Art for Just Me

Well, I'm back to making art after a wildly unsuccessful Open Studios. I have decided that I'm not going to show art anymore, for a long while. It was also physically so taxing. I am five days away from a much needed Orthopedic Clinic visit, after a scooter accident in July. So, I'm back to making. But, I'm making what I like, and making things that will probably amuse only me. This brings me happiness, and a wonderful lack of pressure. I'm going to paint, collage, sew, sculpt, carve, and anything else that strikes my fancy...

It is time to start prepping for our school's Holiday Craft Faire. So, I'm getting cup saucers ready, recycling a bag of nearly dry clay from last year. We're also going to sell some ornaments. So, those will get fired with our holiday cups/mugs. Each student makes one cup to keep (to give as a gift), and one cup to sell. Almost all of our cups are drying in my garage... 

I'm excited to make some shrines for the family creche that I inherited from my parents, and my siblings. The former creche was falling apart, but all of the figures are lovely. I hope to include them in a worthy project, or projects. Winston and Graham are studio helpers. Graham did not want to leave at the end of today's work session.

 

Floral Sculptures

I've been listening to this book, while working in the shed this week. My sister gave me the book version a while back, and I'm finally getting to it, by listening... It is a meditation on plants. It is fantastic! And, it is perfect background for carving roses, and forming wreaths. 

And now, I'm back in the house, listening to the hearings. I need some closure, and I need some consequences. It is not good to listen to this kind of information when making. Positivity is required. So, it's break time.  

 

Deep in the Mermaid Tank

I am not doing very well. School is out, and with little distraction, I'm thinking way too hard. I'm watching our country tear itself to pieces, which causes me to doom scroll for long periods of time. My heart is hurting.

One cure for depression is art. So, I've been toiling away. I've diversified into painting, basket making, ceramics, and a bit of needlework. Also, there is a lot of dog and cat snuggling. This week, I'm heading into exercise territory, but low effort because of joint pain. And, there will soon be scooter rides in nature with my sketchbook.

It's easy to lie in bed, and to feel sad about being unable to visit my dad. And, my body wants to stop moving, because it aches. I'm trying to at least read while being inactive. Also, I've been listening to some great audio books: "Braiding Sweetgrass", "These Precious Days", and "All Things Bright and Beautiful"... A new clay body in the shed is leading to constant discovery. I'm fully driving down the terra cotta road. It seems to fire better at my low temperature.

With each day, I'm striving to feel like less of a mermaid, muffled away in a glass tank. I want to hear, see, and feel. There are good days, and bad ones. Art saves.

  

 

Whose Prayers?

 

This morning, I woke up to find that performative prayer at school is now okay. 

I have been teaching for 24 years, and have always been very careful to keep my beliefs a mystery to my students. I am responsible for teaching facts. I teach math, literacy, history, science, and art. Students are very easily influenced by their teachers. And, that is why I stick to the facts. Just the facts.

I am a religious person. I pray regularly, and I always have a prayer in my heart each day, asking for help with my job. It is easy to say or do the wrong thing when working with kids. Frankly, I constantly need help, because how I conduct myself at school matters greatly.

The coach who performed his prayers on the fifty yard line was misguided. In my opinion, prayer is personal. In fact, it is so personal, that every religion has its own form of communication to God. Some prayers are chants. Some are hymns. Back in college, I took a semester of "Religions of the World". Believe me, prayer is a highly varied activity.

I grew up in a home where prayer was key. My mom got on her knees each night and prayed. My father gave us priesthood blessings. As a child, I remember overhearing my grandma ask my grandpa to pray for her, because she was having a difficult time breathing in bed one night. Eavesdropping on his prayer made me tear up; he was so earnest, and his prayer showed so much love for her. Our family prayed over our food each night. That particular prayer was not very sincere, and became almost rote. Considering my mom's cooking, we probably should have dug deeper. Seriously, I have had my prayers answered in profound, and deeply moving spiritual ways. 

So, now that the Supreme Court has decided that performative prayer at a school event is allowed, whose prayers will we say at school? Will we pray in class? Will we have a new addition to the jobs bulletin board? What about students who are atheists? 

We are a country that believes in a separation between church and state. Will I be expected to master Muslim prayers? Buddhist prayers? Taoist prayers? Will we spin a wheel to decide? 

Nope. This is pure folly. Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs, their own thoughts, and their own personal communication with God. And, that is the beauty of America.  

Funeral Talk

I want to thank my family for providing so much comfort for me at this difficult time. I especially want to thank Jana and Darryl for taking such good care of Larry in their home.

It is an honor to speak about my dad, in his role as a father. When we moved to California, my dad had a work assignment that forced him to travel constantly. He spent more time in Europe and Asia, than he did in North America. I missed him terribly. It was a rare privilege to wake up on weekend mornings, and see him at the breakfast table. I remember him coming into my bedroom one Saturday morning, and having him rub his rough whiskers against my ticklish feet, while I squealed. I remember him taking our family for hot fudge sundaes at Swenson's Ice Cream on many Sunday nights, even though we were breaking the sabbath. When he wasn't there, it felt like we all stumbled along without him. I remember being very angry when I had to attend a church "Daddy Daughter Date" with a family friend, instead of being able to go with my dad. Also, my mom seemed to be quite bitter about his work arrangement. So, it was wonderful to have him home, because it seemed to sooth everyone.

During my junior year in college, I received a surprising letter from my father. It was a formal apology for being a workaholic, and for neglecting to spend time with me during my childhood. His job was all consuming. My sister, Liz, has said that our dad is the kind of person who would get everyone to safety in a plane crash. He approached all tasks with a level of extreme intensity. And, I think that he was driven to do his best at work, and to give his all. He just couldn't help it.

After the letter, we began to slowly repair our relationship. After my mom's death, I visited him each Sunday. He took me out to lunch at one of his three favorite local restaurants, when I finished writing my weekly lesson plans at his kitchen table. It was such a pleasure to spend time with him. It was difficult for him to live alone, because he was a very social, outgoing person. He had to learn how to shop, do laundry, and how to prepare meals for himself. I coached him on how to survive as an "introvert".

When the pandemic hit, he could no longer make his daily restaurant visits, so I started buying him groceries, sanitizing them, and preparing him lunch three days a week. We would watch western movies and t.v. shows together, over glasses of Pepsi. He liked "Laramie" and "Cheyenne", but I preferred "Maverick" and "The Big Valley", with Miss Barbara Stanwyck. I had some of the best conversations with him. And, instead of thinking about him as my dad, I started seeing him as "Larry", my good friend. We shared the same blue eyes. The same potato shaped head, curly hair, and knobbly hands. My old-man doppelgänger!

My friend, Larry, has given me everything that I have.

He provided me with a college education, which enlarged my mind. Larry gave me a spiritual foundation, and showed me the example of serving others through church callings. When I wanted to switch careers, and get my teaching credential, he supported me financially, and in every other possible way. Larry made a living trust, which provided each one of his children with downpayments on our homes. As a teacher, I would not have been able to afford a house, if it hadn't been for his help. My house was a bit of a dump when I bought it. So, Larry provided me with plenty of fixer upper help. He sanded my floors, and then I varnished them. I pulled out the old sink in the bathroom, and the wall unit, and he helped me to install a pedestal sink.  When the garage door fell off during a wind storm, and landed in the driveway, he hired a crew to install a new, and definitely improved door. Larry had the electrical on my house upgraded, so that I could install a kiln in my garage. This was s dream come true. Kilns traditionally have names, and I named my kiln in his honor. He taught me how to do things, because he knew that I would need to constantly fix my 1940's era home. I still continue to add to the toolbox that he bought for me when I moved into my first apartment in San Carlos.

Whenever I talked to my dad, he always expressed the desire to help me. Each time I was in Open Studios, he called me up to say, "I wish that I could help you." This always made me laugh, as I pictured him making pinch pots in my shed. He wanted to help me when I was bogged down with report cards, or when I had to get my house painted. There was never a time when I said "goodbye" to him, that he didn't mention how he wanted to be of service. He would always say, "What can I do to make your life easier, Karen?"

On my last night with him, as he was struggling to breathe, I begged him to look out for me, to watch over me daily. It's intolerable to think that he'll leave me by myself. I think that is the hardest thing about losing my dad. He was truly the last person off of the plane, the one to guide everyone to safety. Of course, since he was a shepherd boy on his family's sheep ranch, he shepherded each of his children, and grandchildren. And, the loss of his care, and protection feels unbearable. His level of psychic intensity will live on, I believe. I know that his spirit will watch over me, because that is who he was as a father, and as a person. Always guiding from afar. And, I know that he will watch over me, because I asked him to.

Trials

We have been working to empty out and sell my childhood home. I say "we", but it really has been my siblings who have done the work. My brother has been the captain of this endeavor. My mom never threw anything away. Her cancelled checks. Plastic Easter eggs. Gas station green stamp glassware. The sacred and the profane. 

I want to publicly thank my brother for all of his hard work. He has managed to clear out the house, and to make improvements that will make the house more likely to sell.

Meanwhile, my dad has been struggling with his mental health. My sister has shepherded and supported him through his difficulties with dementia. We are all so blessed to benefit from her leadership, love, and kindness. 

Recently, my dad needed to move into a care home. My sister arranged everything. She visits him daily. She negotiates the daily difficulties.

This is not for the faint of heart, and I am weak. I could not weather this alone. I am so thankful for my siblings, and for their spouses... Pray for us all.

 

What's It All About?

 I spent last weekend at a show. A lady wearing a sweatshirt and a skirt told me that my work was too expensive. Another person told me that she and her daughter were starting to take ceramics classes, and that my work looked just like her daughter's work. It turns out that her daughter is seven years-old. So, that actually might have been a complement! I love kid work. I help my students produce their work. I'm an aider and abetter.

I didn't sell much work. I was discouraged. But, my sister helped me to gain some perspective. Makers gotta make. Making work is a drive. It keeps me sane, and makes me happy. It provides challenge, and fuels my creativity. It gives me problems to solve with great satisfaction.

I'm not going to lower my prices, because my work has to pay for itself. So, there we have it. I'm not everyone's cup of tea. But, I feel satisfied that my abilities grow with every object that I make. It's possible to look back at my old work, and to see the progression of skill, and thought. Everyone's a critic. But, I've decided to be gentle with myself for now...