Goodbye, For Now

                                                                         Photo taken by Sean Mokler

"I think too much and feel too much," I related to a friend today as we sat  on the East Promenade beach.  Hours earlier, I had said goodbye to my niece.  Frankly, I hate goodbyes.  I attended Erin's birth.  Having taken hundreds of photos of the newborn and showing them off to family and friends after she was born, it is no wonder that people did not confuse me as her mother.  We have always been close. I love being an auntie.  She is all grown up, married to a great guy and living in a beautiful house with two sweet pups.  We are both teachers, but our common passions go beyond education.  We love art, writing, walking, playing games and we have an intense love for the same people.  A major problem is we live seven hours away, so we hardly ever see each other.  Our annual visit is the chance to continue to make memories and remember how very lucky we are to be family. Goodbye for now, until next year Erin.

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.

  

Imagine

Imagine a world,

Songs of love and peace

A perpetual loop,

In

Our

Heads.

Some would think

It

Propaganda,

Others

Revolutionary.

Let’s try.

We have

Nothing

To Lose.

Borrowing Birds

One Good Reason Birds Stay Clear

Despite the threat of two resident felines, the birds abundantly surround my niece’s yard.  The tree just outside the second story window is lush with shiny green leaves and little sparrows that flit from branch to branch waiting for their turn at the nearby feeders.  The cats in my house outnumber the birds that have visited our birdfeeder outside our bedroom window.  Every few years, the feeder returns to the spot or we try a different location, expecting different results, but the birds remain high in the tree tops far away from the house.   Joyfully, I hear evidence of their presence a distance away.

When I was about eleven years old, and my sister was an infant, my mother began studying birds.  The double-sided bird feeder hung just outside the window and nearby, inside the house were binoculars and a Peterson’s Guide to Birds in the Northeast and a small black binder with journal pages where my mother recorded bird sightings.  She made a few visits to the Scarborough Marsh with Audubon members noting encounters with the Great Blue Heron and the Snowy Egret. 

Prior to my mother’s interest in birds, I was able to identify a blue jay and a robin.  Under her tutelage, I began my careful observation, noting various shaped beaks, markings and sizes of birds.  The most elementary knowledge of the difference between males and females had previously eluded my need to know.  My mother’s enthusiasm and persistence to learn more about birds and pass this knowledge to me helped to cultivate my interest in nature, and now that I think,  this was the beginning of my interest in quietly observing and noting what I see.  

Somehow, I wish that my kitties and the wild birds would be able to co-exist. Right now, I will enjoy their song and make visits to other people’s houses (borrowing birds), where the cats can inhibit their true nature or the birds can fiercely overcome their fear of felines. 

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.

Dancing With My Brother

We play the dance,

My brother and me,

Clumsily,

He links elbows with independence,

While I watch,

Wanting to help,

Offering.

He stumbles

Through

The asphalt parking lot

Then silently,

He reaches

For my hand,

The hand

He refused

Moments

Ago,

And he never

Lets go.

Labor

Former Mill in Biddeford

At 11 years of age,  Caroline McCarthy began working in the Biddeford Textile Mill.

(Caroline McCarthy Scott was my dear grandmother.)