A Tribute

The County-Jerry and Rex (year unknown)

Travelinma is 10 years old today.  Ten years ago, my friend Jeff Kirlin encouraged me to begin a photoblog.  He had started one and was having lots of fun.  Having just returned to Maine following my first trip to Costa Rica, I had a slew of really great shots. Exotic location plus perfect lighting equals engaging photography, right?  So, on May 7, 2007 I posted a guest photo of a questzal taken with my camera (Panasonic-pocket type) by Ricardo the guide that led us into the Rain Forest on a search for the bird and other creatures that showed up like a sloth.

I had thought of myself as a writer until sometime in high school when the
English teacher marred by piece with a red pen. He offered little encouragement and frankly, I was a bit angry and discouraged. My image of myself as a writer was tentative. In college, my professor Jay Hoar who was a Civil War buff and writer helped me as we wrote volumes and read and read. When my twins were two, Jerry supported me in applying to Stonecoast Writing Retreat.  Lasting a week or two, that experience changed my life.  At that point, I hadn't done much writing beyond professional pieces like IEP and Assessment Reports as part of my teaching job until my youngest brood could fend for themselves.  Again encouragement from a friend Lynn Bonsey led me to the Maine Writer's and Publishers Alliance and my mentor, Susan Hand-Shetterly.  Without nudges, Travelinma would not exist as it is today.

For a long time, I continued to photograph my life, but the desire to marry image and words gnawed at they thirst to express myself in ways beyond photography.  Travelinma chronicles family-in good times and in challenging moments.  Travelinma seeks answers.  Travelinma shows the evolution of a woman who rediscovers herself with every new day.  Travelinma supports those dealing with loss.  Travelinma shows the frailty and the uncertainty of life, as well as the possibilities.  Travelinma records love.

Travelinma is likely to outlive me. Just think of that! Depending upon the technological format that my grandchildren will encounter, it is possible that they will learn about their grandparents and their aunts and uncles living during this time.  On that day in May a decade ago, never did I imagine that a blog, my blog would mean so much.

Happy 10th birthday to my creation, Travelinma.

The Freedom to Create

I ran my hand across the bolts of fabric organized by color and arranged by shade as I walked down the aisle; batik prints and patterns, some metallic-really works of art.  Up and down I walked, pausing to admire and breathe deeply.  I got the same exact feeling I get at Art Museums, one of peace, serenity and a connection to everything possible.

Getting lost on Pinterest is easy, but I had chosen a small project with fat quarters that I could sew by hand.  My artsy daughter and I headed for the table with the fat quarters.  A knack for color and what fabrics may work together, she offered set after set of possibilities.  Soon I was headed out of the store with a pair of scissors (I immediately marked them with a Sharpie: FABRIC), straight pins, a pin cushion and a floral fabric with coordinating colors. You can tell I am not an avid "fabric-ator."

With a cup of tea nearby, and Netflix I sewed and sewed without expectations for a timeline or quality. I thought of my grandmother, sewing throughout the day tackling one by one the items in her mending basket.  This was out of necessity and probably satisfaction, but not pleasure. Fortunately, I am free to create and have fun. These days I am working hard enjoying the process and not stressing about an end product. Perfectionism gone. My origami bag/lunch bag will be a work of art.

Living

"Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough."

—Emily Dickinson

This morning my niece and I sat quietly in her backyard.  A warm breeze brushing against us, birds perched awaiting their turn to feed and our ears opened to their joyous song. After breakfast we meditated.  The focus of our meditation was finding inspiration.

This routine has helped ground me and reconnect with joy.  There is little responsibility here while visiting.  I am at peace.  How can I find inspiration and joy when I return bombarded by stress and responsibility? It is the inspiration that feeds my connection with Spirit.  It is indeed my lifeblood.  

I have been reading some essays by Andre Dubus.  He speaks of Sacrament. He writes of his little kitchen. He  is making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for his daughters from the confines of his wheelchair. He has mastered maneuvering this tiny space. Clearly, he struggles with the fact that he can no longer walk, but throughout the book he discovers all that he can do to prove that he is living.    This is Sacrament.  Could it be called Grace?  

Life is a gift; nonetheless I must remind myself of this everyday.  I find joy in the inspiration that comes from creating.  I must remember that I too am a Divine creation.

The Creative Spirit

I wonder. How do I routinely embody the powers of collective creativity when alone?  For a few years now I have been cultivating my creative self through word and image while harnessing the energies of others when I have the opportunity.  Sometimes when I am alone, I have the mindset that I am alone.  Alone, struggling at times to faithfully put myself through the paces of writing something worthy.  Seems like I am knotted up a bit binding me tightly in twisted thinking.  Am I ever really alone?  Isn’t it through the pairing of the Divine and art that I have something going? And is it not the Divine that I am accessing when I create in the company of others?

There is a slight breeze that runs across my bare arms.  Shadows dance on the patio floor. My niece Erin nearby is sketching while I write and contemplate the creative spirit. This is a gift for which I am forever grateful.

Faith

“Think of yourself as an incandescent power, illuminated and perhaps forever talked to by God and his messengers.” ― Brenda Ueland

When I came upon this quote today, it struck me so, that I read it over and over.  As a young kid, (wait who am I kidding) even as an adult, writing has not been easy. In 6th grade I wanted to write well.  Sitting at the small oak desk in my upstairs bedroom where it was quiet, I wrote a few words on a loose-leaf paper.  Dissatisfaction crumpled the paper into a tight ball and hurled it across the room.  This was repeated over and over until I collapsed in a heap of despair and anger. With gritted teeth, I tried again only to leave my room defeated, carrying a waste paper basket full of unwritten words.

Only recently have I been able to trust that the words will come. Faith is about the search for truths.  Isn’t writing about truth too?  No wonder art is worship.

i Write Sometimes

I shift in the chair.

Lean forward.

Backward.

Eyes opened.

Closed.

Hoping to

Dislodge

The words packed in my head,

No such

Luck.

Happy

                                                     -Barbara Keene (Graphite, Watercolors) 3/17/14

Why do I do it?  I wonder as I push the tiny brush around the paper.   I have no formal training. The results are not always pleasing either.    Holding a paint brush, a graphite pencil or a ballpoint pen to paper does something to me emotionally.  I am happy.

Against darkness I push the heavy carved wooden doors opening to sunshine.  The outside seems all the more brighter compared to the dark, solemn corners of the church.  Parishioners stream out and onto the granite steps squeezing passed me, some making gentle contact. Suddenly the humming that vibrates within turns into song. Church is over.  I am singing and I don’t care who hears me.  Adults mingled in small groups down the steps and onto the large area leading to the curb.  Small children shrieked while they raced playing tag, running in and out of the crowd. If only I could sing.  Always. Forever.

In my decades on this earth, there have been periods of my life which have been disappointing and have filled me with anguish and sorrow.  Emotions have weighed me down and kept me there.

As I push the paint brush and pigment along the paper, I think of Sundays when I sang.  Actively creating keeps me alive.    It is the process, not the final product that makes the difference.  I don’t sing much anymore, my voice cracks, idle.  Mostly, writing has become my song and sometimes, I drag out the sketchbook and find myself deep in the creative process.  Humming-a song comes to mind and I elevate to song and find myself happy.

Realizing Potential

This post  may appear to be all about writers and the challenges that they meet, yet it conceivably  appeal to any individual who is trying to capitalize on their full potential whether they be an athlete, a mechanic, a fashion designer or a doctor.  Love what you do and work at it. (I am not sure why the formatting is off and I cannot seem to fix it.  I hope the short lines will not detract from the message.)

I have an inferiority complex that may very well destroy me. My perception of myself changes

daily depending upon how firmly my feet land on the floor as I get out of bed. And with that, I rise

as an over analyzer, forever questioning myself and the world about me. Good mother? Bad

mother? Spiritual being? Imposter? Writer or not?

A few months ago, life happened and I stopped writing and ceased posting to my blog after nine

months of daily writing and posting. Just like that. I stopped. I became consumed in nursing my

son to health after major surgery and supporting another as he transitioned to another state, far

away from us for the first time in ten years. Kids are resilient, I think it was me that did all the

shuffling and adjusting.

One month turned to two months. I became restless, edgy and a bit frightened. Would I ever be

able to regain my stance as a writer and a blogger? Is writing a phase that holds no passion or

gusto in my life? Who the hell am I and what do I really want in life?

A month into a university course on writing and mentoring writers, I still sputter and write with

many false starts. The online community has not motivated me to consistently create. Right

now the writing mentor, needs inspiration. So, I turn to a classic collection of essays on writing,

that is Bradbury’s Zen†in†the†Art†of†Writing†(1996.) Desperately, I seek a lasting fire that will burn

away all doubts. Tall order? Yes.

Bradbury reminds that a writer needs to love the work. Passion, love and fun fuel the flame. So I

question: Do I hold passion in my writing life? The answer is not always. Will the passion, love

and fun come with the discipline that is necessary to write volume daily? Am I destined to write

short little posts and sometimes a few verses of poetry? Does fear hold me back from my

potential? Bradbury suggests, “Writing at least a 1,000 words daily.” (p.15) My lack of discipline

is evident in my failed attempts to maintain weight loss, exercise and write everyday. Is that a

fair comparison? I think so. Writing does sustain me. It feeds my creative self and gives me a

voice. Do I have it in me to care for myself my physical, emotional and creative self? That is a

hard one. I struggle as I busy myself taking care of others. But Bradbury, the mentor states, “To

fail is to give up.” (p.146) I cannot give up. Most importantly he notes, “(Writing) reminds us that

we are alive and that it is a gift and a privilege, not a right.” (p. xii) I mustn’t screw it up.

One technique that worked for Bradbury was to simply start the day with a list of nouns that

came to mind. From this he chose one and wrote at length. He seemed to have an incredible

memory, but mine is shaky at best. I wonder if this unearthing of memories came from the

discipline of writing volume each day? He discovered while questioning his worth, “...thinking

myself bankrupt, ignorant, unnoticing, I wind up with….plays, essays, poems, and a novel…I was

rich and didn’t know it. We all are rich and ignore the buried fact of accumulated wisdom.” He

adds, “We never sit anything out.” (p. 120) Further, “Quickness is truth. The faster you blurt, the

more swiftly you write, the more honest you are.” (p.13) Bradbury believes that, “eventually

quantity will make for quality.” (p. 144)

To feed the muse, Bradbury emphasizes that, “...we must have always been hungry about life.”

There is that passion, that love that zest that will feed the writer. Can I sustain a hunger a

passion? I think so. Synthesizing the wisdom that Bradbury shares with what I have come to

discover about myself is that the key to my writing life is to continue to keep a Gratitude Journal.

This is a repository of snippets of tastes, sights, sounds and memories in my life that may

otherwise go unnoticed. I am simply recording my passion, my hunger for my life, my world. It

is when I go about my day with my eyes opened to the blessings that I have in my life, that I can

notice the hunger I have for my story, my unique take on the world. Bradbury outlines the

importance of: WORK (daily volume writing, subsequent drafting), RELAXATION (trusting the

creative flow) and DON’T THINK (just do, write swiftly, blurt thoughts onto the page.)

Interestingly, Bradbury grew as a writer throughout his career with the help of many mentors. He

makes mention all through the book about how particular publishers, editors and others helped to

shape the future of his writing life by recognizing the potentiality in Bradbury in ways other than

how he defined himself. For instance, he never saw himself as a playwright, but became one

with encouragement from another. No matter how seasoned a writer you are, it is nearly

impossible to venture forth without the clear vision of another. Everyone must move about this

world with mentors.

“It is a wise writer who knows his own subconscious...not only knows it but lets it speak of the

world as it and it alone has sensed it and shaped it to its own truth.” (p. 152) Do I have the

courage to feed my truth? Time will tell.

Trusting the Silence

This poem is in response to my inability in remembering detail.  I have forgotten the sound of my mother's voice, moments when my dying friend admitted to fear and the number of steps to my grandmother's apartment.   I want to so desperately to remember everything, and as I  frantically try to recall, I remember nothing.   I must trust the silence.



Hues of color bleed through the darkness,
When not long ago,
Pricks of light shone,
Through black, nothingness.

Fresh memories empty into
Silence.
Silence reveals the
Extra-ordinary
Existence of
Wind
And
Bird song.

Through the Brambles

                                                                       

Lately, I have been thinking about how I handle stress, disappointment and life's surprises-of which I have had many.  Grit?  It is always a question as to how much I have.  It seems that I have more when I have accessed my resources and supports than when my reserves for "curve balls" has been depleted by lack of self-attention.  It has long been my contention that not only do the daily habits of a spiritual being like praying, meditating and engaging in kindnesses support each soul, but for me, creative pursuits contribute greatly to my well-being.  That is why I write.  It sounds corny, but it feeds my soul.

Writing for the purpose of posting to my blog has become a habit.  The hard part is working on other writing projects that require long term effort, persistence and facing the fact that I don't always know what I am doing as I tread on new territory.  My motivation for my current project is to honor a strong woman who became my dear friend, an unlikely pairing. Part of what thwarts me is the fear that my words will not do her justice.  Part of my fear is that my memory of her remains unclear, foggy. When I think of this project there is a mix of excitement, apprehension and pure fear.  It is easier to think plenty about this project than to plunge ahead and give it a go.  I am hopeful that with all my supports at the ready and by creating a plan for persistent effort, I will find my way through the brambles.

The Nature of Things

This morning, every flat surface in the house seemed to have a teenage boy snuggled under a blanket.  What a wondrous way to wake, so we set about to make them all feel at home.  Pounds and pounds of bacon sizzled in the pan sending a lingering wake-up smell in the house and a waffle recipe that multiplied by five times for all these extra mouths, plus the adult children and significant others who normally join us each Sunday.  The house was filled with food and people.

It was cold and drizzly and some folks in the state woke to snow.  My trusty Sue-Baru would get us to Bangor (running some errands) and then to the Augusta area to visit with my dear aunt.  This trip was long over-do and I was able to catch up on the welfare of all my cousins who have been lost in the decades of adulthood.  Photos along with my aunt's commentary provided me with a glimpse of their lives with children and grandchildren since my younger wild days of chasing my boy cousins for hugs and kisses.

Later in the afternoon, as I sat on a bench in the middle of a large square room (facing what I thought at first was a self-portrait taken with a camera), I was in awe that this piece of art that was two stories tall was in fact a tapestry.  My daughter, who is an artist told me that this particular artist is confined to a wheelchair and has designed a lift to hoist himself up to meet eye to eye with the line he is working on.  Such tedious work. It puts a ridiculous touch on my little self portrait project and my hesitation to share art depicting myself.

Today after the visit with my aunt and a brief stop at Colby College's Museum of Art, I realize that my life is full of possibilities: the human connection spawning love and the divine connection unfurling creativity and love.    I sometimes fail to recognize these.   Both experiences were of a Divine nature.  Love and creativity.  'Can't miss.

Loving Through Images

Thumbing through stacks of photos while visiting my childhood home recently, reminded me just how important it is to preserve and treasure family history through images.  I found images of my father as a pudgy five year old in knickers with a pageboy haircut. In another photo my mother at about the same age, smiles in the direction of the camera the blue of her eyes lost in the black and white processing.  There were decks of newer photos too.  My mother was the photographer,  that is when she remembered the camera. She captured mostly holidays or special occasions.  The composition of all her her photos were problematic, the subjects rested on the bottom eighth of the photo showing the tops of heads, while most of the square print was wall and ceiling.  Standing in the middle of my old bedroom, holding the image of Auntie and Gene with their smiles running off the edge of the photo made me smile. Suddenly, I recalled that despite protests (my mother painstakingly took forever to snap a "bad" photo) she continued to be the family photographer.  When I was old enough, I  wrangled the camera from her. From then on I was absent from family photos.

I have a friend that takes self-portraits almost daily.  I stare her image. How does she do that? I couldn't. I thought. She holds all that she has become until that moment in the image. All the joys, the lessons and the pain.  I realize for the most part, I remain absent from photographs.  Although said to be photogenic, I do not like to like to have my photo taken.  Hyper-critical, whenever I am forced to be in front of a lens I hide behind the torso of another and peek. Just little bits of me show.

What would happen if I began the practice of a self portrait a day?  Would I come to discover the light within and learn to accept myself as I am?  Does how I look really have much to do with all the "inside" work?  I could learn to love.

One day my daughters may discover the series of self-portraits and hold them tightly and view them as gifts to be treasured.

Lesson in Brevity

This headshot was taken by my 13 year old.  She has taken some of my most favorite photos as she has a good eye for composition.  Along with the headshot is a mini biography three to five sentences in length.  It was not easy. Comments are welcome.  Here goes:

Barbara Keene is Trenton Elementary School's Reading Recovery/Title 1 Teacher and a mother of eight.  As a 2013 Maine Writing Project Fellow, she is among the newest Teacher Consultants. Barbara enjoys long walks in the forests of Maine, strolls along the Atlantic shore and paddling at Donnell's Pond with her dog Rex. Her writing is fueled by her love of EB White whose writing makes the ordinary extraordinary.

Taming

Construction delays are commonplace in these parts sometimes causing delays of an hour or more.  As I passed the 'Caution Construction Ahead' sign today on the Crooked Road, an audible sigh escaped, I tightened my grip on the wheel in preparation for what may become a long, long line of built-up traffic.  What I did find as I inched my way toward the dual stop and slow sign was a playful flagger.  Passing slowly, I yelled out the open window, "Nice moustache!" I smiled.  My son chuckled, "I was thinkin' the same thing." A little unexpected lightness to what must be a trying job at times, taming the tigress behind the wheel.

In a Funk

Maybe this should say:  i try to write.

I am in a funk as a writer.  Meditation hasn’t helped to unearth anything worthy and certainly nothing notable.  Breathing slowly and deeply, repeating the mantra, Trust the process.  Something will come, simply shakes my internal editor from a long sleep, rousing her to action. Out comes just a lot of blah-blah, blah-blah, and more blah-blah-at least that is my perspective.

Sitting at my father’s knee, as he rustled the Biddeford Journal each afternoon from his well-used armchair, the coffee table would often be scattered with hand written notes from my mother and from my father.   I would sit for hours and try to emulate cursive. The slant, the large loops and curves would often elude me.  The newspaper would fold on his lap and my father would patiently model each letter.  Over and over I would practice. He would offer critiques of my form and precision and often model over and over for me.  Perfection was what I was after.  Often, it was frustration that I found.

When I was much younger, even before I entered school, I remember writing in a wave of loops. Proudly, I would read my writing as though performing before a large crowd- I would read the message to my father.  There was a sense of discovery and accomplishment and we both celebrated the approximation, my father clapping loudly.   Just what happened to dampen my curiosity and playful nature, I do not know.  As an adult writer, I must prepare myself for play and practice.  This does not come naturally and I am continuing to explore what works for me.  Some days, meditation works.  Other days, I go for a walk, paint or simply go about my day with the faith that something will well up from within.   Sometimes, I think I try too hard and it is like attempting to force a sausage through a keyhole, it just doesn’t work and the flames of anxiety and frustration burn brightly scorching my creativity.

For weeks, now I have wanted to offer a public apology, but I guess if you read other blogs, you have come to know that some posts are of better quality than others.  It’s a given.   Interestingly, I suspect that this reminder is more for me than for my readers.  Meanwhile, I will continue to cultivate a sense of discovery and curiosity toward my daily practice of writing and celebrate successive waves of loops, while we all cheer the approximations.   It sounds like it is so easy, yet it is one of the hardest things for me to do.

  

Art or Fine Art

My Chicken Art-Winter 2013

“Just what is the difference between fine art and art, dear?” a wife asks her husband.

He replies, “The only difference between fine art and art is the price.” As I walked from tent to tent witnessing the talent of artist after artist at the Mystic Arts Festival today, I approached each with a barometer of whether I thought that I was capable of creating similar offerings.  Truthfully, I think I overestimate myself as an artist.

I have always aspired to be an artist.  In 4^th grade, I paid a quarter a week to take art lessons with Sister Mary Peter.  In 6^th grade, Sister Mary Christina’s class practiced a precise replica of lines and exact measures under her direction. Perfectionism and impatience with myself continued through high school and college killing any creativity that may have bloomed. I was never satisfied.

Working through creative inhibitions is not an easy task.  Despite my desire to impart a growth mindset and continue to develop as an artist, the struggle continues. As a writer, I have slowly come to understand that with the few decent pieces of writing comes a slew of really bad writing.  So it is with art, as well. 

Recognizing my creative self and approaching my practice with patience and playful discovery will help that young 9 year old live her dream.

Fear and Trust

         Most days I wake up with urgency, there is so much left to do.  I am not talking housework, but people to be with, places to go, books to read, paint to be splashed upon canvas and important things to say through writing. There is so much to discover.

         As I try to rein in time that seems to move much too fast during these summer weeks, I collect images. Early morning coffee with my husband surrounded by growing color in the garden, fast swims avoiding a face to face after the sighting of  “a snapping turtle with big teeth,” the describer holding her curved arms in front to show the creature’s size- much larger than a basketball hoop.  This makes us swim faster. Lazy afternoons on the porch, everyone reading the warm breeze and carefree hours infuse us with gratitude. Lobster bakes, bumpy boat rides to “our secluded beach” the water warm and rimmed in a curve of pink granite nuggets.

         The hours gifted devoted to writing have been precious.  Sometimes, I wake in fear the urgency gone, wondering if my words are worthy.  I stare at a white monitor, breathing deeply, searching for trust that words will come. Eventually. 

         Living is an act of trust.  All the creative avenues, drawing, painting, capturing life through photographic images, and writing have helped me to loosen my grip over trying to control my life.  If only, I can be open to the gifts.  I do not want to miss a thing.  Creative expression is a spiritual act, one that puts you in touch with the Universe and trust.  Fear and trust cannot coexist.

The Piano Man And Other Matters

     Through course work designed by the National Writing Project, today I participated in a Writing Marathon.  Simply put, you write for extended periods in varied locations over a predetermine length of time.  The first  I completed  was held last February when my virtual classmates and I did this at the same time and then shared our writing.  Today my team and I wrote on the University of Maine campus at Fogler Library, the campus greenhouse and at the bustling Student Union.  Here is my writing completed at the third location-the Student Union.  I just wrote this:

     Hugely distracted, I was concerned when I plunked myself on the couch beside Bailey and Joyce.  A group of Food Service Ladies talked loudly about grocery shopping, JC Penney’s a “six dollar deal.”  After five or more minutes, I had nothing to prove that I had even been part of this third portion of the marathon, when a burly young guy with arm tattoos headed for the piano.  Our eyes locked. I guess he didn’t see the classic “deer in the headlights look.”  I can’t concentrate, I screamed inside, you are NOT going to start playing the piano, are you.  So much for telepathy. 

     Of course, this is all about ME.  My needs.  My course.  My expectations.  It is all about ME. As the guy in the ball cap hurries past his gray curls glint of his age.  I wonder is he a student?  A father? An employee? And then the fifth lunch lady joins the group, “Can I join you girls?” If they are all out here eating their lunch, who is tending the operation of the food court?  I thought.   The cashier who took the time to use my name yesterday after a quick glance at my debit card, laughs heartily and listens intently with her eyes. She claps for the piano guy.  She has happy eyes that turn up at the temples.  A people person, I can tell.  To connect.  Thank you for the entertainment. Don’t forget your shirt sweetie!  See you tomorrow. The lady with the happy eyes yells across the way.  The other ladies silent. They must gather like this everyday at the same time those five lunch ladies and the piano guy.  It’s funny.  I sat here at first not wanting to connect.  Taking the time to watch and listen, I had no other choice than to connect.  

Opportunity Missed, Sort Of

At 4 A.M. I realized that something was wrong.  Why had I not come to the realization earlier before I scrunched my pillow under my right ear with my body curved, ready for sleep? It is ironic that on the eve of my big writing course at the university that I would forget it.  Deciding to take the day off from academic matters, I picked up my Kindle and read for the pure pleasure of it.  Stretched out on the couch at camp with loons screeching in the background I began.  The author weaves quite a tale that hooked me from the first page.  Late into the night I read, until I realized that soon the alarm would sound.  I read with a critical eye and ear.  This writer has a command of words, but it is the development of characters that has me up early in the morning wondering about the fate of a village with a myriad of players that seem so real, I can't get them out of my head.  I just hope I have a little time to read at break, during lunch, between frantic preparation of impending presentations. The sacrifice of one writer's pursuit (blogging) was worth the discovery of a gem. I highly recommend Snow Fence Road by Phyllis Edgerly Ring.  Run to your local bookstore or order it through Amazon.  Great read.  I don't want it to end.

To Create

Create.  My world is forever changed.