when it all started.


November took me away from a family filled with love and laughter. Boy cousins ready for fun adventures. Fall colors at Thanksgiving and snow at Christmas. A house filled with sunlight, a gentle grandfather who had tea parties with me and a grandmother who laughed. Running, camaraderie and bionic adventures for hours were the holiday experience.


November took me to a winter filled with cold gray foggy days. A house where the windows looked out on trees, but no sun came in. These grandparents argued and watched golf on television. Too busy to play, but not too busy to spank or discipline. I had nothing in common with my girl cousins. Lonely, quiet and waiting for it to be over was the new holiday experience.

Now Thanksgiving Day was filled with angst. Parents stressed because my three sisters needed a nap and these new grandparents insisted on dinner at 2:00. During the hour’s drive, I would talk myself into being excited. Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe someone would talk to me. Maybe fun could be found. Sometimes it would glimmer but like the fairy it was, never stayed for long.

 November finished a year of death. It started the December before, my senior year with a boy named Jeff. We met third grade when we finally settled into this Central Valley town. 

Then that odd Christmas break obituary.

I went because I knew him. Friends knew him. No knowledge of how he died, just that he did. I sat in the overflow lobby, his pastor announced that he would read the note he left behind. The word suicide was never spoken, but something within me cracked. The idea of adolescent invincibility weakened. I spent the rest of the day trying to figure it out. My parents were as dumbstruck as I. The rest of that year would include a winter suicide, a spring accidental drowning, and an almost fatal accident.

Then November.

Mark was the brilliant musician youth group leader. Blond curly hair, big brown eyes all backed his overwhelming kindness. He was patient enough, one church camp, to learn by ear a song I was going to sing. Complete with grin, he led the band as I for a moment felt like someone with something to offer the youth group. One time he taught on the Beatitudes, which would anchor my relationship with God forever. He said something along these lines:

“The pure in hear will see God. That means telling him everything. If your mad, yell at him- he knows it anyway. Let nothing stand between you and God. Not even yourself. Always talk to him. Always seek him. Ask your questions. Yell at him about your doubts because eventually you WILL see HIM. He promised.”

This beautiful soul decided he could no longer live.

Eleven months of life taken left an indelible scar. For me there is no, “You Only Live Once.” Life became fleeting and fickle. Every moment deserves attention and presence. Death no longer surprises me.

Almost 30 years later, three kids and a loving husband, we have made our own happy Thanksgiving memories. I make a great turkey and trimmings myself so The Counting Mutant can make his Friday after Thanksgiving Turkey and Stuffing omelets. I find myself forcing myself to enjoy it all. I find joy in it and the presence of these events still hovers, like the winter fog the Central Valley is known for.

So I am allowing myself this moment to remember.

To grieve so that I may be comforted.


I am grateful for that.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Quitting

Originally posted on December 9, 2010

I am always the last one to leave. A party, a theme park, church. An argument isn't over unless true harmony exists for all involved, much to The Counting Mutant’s irritation. A decision is weighted upon all collectible options. In all situations, affirming and confrontational, I do not quit.

Some consider this diligence a personality flaw. 

My soul screams this mantra to my head: to quit in the face difficulty, cheapens the experience of life. 

When in conflict with person or situation; first comes the talking. There is an echo inside my head, so the only way to hear myself think is out loud. Unfortunately that means someone has to listen until a piece of solution reveals itself. Only when I have exhausted all avenues of resolution will I resign.

“Just as iron sharpens iron, a person sharpens the character of his friend” Proverbs 27:17

What people don’t recall when they throw around this cliché is:

You can’t have sharp iron without sparks.

Within interaction there will be controversy. To end a relationship or an experience because of difficulty, compromises the value of the life we have been given. To work through these differences creates a better life story.

The Counting Mutant took part in a business philosophy course. Close to the end, he was invited to continue in an advanced level. He said yes. At the end of the course, life happened which complicated his ability to continue. During the final conference the offer to continue was extended. This time he declined.  The instructor of the course spoke to the many that changed their answer. He challenged them to examine their behavior.  Was this a common practice in business or their personal life where an agreement was made and then broken?  The instructor introduced the word reneging: to break a promise or go back on an agreement. The consequences of reneging of reneging are; people become leery of  your word and question the reliability of it.

The shame of quitting evaporated. My real issue was about reneging. Whenever a commitment needs to be made, I am thoughtful and count the cost. I never want to jeopardize a person’s trust or faith in me. Through disagreements we learn about each other.  This is why the idea of quitting is unreasonable to me. Listening to another’s grievances I gain strength and wisdom. There is a certain power in admitting my weaknesses and face the conflict. It grants me an opportunity for a Reality Check. My focus turns to crafting those flaws into strengths.  Life is the greatest adventure. Being available for resolution makes my life story richer.



A Mother Life