Amazing Friends and Art

This week I received an exciting email from my artist friend Sarah. One of her recent paintings was chosen as part of the 20x200 Project, which aims to make emerging artists' work affordable by selling series of 200 8.5"X11"archival pigment prints of artists' paintings or photographs for $20 each on the internet (you can also purchase larger, more limited editions, for more moola).

We are the lucky owners of some of our friend's originals, but wall space and access to cash have created some obstacles to our becoming major collectors of her works, alas. I quickly scooped up a $20 print of her painting "Site," (that series sold out within hours), and then had fun scrolling through the other artists' works promoted on the website (get the play on words? Sarah's work is about reproduction, incidentally, as it relates to housing and suburban tracts, so the name of her painting, its subject matter, and the medium in which it's being sold are very appropos...).

I think the project is a brilliant way to promote contemporary artists and provide more foks affordable access to sought-after art.

I'll end by paying personal homage to my friend Sarah, who is a Mom of two and former waitress and teacher who recently made the courageous leap to Full-Time Professional Artist with the support of her family.

She rocks. She's going to be famous. Get some of her art. Now.

Spank Me, Please?

It's nice to gain a new perspective, once in a while, on one's career choice.

After all, as I've shared, introducing oneself as Vice Principal out there does not exactly Get The Party Started. Knowing there's a Disciplinarian in the crowd can make people act sheepish or pretend to hide their beers (or, oddly, start confessing stuff).

Glad I'm not a cop.

Last night I went to meet my friend Susan, a celebrity in her own right now as one of the featured crew members on Carrier, the PBS documentary. We were going to meet downtown, and then she was running late from visiting her daughter...and so we agreed to rendezvous at her hotel, the site of the conference that brought her town.

That conference being for Navy and Marine Air Traffic Controllers. Of all ages and expertise, from all over the country. Enjoying free beer and food and casino games in a safe Holiday Inn atmosphere. And I was maybe the only civilian in the mix.

Despite being the daughter of a dad with a Navy Career, I'll confess that I know too little about the Navy lifestyle and its various careers. I learned a ton from Carrier, but I had lots of questions for Susan and her friends, including, How did you know you wanted to be an Air Traffic Controller? and What's your rank? I am pretty fascinated by the new pockets of the world in which I find myself, and I also don't mind being in the company of folks I don't know (I'm pretty chatty!).

Did I mention I also learned to play Craps?

At some point I noticed that Susan was mostly introducing me as her "friend," or as "not an Air Traffic Controller," but also on occasion as her daughter's "Vice Principal." I gently reminded her that not everyone wants to be reminded of Poor Choices Made While Adolescent, of which I am symbolic.

Her eyes got wide. "Oh," she shook her head, "Not here. These guys love women in authority. They'll ask if you have a paddle. And also if you can wear a uniform while you swat them."

We had a good laugh about that.

But then later, when she walked me out, we were stopped at the door by three guys/friends of hers who had, perhaps, spent a wee bit of time by the keg. With a glint in her eye, she introduced me as her daughter's V.P.

"I'll take detention!" one of them shouted with glee. And the rest of them launched into various sophomoric versions of Ooooooooooooh make me behave. Please, Vice Principal.

I'm busy tomorrow night, or I'd go back.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom

It seems true to me that I love my mother even more now that I, too, am a parent. Perhaps it's empathy, that I better understand what it is to be a mother. More likely it's that my mother's mothering of me has new dimensions and feels so crucial and tender since I've had children.

Since becoming a mommy, I found I need my mommy even more. And I'm lucky she's here, close, so very available to me and my family and my children. It's impossible to articulate how that feels: perhaps like deep limitless gratitude, all the time. And a little like worship.

I wrote this poem for my mother after the birth of my first daughter (incidentally, I submitted it to a magazine for possible publication, and received a very kind REJECTION letter in return).

I love you, Mom.

Perennials

In winter when the ground lay cold and fallow,
we parted earth and nestled a bulb within.
You found the empty seed packets
and a trowel, loamy with hope.

You watched as in spring the ground swelled with promise, and green shoots—petals pledging to unfold, a bud concealing bloom’s hues—
burst gently from the soil,
slowly arching sunward.
You spoke to me of climate zones and the wisdom of the land, of letting roots and rain commingle, free from fumbling human hands—
gardening, to you, as familiar as green grass and blue sky.

Ripe summer produced our blossom, sweet and small and
named for you,
a flower in a garden you still water with counsel.
A stem extends and leaves proliferate
as we prune cautiously,
striving to remember our own cultivation.

You, Master Gardener, nurture me anew in the nurturing of another,
the perennial love
of flower to blossom to bud.

The First Day of the Rest of Her Life

My friend Susan flew in from across the country last night for work, and in hopes of finding her missing daughter, who ran away four months ago. She hasn't heard from her since.

Today, her daughter was found and delivered to a safe haven. Today, she begins the long journey of recovery.

Happy Mother's Day, Susan.

Mixed Messages

The principal and I were having lunch on the quad today with a student who was restricted to campus after too many late arrivals after lunch (and sometimes not returning to school at all...).

I asked where her boyfriend was, since he, too, had lost the privilege of off-campus lunch.

"He should be here in a minute," she replied.

And then she added that her boyfriend had just sent a text message to her father, accidentally, landing on her name in his cell phone contacts list and not noticing the "dad" part at the end.

"I love you, Baby," he wrote.

"Thanks," responded the girl's dad, "But I don't know how my wife would feel about that..."

Adventures in the 'hood

Snapshot: the end of a fatherless weekend, and the girls and I are feeling it on a Sunday evening. I have the idea of taking them to a shoe store, so that my eldest daughter can choose the shoes she wants to wear and therefore Be Happy about them every day when I ask her to put them on.

But she is not in a cooperative mood. I add the suggestion of dinner in a restaurant, and she appears interested for a moment...and then resumes Driving Me Nuts, alternately diving off the couch and composing chorales of giddy shrieks with her little sister. Even the dog looks plaintive and in need of a break.

An hour later I announce We Are Getting Out Of The House. We Are Taking The Dog For A Walk. My daughters rally, despite themselves. But at some point while slipping on her second shoe, it occurs to my four-year-old to want to execute Plan A: Shoe Store and Restaurant.

She begins whining. She begins crying. She begins repetitive chanting:

"PLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAASE, Mommy!!! I want to goooooooooooooooooo..."

I am in a zen parenting place so I calmly lock the door behind us, leash in one hand, little sister's in the other, and begin the march around the block while firmly shaking my head and reiterating that That Option Is No Longer On The Table.

The four-year-old trails behind us, alternately sobbing indignantly and screaming at me. I nod at neighbors we pass, explaining that "Seventy-five percent of us are feeling GREAT!"

We circle to our house. Little Sister looks disappointed and heads to the curb, prepared to cross the street again.

"Want adventure, Mommy!" she declares.

Warding off another round of rebellion, I lead her to the door, promising, "We can have an adventure in our own house, sweetie."

Big Sister, done crying for now but brimming over with Resentment and Cold Malice and a firm desire to encamp me on the opposing side in the Mommy-Daughter Wars, turns to her and hisses, "NO, Sister. NO! There are NO adventures in THIS HOUSE!"

Big MacChristian Soldiers

I have enjoyed hearing the observations (and watching the antics) of Christian Garzone, a crew member of the USS Nimitz featured on Carrier. He's funny, articulate, and wise. Though I suspect our politics wouldn't converge often, a comment he made on the military, religion, and our influences abroad resonated with me:

"Do I think of ourselves as Christian soldiers? Yeah, we are, in a way. But do I think we're imposing Christianity into the Middle East...? No, I don't.

I think we're imposing our culture...which incorporates Christianity, but incorporates McDonald's a little more."