The ICON

Whoo hoo, it’s my birthday week! I may be turning 46 years old, but there’s still a kid inside me who loves birthdays, whether it’s mine or somebody else’s. I hold a strong belief that for at least one day a year, everyone should have a day unto themselves: To be pampered, adored and showered with cards and gifts. In my opinion, the birthday boy or girl (regardless of age) should not to have to lift a finger. The day is supposed to be filled with pleasant surprises, thoughtful gestures and an overwhelment of love. Maybe even wear a crown or tiara.

This year, however, the University did not consult my calendar before printing the class schedule, so waaaaaah, I have to go to school. What? Usually, Groom and I reserve the week that includes my birthday and Valentine’s Day to sequester ourselves at the beach, renting the same house year after year.

We frolic on the beach, sit outside and read to our heart’s content when Oregon blesses us with our annual faux spring or stay indoors by the fire when the storms rage. Either way, it is one hundred and sixty-eight hours of heaven.

Speaking of heaven, since I’ll be otherwise engaged, I thought this week would be the perfect opportunity to share one of my short stories with you. God’s Minion once told me that I should write what I know and excavate my rich backyard for treasure. Taking her advice, I pulled on a thread of imagination.

My mind meandered one day and while drifting in the daydream, I asked myself, what might Jesus have been like as a child? Did he come with his superpowers intact or did he discover them one by one? What was it like for his mother, Mary, to raise one supernatural child while her other offspring were mere mortals? Did she sit around the playground comparing her eldest child’s development to that of other kids…?

“My son started speaking when he was three days old. He could walk by the time he was a week…” I mean, what did the other mom’s think? So I wrote a short story about a scene I could picture and it made me giggle. So without further ado, I present to you,

THE ICON

“Jesus, stop playing with your food.”

“But look mom, I’m parting the Red Sea.”

Sure enough, Mary watched as her son waved his hand over the bowl Joseph had carved, neatly dividing the contents into walls of lentil soup on both sides without spilling a drop.

In his six-year old voice, Jesus tried to sound dramatic as he quoted the Torah, “And the Lord drove the soup back with a strong east wind - ”

Joseph interrupted the display, “Son, that’s not what the Holy Scripture says, now mind your mother and quickly cover those Egyptians and their chariots back up.”

With a sigh Jesus ceremoniously withdrew his hand from hovering above the Lentil Sea and the soup returned to its normal level.

“I wanna try,” said James.

“Me too,” said Simon, and they both started huffing and puffing, trying in vain to imitate their brother. The only thing they achieved was a mess.

“That’s enough of that boys, you all go outside and play.” Joseph kissed his wife on the cheek and headed out back to his shop.

The horseplay outside suddenly became quiet, too quiet. Investigating, Mary caught sight of a new game, one she hadn’t seen before. “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Jesus, put your brother down before someone gets hurt.”

“Jude’s alright,” Jesus reassured his mother, patting her gently on the arm. Jude was suspended in mid-air, his arms crossed solemnly over his chest, floating as if asleep.

“Now,” his mother said, trying to sound firm.

“Fine.” Scrunching up his face in serious concentration, Jesus slowly lowered Jude to the ground, soft as a feather landing. Jude stood up and took a bow. The other boys clapped.

“Do me,” said James.

“Me too,” said Simon.

Mary shook her head and went back inside to clean up the lunch mess. That Angel Gabriel did not tell her everything, like how difficult it could be sometimes to raise a perfect son.

Scraping the plate of goat cheese baked with herbs, Mary glanced at her wrist and marveled at the memory. Born with a strange birthmark on the inside of her wrist, she’d been taken to a fortune-teller as a baby.

“She’s marked for unbearable heartache, this one is,” the old woman warned her mother. “Don’t let anyone see this sign or you’ll never marry her off.”

Growing up, her mother was adamant about keeping her wrist covered and made her promise she would never, ever show the omen to a living soul.

Covered wrist or no, Mary’s family almost didn’t marry her off anyway.

It was all so complicated.

That Night. Oh yes, that night. Mary still blushed whenever she thought of it. Women all over the world have a night of their own to remember, but hers…

It had happened almost seven years ago. That particular night while alone in her room, Mary began the ritual of unwrapping her wrist in the dark. She was so bored of keeping it hidden, unable to wear the noisy bangles like all the other girls or the fancy bracelet Joseph had given her at their betrothal ceremony.

Without warning, a blinding and terrifying apparition appeared in her room. This Angel, who said his name was Gabriel, told her all sorts of confusing things. What happened next, well, Mary never spoke of it, not even to her fiancé, Joseph.

Especially not to her fiancé.

In the aftermath of the scandal, Mary’s parents reminded her several times a day that a dowry had already been paid to Jacob’s son Joseph, from the House of David.

A reasonable explanation of “how she could have done this to them,” simply did not exist.

But for a fleeting moment, in between the terrifying part and all Sheol breaking loose, Mary felt entirely transformed. What an amazing dream, she thought, savoring the extraordinary feeling.

As that special night caved to the pressures of dawn, Mary started to rewrap her wrist as she’d done each morning, paranoid, lest anyone see her secret marking.

Hold on - Mary couldn’t believe her eyes. The scary birthmark on her wrist, the dark symbol that foretold her unbearable heartache was gone. She rubbed her wrist, yet the skin where the omen had been was perfectly smooth, there was no sign of it anywhere.

Nine months and an arduous camel ride to Bethlehem later, Mary began to suspect there was more to that night than a vivid dream.

Her beloved Joseph stayed true, if not silent, during those torturous months while her flat belly grew into a public bump. His eyes grew kind again after he’d had a visitation of his own. He whispered to her that an angel had revealed what to name the baby.

Whenever Mary felt overwhelmed, she’d think about their impromptu baby shower in the stable, with all those generous gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. They’d had such curious guests, from shell-shocked shepherds to wise kings. Oh, and that star as bright as the sun.

How could she ever forget the Prophetess Anna and that nice old man Simeon who had blessed her infant son in the Temple and said all those nice things about him after his Briss?

“Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.” Mary quietly treasured these things in her heart and thought about them often.

“Hey mom,” Jesus yelled. “Look what I can do!”

Mary turned her thoughts back to the moment, just in time to see her eldest child climb onto their rain barrel and stand directly on the water without sinking.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he said, his arms outstretched.

“Yes, you are, my son. You certainly are.” Mary looked down at her wrist and smiled.

She was so glad that her future of unbearable heartache was over…

“I want to try,” said James.

“Me too,” said Simon.

Celebrating The Ordinary Miracle

Groom asked me this morning what I was going to write about. I was mulling over an idea and as if to seal the deal, I was given a beautiful song that sets the tone for today’s entry. Please take a moment, well, three minutes and four seconds, more or less, and click on this address www.youtube.com/watch?v=INCGOrNBexQ to listen and read the lyrics of Sarah McLachlan’s Ordinary Miracle.

For the last several weeks, I’ve been describing the journey we’re taking with our jewelry, writing, photography and University classes and while there’s still more to say on the subject, I’m in the mood for something else.

Every good story begins with Trouble walking onto the scene. At the beginning, readers, viewers and listeners are given a quick glimpse of a character’s life until…Until they lose their job, a spouse runs away with the neighbor, a child gets sick, somebody is kidnapped, or a business partner steals all the cash. Reminds me of that joke about playing a country & western song backwards, the pickup truck starts, the dog comes home and the wife never leaves in the first place.

There’s no story without Trouble. Here, let me show you. Once upon a time, there was a couple and they lived happily ever after.

Once upon a time a rich man won the lottery.

Once upon a time, a person had an idea for a book. She sat down, and without interruption, the words flowed easily. Before “the end” was typed, agents, editors and publishers were knocking down her door. A bidding war ensued and the new author was given the most lucrative contract in literary history and the book became a best seller overnight and she ended up as a frequent guest on Oprah.

Wow, I just told you three stories within a few sentences. Yawn.

Oh, without struggle, conflict or turmoil, there’s no excitement and the characters won’t have a chance to see what they’re made of, or come out the other side changed in some way. So while Trouble is a necessary ingredient to Story, the Ordinary is where the characters are trying to return. While Trouble gets all the attention, Ordinary is often the quiet hero.

It does not matter how boring or mundane aspects of our everyday life might be, it is those same “dull” things human beings crave when they are deprived.

When I was a teenager, I hurt my leg and it required many weeks in a full length cast to heal. Suddenly, all the activities I took for granted were prohibited or significantly altered. Moving about the house on crutches became a challenge as did using the restroom, bathing, or going from here to there. I was a cashier at the local drug store and I can tell you, it was super fun trying to stay upright while totaling everybody’s purchases. Suddenly, I had to work much harder for the same pay rate.

When a beloved pet, friend or relative dies, I think we’d all give anything in the world to have them back, to have our world return to normal. When an earthquake hits, the electricity goes out, snow dumps, rivers flood, life as we know it gets put on hold and sometimes, it does not go back to the way it was.

This then, is about noticing and celebrating the Ordinary while we have it and not waiting for life to grab us by the ankles, hanging us upside down from a twenty-story window begging for mercy.

In our ordinary life, well-intentioned people often ask us, “So what do you do with all your free time?” If I had dentures, I’d probably have swallowed them by now, like my hoary uncle once did, from surprise. Free time?!

But I suppose the idea of living the life of a studio artist might conjure up images that involve sleeping late, consuming copious amounts of coffee and wine, lots of doodling, drooling and daydreaming, watching bad afternoon TV, vacillating between angst and euphoria, and being otherwise fiscally and hygienically irresponsible.

I kept a letter to the Editor from the now famous, at least in certain circles, A. Warren Herrigel. And I quote, “…but never have I seen a more repulsive assemblage of unkempt and unwashed hirsute ragamuffins, laggards, and misfits than I saw at the Saturday Market.”

Ah, the reputation of artists. As members of the Saturday Market since 1991, I bet some folks, A. Warren Herrigel included, might be surprised to discover we set our alarm for 6am most mornings, shower every day, keep the house clean, have a huge tea selection, eat proper meals, take exercise, save all our receipts, claim our income, have an accountant, pay our taxes, wear stylish clothes, and actually work, even if it means commuting to the living room.

Groom and I were taking an early walk this morning and I couldn’t help but notice how many people were climbing into their cars, setting down mugs of steaming coffee on vehicle rooftops while they fumbled bleary-eyed with their keys, the ritual of going to work repeated block after block.

With cameras in tow, I smiled knowing that while I had lots to do, I was not scheduled to be at a job at 8am and could take my break first thing in the morning if I chose and shoot some pictures before settling in to earn my daily bread.

My thoughts, however, drifted from my day toward those of the people climbing into their cars. They did have to be somewhere by 8am and while we usually encounter folks at their jobs, it was a rare glimpse to see how they do it. Every person you encounter throughout the day, had at one point, to climb out of bed whether they wanted to or not, do some kind of morning ritual and actually transport themselves from home to work. For free.

I experienced this huge moment of gratitude. I am so thankful for every person who fights the sleepy monster and shows up to work. If people didn’t make the effort, we couldn’t mail a letter, cook food on our electric stove, or have Internet service. When I ate breakfast, I thought of all the effort it took to plant the food, harvest it, move it, sell it and prepare it.

I am thrilled somebody is willing to get up in the wee hours and haul away my recycling. I love that I can turn on the tap and have water. I like it that I can go to the library and check out a book, go to the theater and be entertained, or know there are plumbers, mechanics, doctors and candle makers a phone call away.

To all of you, thank you. For those of you who stay home, I thank you as well. Our homes and neighborhoods need to be looked after, to have a loving presence felt which keeps us safe. To those of you who write poetry, cook food, garden, paint, play music, mop floors, stock shelves, teach children, thank you. Each person is valuable and your contribution is greatly appreciated.

As this week includes Valentine’s Day, we wish you all a day of feeling truly loved and valued. And what, pray tell, do any of these photos have to do with anything? They are ordinary moments we saw, walking in our neighborhood. Imagine my delight, when I turned a corner this morning and saw a plum tree already blooming! Daffodils are peeking their heads above ground, Daphne’s intoxicating perfume giving me goosebumps, one last leaf clinging for dear life.

Here’s to appreciating the “ordinary miracles” in our lives.

And Then…

I didn’t realize how heavy the burden of wanting to “become a writer” was until I put it down. I’d been carrying it around with me since cognition and an internal voice constantly chided me to produce produce produce; it was exhausting and caused resentment.

Any time I did anything other than write, a feeling of resentment would rise within me, mocking my actions and convincing me I was a waste of time. Here I was over 40 and had not published anything other than a few newspaper articles. The internal dialogue was harsh and critical and made creating jewelry more of a slave task than a joyful one.

Do you remember me saying that we took a year’s leave of absence from making jewelry? That was in 2005. Without the jewelry to make, I was splitting my time between doing hair and wanting to write. So then I started resenting hair because it was taking me away from my fantasy career. When I finally decided to take a leap of faith and devote all my time to writing, guess what? I imploded.

What does imploding look like? Well, as a self-disciplined individual, I had never had any trouble before coaxing myself into making deadlines; in school, in college, or designing for the art shows. But as I finally had all the time in the world at my disposal - Groom and I agreeing to live off our savings while we got our writing careers on track - I could not make myself write.

I allowed and invented every excuse in the book to prevent me from writing. Oh, first I had to get my writing space just exactly right. Next I had to do a bunch of research, organize my papers, rearrange my files, and look over my notes. Thereafter, a scrub down of the house lead to a voluminous yard sale and in between if I ever did play on the computer, I couldn’t sit still for five minutes.

I’d start a novel and switch to an idea for an article and then an inspirational piece and then a short story and then about one of our travel adventures and I’d start a squabble with Groom because we were sharing the computer, so that definitely cut into my writing time and the Internet was too slow and I lamented I needed my own computer and thusly I managed to efficiently squander our year’s leave of absence from creating jewelry by complaining, whingeing, whining, diatribing, digressing, crying, weeping, swooning, pretend-fainting (okay, no, not that one) and otherwise wasting a perfectly good writing opportunity. That’s what me imploding looks like.

By 2006, I was thrilled to be making jewelry again. In the convening years, the lovely Hannah Goldrich instructed me to learn metalsmithing, we bumped up against a shifting economy and more competition, rules started changing on the playing field, we got our hands on cameras and began incorporating our images into new jewelry ideas.

We spent November of 2009 in the studio, sort of like mad scientists, thinking and plotting, planning and experimenting with the new jewelry ideas and took the tools we had on hand and came up with something fresh. Oh, don’t let me leave you with the impression that it was all beakers and crazy concoctions and dry ice and romantic Bride of Frankenstein and Madame Curie stuff. No, no, I definitely explored the emotional scale on this one.

It began with a question (what’s something new we can do?) and then it got exciting, difficult, impossible, hopeful, downright grave and depressing, then enlightening and much like childbirth, voila! a new integration of materials was born and I was riding the skyrocket of joy.

Until…

Until a Director of an Art Show told us that they were not good enough. She gave me many compliments on the idea of it, but said the execution was not good enough…YET. She suggested we look at the process as a marathon and not a sprint and take this year to go to school and learn some metalsmithing skills and by next year, with the new ideas, we quite possibly might jump tax brackets.

Hmmm, there it was again, “Get some metalsmithing skills,” told to us by people in the know.

Now I could have had a mini-meltdown (have you noticed I might have a little bit of what’s referred to as an “artistic temperament?”), but the funny thing was, after all that work and experimentation, I wasn’t even tempted to curl up in the fetal position after being told the work wasn’t good enough.

I was inspired.

Looking in the college catalogue, we found two classes that suited our fancy: Metalsmithing and Enameling. We sent in our greenbacks, got our student I.D.’s (hey, they’re great for various discounts) and started the new adventure in January. Wait, that’s this month.

We’ve been pouring over catalogues, getting redeye from scrolling through page after Internet page of websites offering tools, supplies, hints, tips, video lessons, eeeeeeee!!! a confusing tangle. What will we need and where will we set it all up in our doll-sized house?

Oh, one thing for sure, bandaids. As a delicate flower, I am not used to burly tools, hammers, drills, kilns, torches, grinding machines, things called flex shafts, in other words, lots of metal equipment with sharp or hot moving parts.

The first day I hammered my left digits, didn’t realize the metal could get so hot (ouchy-wah-wah!) and sliced my finger. Um, glass is sharp, man. The work scratches the heck out of my skin, requiring mass doses of hydrating cream, and my neck has been out for awhile now.

But guess what? I looooooove it!!!