Finding Some Calm in the Storm

 

I don’t want to give in to the vortex of evil swirling around in this country. I’m aware and outraged. It is traumatic. I  understand everyone has their own ways to deal with it and while some are shouting and violent, I have to look for peaceful paths. 

I’ve had a year of physical issues that led to surgery and months of recovery. I’m learning to lean into what is best for my body, heart and mind. Walking in the park has helped me through sickness, surgery and life changes. And it’s helping me now to deal with the mess in the big White House. 

Stay rooted.  

That’s the message from my tree in the woods. As a child, my place of safety and calm was the woods nearby our suburban neighborhood. I sat leaning up against the tree for hours feeling at home and safe under its branches. I still visit ‘my trees’ in our nearby park, leaning in and listening to their wisdom. 

When I come home, I write those words down as a way to guide my day. Sometimes the words are a call to action. Other times, they are words of support and encouragement to keep me going. Right now, I think it’s important for you and me to find ways to stay rooted in truth and integrity. 

Mud.

Even as a child, I knew the power of mud. I’d sit in our yard and dig up the brown earth and hold it in my hands. If I had some water, I’d mix up mud soup. Other times, I’d dig deeper into the dirt where it was cool and firm, squish it between my hands and make mounds of elf houses. 

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that I still play with mud. It wasn’t my first career choice which was a writer in advertising. But my love of art and working with my hands lead me, once again, to mud. Working with clay, learning to throw objects and shape sculptures is my happy place. It just goes to show you, child’s play shows us our way in life. 

Right now, I need something to calm me during this stormy time. Maybe you do too. What did  you do that was ‘child’s play’? What was your happy place? Where did you feel safe?

Maybe it’s time to lean against a tree and ask. 

And find your own calm in the storm. 

  

Branching Out

 

All around me are signs of new life. The branches on my Camellia are filling with bright red flowers. There are new buds on my hydrangeas. And walking with my grandson, he pointed out daffodils, hyacinth and crocus blooms around the neighborhood. 

Inside, my Lily vases are filled with pussy willows and pink tulips. I love making my Lily vases but I also love seeing them bloom with all the different colors of the seasons from fall leaves to summer roses. 

Signs of Life. 

Since my major surgery, I’ve had a lot of difficult days. I expected the physical pain but what I didn’t expect was emotional pain. As my body healed, I got stronger and my mind cleared. But the emotions that bubbled to the surface were unexpected and upsetting. What I’ve come to find out, thanks to helpful friends who have gone through difficult surgeries, is that this is another phase of healing. 

As one new friend put it, “I just kept saying to myself, I’m alive. I didn’t die.”

So now, when the trauma hits me, I tell myself, “I’m alive.” And I look around me for other signs of life. Little leaves on my rose bushes and buds on the hydrangeas and daffodils. 

My clay is growing too. 

In the last few weeks, new growth is happening in my studio. Sparked by an idea I saw on Substack about growth patterns, I got out my clay. The words, branching out kept coming back to me. As I wedged and slapped and rolled the clay, I just let my hands lead me to form a circle. 

I pressed my favorite textures in and around it. Rolled out some coils and added them to the circle. Some fit and some didn’t but I know that’s ok, it’s all part of the process. The first one didn’t turn out exactly how I thought it would. But, again, that’s ok. 

The second one, I thought I had more of a plan based on a picture I saw. But again, my fingers lead the way and another circle appeared with what looked to me like flowers and limbs but then morphed into something like a Celtic knot motif. 

Another day, I looked around me studio and saw a watercolor painting of flowers I did whenI couldn’t do clay because I was recovering from surgery. I wondered. What would it look like in clay? Could I even do it? And why would I? Well, again, my hands got busy and something new did emerge from the clay. 

I guess my hands knew what my head didn’t, yet. 

I’m not dead. 

I’m alive. 

And like everything else around me, I’m branching out. 

No, Mr. Trump, You Can’t Have My Cookies

Once upon a time, I went to a small Catholic school where the nuns ruled. We wore uniforms and went to church before school. The nuns were very strict. If you did something against the rules, you were punished. On Fridays, the kid who got in trouble the most that week was spanked in the office with the intercom on so the whole school could hear the punishment. 

There was no cafeteria. We all ate at our desks in our classrooms. The nun would leave to get her lunch while an older boy sat at the nun’s desk eating his lunch. His job was to make sure we were quiet and stayed in our seats. 

As we all know, power corrupts. 

Even a young boy can let power go to his head. Our 8th grade lunch ‘monitor’ would walk up and down the rows of desks looking over everyone’s lunches. Was he looking out for us to make sure we all had enough food to eat? No. 

He was looking to see who had the best dessert. He was especially fond of chocolate cookies. I only got 1 or 2 small cookies in my lunches. It was either Fig Newtons or Oreos and I looked forward to that small treat everyday. 

Give me your cookies or else. 

If he liked someone’s lunch treat, he would take it. If you got upset, he’d threaten to tell the nun you misbehaved during lunch. Then the nun would send you to the coat closet while everyone else went out to recess. 

I usually hid my cookies under my sandwich, but this particular day, I forgot. I didn’t think he’d see them, but he did. He stopped and demanded I give him my cookies. 

I said, “No, you can’t have my cookies.” He said, “Fine, I’ll just tell Sister you were bad.” I said, “Go ahead. You still can’t have my cookies.” 

When the lunch bell rang and the nun came in, he told her I had misbehaved. She nodded and he left. I figured I’d have to spend recess in the dark coat closet. But when the nun came over to me, I got brave and told the truth. I told her that he wanted the cookies from my lunch and I when I said no, he threatened to tell her I’d been bad. 

She asked if he’d done that to anyone else and I nodded. She looked around and almost everyone nodded. She told me and rest of the class to go on out to recess. We never had that boy as our lunch monitor again. And guess who got spanked that Friday. 

Now we all have to deal with a bully. 

He doesn’t want your chocolate cookies, he wants your money. He wants the money you saved away from every paycheck for your entire life. He wants your social security money. 

He’s very rich, so why does he want our money? Power. And as we all know, power corrupts. 

What do we do? We stand up to the bully. 

No, Mr. Trump. It’s my social security. 

And No, you can’t have any of my cookies either.