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May 24

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Tammy: Define yourself

“A government that robs Peter to pay Paul
can always depend on the support of Paul.”
— George Bernard Shaw

I picture myself ordering at Starbucks, tentatively holding a moleskine journal and a Ziploc of pitt pens and gellyrolls, anxious for a few peaceful hours of drawing. The barista smiled and asked if I was an artist. What an odd question for a girl who had lived in the world of numbers, objective decisions and analysis since grad school. It was two years ago and a key a turning point… because I said yes. Yes.

If you teach calculus, yet ski every chance you can, are you not a skiier? You don’t have to be a competitive skiier or a particularly fast skiier or even stay upright most of the time to use the word. Calling yourself a skiier takes nothing away from Olympic skiiers or ski teachers.

We are all many things…

  • A Java programmer who is an avid urban sketcher
  • A mom who writes sci fi when the kids are at school
  • A logistics manager who writes stories for her children
  • A pilot who embroiders aprons
  • A mom who manages the PTA and blogs about nutrition
  • A chemistry teacher who creates art journaling pages all summer
  • A photographer who quilts
  • A paralegal who sketches jewelry designs at lunch
  • A realtor with a cooking blog
  • A homeschooling mom who develops crossword puzzles and writes poetry
  • A veterinarian who writes sewing patterns

What are you? If you say you are an [fill in the blank]… you are!

PS.  It’s Your Art

[Cross-posted from Tammy’s personal blog, Daisy Yellow.]

May 20

9 Comments

Miranda: Breathe in, breathe out

Late May and June seem to overflow with spring sports, end-of-school trips, rehearsals, recitals, and events. Like many of you, I drive from baseball practice to the dance studio and then back again, arriving at home far too late to get a decent dinner onto the table. The options are: plan carefully and cook dinner in that narrow window between work and the chauffeur routine, or get pizza (again).

It’s easy to be swallowed up by the 1,358 details and pressures of daily life. Last week I retrieved my college son during a two-day road trip to Ithaca, NY, just in time to come home and help my husband rip out an asphalt driveway. Major DIY landscaping projects loom, woven in between graduations, shopping for teacher gifts, T-ball tournaments, and driver’s ed. Normally, the added tasks and activity of this time of year would turn me into a raving bee-atch stress muffin. But this year things are a little different. I’m not a sea of tranquility — not by a longshot — but I’m not fantasizing about my escape to Mexico, either. What’s changed?

I’m running around, but my recent efforts to do less and reduce stress have actually begun to work. I’ve stopped taking on new client projects (the existing clients are more than sufficient) and I no longer need to work nights in order to stave off the panic attacks. I continue to refine my custom planner, which I still love. In the big-picture thinking about moving closer to what makes me happy, the answer seems to live in “just being.” Being, as opposed to doing.

A lot of different threads have come together for me during the past few months as my husband and I began to seriously study and practice Buddhism. Now that I’ve done more than just dip my toe in (I’m probably up to the ankle) I wonder why I didn’t embrace this practice a long time ago. I’d read many Buddhist-inspired books over the years, but I never before connected all the dots. Mediation and mindfulness speak directly to my long-time desire to live in the moment, appreciating my children — how fleeting this time is! — and embrace creativity as much as possible without all the self-flagellation when it doesn’t happen. Somehow Buddhism always seemed to me like something that other people — crunchy, poser Westerners — took to in order to check out of life. But I was wrong. It’s not about checking out, it’s about checking in. You don’t need to be Tibetan in order to practice Buddhism, and it’s already helping me become a better mother. (One of my favorite books in this category: Everyday Blessings: The Inner Work of Mindful Parenting by Myla and Jon Kabat-Zinn.)

I’m also running again, eating better, and protecting my 7+ hours of sleep a night. And I’m reading, almost every night. What am I NOT doing? Well, I’m not watching any TV, but I don’t miss it. I’m also not doing very much personal writing. But I’m trying not to obsess. Obsessing means losing out on the opportunity of RIGHT NOW. Remember our discussion of someday is today? Well, today brings whatever today brings. I’m down with that. Yes, there are many things that I’d like to make happen. I’d like to finish my novel. My nonfiction book. Heck, just my creative nonfiction essay. I’d like to ensure at least three posts to this blog every week. And I will do all of those things, in time. But I won’t do them at the expense of this beautiful moment, or my children. (It was quite affirming to look out the window just now and see a hummingbird skimming through the sprinkler in my front yard!)

Summer looms, and with it the perennial promise of slower days and a bit of relaxation. (When the weather is fair — for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere — it does seem easier to embrace the moment, doesn’t it? Of course, this is the very reason why my husband argues that we should move to a warmer part of the country 🙂 ) How are YOU feeling during the end-of-year crunch? Are you able to enjoy the beauty outside? Have you developed strategies to stave off the stress? Are there certain items in the self-care category that you refuse to give up, come hell or high water (a nightly bath, journal writing, a weekly yoga class, a photo a day)? And if creativity gets put on hold for a while, do you trust in a cycle that will bring it back? Please share….

May 17

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Cathy: Denver retreat

Friday night, I arrived with Honey in Denver, CO. Gor-ge-ous sunset on the drive from the airport. Sorry, I did not bring a camera for this trip. I was going to write, after all, not fool around taking pictures! But I did curse myself up and down for lack of camera when it came to that sunset.

We helped my husband’s cousin set up his speaking engagement/seminar, and ate a late dinner of hotel bar food. the Grand Hyatt 1876 Lounge had a three-sauce sampler for fried zucchini and portabello mushrooms that was a bit greasy, but the middle sauce for dipping was a tomato jam I could have eaten on anything for eternity and never missed another flavor. I ate it on Honey’s sweet potato fries that came with his pork sliders. I couldn’t get enough of that tomato jam.

Food rhapsody over for the moment, I turn to the purpose for leaving my children on Mother’s Day weekend: to write!!!

My manuscript is, after all, my other child. They do vie for attention constantly.

Saturday morning, my dear Honey trotted off to do his tech support function for his cousin, while I stayed in the hotel room under the auspices of writing. I proceeded to drive myself completely berserk, agonizing over getting past the block I had regarding what I knew I needed to do to the manuscript. I’d been having this block for months and was blaming my lack of time alone for it. So I got the time alone, and still went bonkers.

I finally said, I must walk! I am in a new city. I have never set foot in Denver proper. I must find the nearest green space to find some solace in my frustrated writer’s soul.

I rode the elevator down to concierge and she pointed me toward the capitol and its park. Then she looked dejected as she recalled, “But there is a huge Cinco de Mayo Festival going on there, so you won’t see much of the green.”

I replied, “No problem, I love to people watch.” Along the walk, I met an adorable nine-week-old brindle coated sweet little pit bull puppy. And the young man on the other end of the leash, who had a big smile, proud to show off his new little girl. It’s been a long time since my “Boston days” between tall buildings, seeing the slant of light and shadow play down the walls and windows. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Then I hit the busy amusement park set up of Cinco de Mayo, on the eighth of May. Lots of good sights and sounds and distractions and rhythms, and some construction of the park, and children on rides, and walking and Spanish and dancing, and a lot of Dos Equis displays.

I didn’t stay long, and the capitol building in Denver is a gold domed beaut, like my beloved Boston capitol building, so that was nice for my suburban aching heart to see. Then I turned back to the hotel and to face the open document on the laptop.

More agonizing. I called a friend, who asked me to send it to her, to which I promptly said NO! Then backtracked that I was sitting there staring at seven critiques already. She kindly said, “Oh, no, you don’t need me to look at it. You need to know that what you know you have to do to your manuscript is good because it will make it better!”

I said, “Aha! That was the missing piece! Editing will make it better!”

And so I began to edit. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. I still struggled, was still largely attached to what I had already written, but I moved stuff around, rewrote the beginning.

Loads more to the weekend, but as far as the writing, that’s what I did. I agonized, I moved something around, I agonized, I moved stuff around. I agonized, I deleted a few lines here and there. And I agonized some more. I made it to page 5 out of 120. And I was disappointed enormously with my new first line.

I thought, “If I picked this book up off the shelf, and read that opening line? I’d put it back.”

And then, the day after my arrival home, my writing group met to write on Tuesday. All of a sudden, I was able to work much more effectively in the company of my writing group all sitting quietly with their laptops and notebooks, doing largely the same thing I was doing: editing what we already had.

But if I had not gone to Denver; had not driven myself crazy until I chiseled away a crack in the writer’s block, I would have been of no use to myself or my manuscript on Tuesday.

And, like Edith Ann says, “That’s the Truth, thpblbubblepppbubth!”

[Cross-posted from my personal blog.]

May 13

8 Comments

Robin: A Storyteller’s Tale

Two years ago, a fellow yogi and I e-mailed one another daily preparing for a retreat we were both attending. This correspondence continued over a 6-month time period. I saved all the e-mails thinking that I would compile them and put them in book form as a beautiful memory for both of us. This endeavor produced 63 double sided (8.5 x 11) pages. I realized with that exercise that writing a page a day is incredibly doable. So, why have I continued to make excuses for my non-existent writing life?

Julia Cameron, in her book The Artist’s Way, describes this type of behavior as ‘shadow artists.’ Pent-up creativity flows sideways into other venues such as e-mails, telephone conversations (read Facebook and Twitter!) in an effort to clue the defiant artist that he/she is not living the fullness of his/her life. Whether it hearkens back to being discouraged from exploring art as a child, feeling incompetent or simply viewing the task as a waste of time, the idea of creation for its own sake rather than a manifestation of outcomes takes much courage to walk into.

As I choose to move my own shadow artist into the light, dusting off years of denial, complacency, and just plain laziness, I pray that this decision awakens the thrill of living within the juicy words on the page, finally out of my head with the potential to garner community and conversation.

[Photo credit here.]

May 5

9 Comments

Alison: Carved-out satisfaction versus cut-throat success

There’s a ‘wealth’ of information out there and particularly online about how to become a successful writer, how to write, pitch, blog, market yourself, build up a following, get a publisher, be known. Much of it is excellent advice. However, what grates on me is the kind of ‘stop at nothing’ advice where you are meant to steamroller your way to the top by being relentlessly competitive with your contemporaries. Some will think I am naive. You simply have to stand out to be noticed, you need to blog more, network more, tour more, promote more.

Absolutely. You need dedication. You need to lose the excuses not to write. You need to be aware of what’s going on in the market. You need to know who’s in the know and what they know! But what I object to is ambition in a vacuum, the one-track mind to success that doesn’t consider other priorities like the people around you, your home and family life, or your relationship with others and with the world.

Last week Christina Katz, writer, woman, mother, powerhouse asked people to blog about happiness. To me happiness can be joy, exquisite moments of enjoyment of the process of writing, of the gorgeous reality of my children and their funny moments, a perfect moment of spring blossom and sun. But that kind of happiness is not always available moment to moment. What is available is an overall satisfaction with your life and its choices, an understanding that you may not always get exactly what you want, when you want (like all the time you want to write) but that you are doing your absolute best to fulfill your ambition while maintaining equilibrium with other parts of your life. As a woman and mother, this reciprocity and balancing of your own needs with the needs of your children, family, extended family and the community as a whole is integral. I am not going to blog everyday if it means that I don’t do a jigsaw with my two-year-old or colour with my daughter, if I can’t listen to my friend who is going through a hard time, if I never have time for giving rather than just getting. On Benjamin Kanarek blog Isa Maisa said recently: As our society today considers fame and fortune to be the Holy Grail of our sense of purpose, living a life in an attitude of a happy medium is hushed as insufficient and discusses Doris Lessing, Michael Jackson and Alexander McQueen’s relationship with success.

There are many people in the writing world I admire who are successful by building up a reciprocal and mutually satisfying relationship with their readers and with other writers. They bring others up with them, provide others with opportunities for exposure and development. In particular I would like to mention Vanessa O’ Loughlin of Inkwell Writers. She writes, provides great-quality writing classes, and has created a network of writers who regularly receive her extremely useful newsletter. She uses the newsletter to promote other writers and has provided opportunities for other writers to be noticed. Christina Katz is an expert at platform building and becoming known in the publishing world, making the most of opportunities — but she also promotes the careers of fellow writers and provides opportunities for them. The Year Zero collective is a group of writers who want to engage with and give back to readers. They develop a reciprocal relationship with readers by posting work regularly and getting feedback, by doing readings in intimate venues and by often giving away their work for free.

These are only a few examples. In terms of social media, there is, for the most part, a wonderful atmosphere on Twitter of reciprocal help, promotion and respect. There are also plenty of blogs (here, for instance!) where the object is mutual support and encouragement. Only occasionally do you find those whose own agenda of self-promotion comes ahead of their respect for others.

I want to be a writer first; I want to be a successful but also satisfied writer. But what that means to me is to develop a relationship with my readers and other writers first and foremost, to maintain a courteous, considerate and caring relationship with people in my personal and professional life. And after that, only after, will I count book sales and stats as a measure of happiness. What do you think?

[Cross-posted from my personal blog.]

May 3

6 Comments

Alexsondra: Tantrums, Treasures, and Family Stuff

Apparently, I threw many a temper tantrum as a child. I was the “spirited” child. The obstinate child. The strong-willed child. Suffice it to say, I tested the very core of parenting skills. Those were the days that pediatricians would answer all kinds of questions, with such authority that mothers would accept the answers automatically. Yes, I know those pediatricians still exist today. I do hope that every mother has learned to trust her instincts and raise her voice.

My mother loved to tell the story of my tantrums, and how she was “beside herself” with not knowing what to do. She explained how our very thoughtful and insightful doctor suggested she give me one warning, and then throw a small amount of cold water in my face. She was tickled pink at how quickly it worked. But did it? (This is not a mommy bashing post, of course she did the best she knew how — anyway, I’m a mommy and my mommy bashing days are in the “tempered tantrums” file, under forgiven.)

Back to Did it Work: I don’t think so. It did shut me up, but it didn’t change my mind. That strong-willed kid grew. And kept having tantrums. And kept putting her foot in her mouth. Yes, it took me a long time, a very long time to learn how to pick my battles. To decide whether I wanted to pay the price for speaking my mind. But in my day I was boldly willing to accept whatever the cost. And believe me, the costs were staggering sometimes, but that’s another post. It was a matter of survival and justice. I took it seriously. Because, as every kid knows, there are two sides to a temper tantrum.

My mother is now deceased. I cared for her in her final months. We had plenty to share, and one of those treasured minutes was this. When I told her that her son was coming from California to visit, she beamed in anticipation, ”Oh! The apple of my eye.”  These words were not new to my ears.

I began teasing her as I usually did, about her sugary love for her boys. She went on in a dreamy voice of remembering the past, ”Yes,” she said, savoring her thoughts, ”Tommy was always the apple of my eye, and Victor was my golden child.” She sighed gently and had nothing left to say. That was it. She had summed it up. Now, I could have let things be, but that’s not my style. No, I decided we’d have it out, right there. I didn’t care if she was dying, and I had heard those titles given to my brothers many times during my life. This was no deathbed discovery on her part. I never had a title, and now, I was going to demand one, if necessary. ”What about me? What was I?” ”YOU,” she said, “Hmmm…you, you were…” and she hesitated a few seconds, ”you were my tantrum child.” There you have it. In fairness to her, as well as accuracy to the tale, she said it gently and lovingly. Kind of queer don’t you think, remembering a tantrum kid lovingly. But she did.

Now, I’m obliged to tell you that days later, she called me over to her bed and said, ”Darling, you were really my precious one.” Adding, though, “If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.” Always humor. The memory still brings tears to my eyes.

One year later, Christmastime, I would have to make her delicious cookies myself. I had never baked them before. And right there in my kitchen, as I braced myself for this overwhelming task, I threw a huge tantrum, complete with stomping my feet, tears streaming, tight-fisted, and all. I knew that feeling well. I was intimidated by the unknown (baking Mother’s cookies), and mad as hell that I even had to do it.

The tantrum lasted maybe a minute before I heard her words: ”You were my tantrum child.” I had to laugh. How well our mothers know us. Tears wiped, laughter over, I opened a favorite cookbook only to find a handwritten note from her. ”Dear Lulu (nickname), try these recipes (marked), I know you can do this, just follow the directions.”

I think I still throw tantrums from time to time. Only now I’ve learned to couch my words in “acceptable tones” as to be heard. But not always.

A gentle word of advice. Listen to those tantrums, they may not sound pretty, but there’s usually a gem of truth inside.

Oh, and please write little notes to people you love. They are little treasures carrying an abundance of love.

Apr 28

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Robin: Ordinary Choices Prompted by Extraordinary Love

Sometimes, while I am working on a mosaic piece, I begin to feel myself becoming anxious over the idea that I have wasted precious hours prepping and organizing for a result that is less than inspiring. The process calls for the artist to apply the grout to the point where all the beautifully hand-picked pieces are hidden. The result she is striving for is hidden underneath the muck and she wonders whether the piece will recover its brilliance once the grout dries. This is the point where, similarly to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, I want to hide the object behind the spaghetti leftovers in the trash bin in my kitchen.

The correlation between mosaics and motherhood are striking. The idea of a little person coming into the world with the image of the mother and father and the community shaping and coaxing those things that are planted inside there by her creator looms large in my head these days. The parents represent the sponge I use when removing the grout. They help to remove the childish ways of thinking that could destroy a future while cultivating the personality and the fascinations the child holds and exposing her to opportunities that enhance the interests the one working with the pieces can see upon close inspection.

When that mosaic piece begins to show me things that I may not necessarily like about myself or remind me of the roadblocks that I experienced that may have detoured my life whether temporarily or permanently, rather than throwing up my hands in dismay I can promote opportunities for the child to sidetrack the pitfalls (or minimize the opportunity for long-term damage!).

Observing a mosaic piece to see how it responds to the grout as it is laid and observing a child as she responds to life as new challenges enter in — obviously one has less room for error. I am amazed that as I create new things, fashioning them with my hands, I can enter into my responsibility as a parent in a deeper way and in turn experience a more intimate connection with my Creator.

[Photo credit]

Apr 26

10 Comments

Cathy: The Universe works in mysterious ways

I will kvetch no more — this week anyway — as after my last two days of considering every option and feeling like I had none left, suddenly:

a friend offered to barter my tutoring her 13-year-old daughter for watching my 2-year-old daughter on writers’ group days.  So I don’t need to find and pay for immediate daycare just so I can have a few hours of writing and critique time a couple of times a month.

aaaand!

drumroll, please…..

Honey’s cousin needs some of Honey’s professional expertise on a public speaking gig in Colorado in a couple of weeks. And he offered to let me tag along, too. I will go to his public speaking gig, but largely, I am going to blissfully sit in my hotel room, without any interruptions and edit the bejeez out of my manuscript on Honey’s laptop!!!

and Grandma offered to watch the kids for that weekend.

I hope I didn’t die, because this sure feels like heaven.

[slightly edited crosspost from musings in mayhem]

Apr 21

6 Comments

Alexsondra: Spring Cleaning

Spring cleaning is done because throughout the year our house has gained weight. Yes, I admit it, my house is morbidly obese. The good news is, unlike my body weight, my house weight can all be lost by a simple trip to the “dump.” Or can it?

We created a new room above my studio. Now its contents must be tossed — oops, did I say tossed? Not exactly everything. NO way. There’s good stuff  there. No problem, we’ll put it in the basement. We just need to toss out the basement stuff. But, then again, not everything. Moving along, like worker ants, we come across stuff that simply can’t go to the dump. And even more, didn’t belong in the basement in the first place. Are there poltergeist moving our stuff around as we sleep? Now we’ve engaged a third room in the well-intentioned process of “spring cleaning.”

It was a long day, and in the end, one dump trip later, we did have a slightly thinner house. It’s still messy, as all the remaining stuff is scrambling for new hiding places.

I was going to describe this day on my facebook status. Believe me, I tried. Only when I hit the button to ”share,” it wouldn’t go through, saying my update was too long!

How’s that for a smack in the face? Or am I to accept it as my subconscious, constructive criticism?

So, I’m off to the “word dump,” trying to rid myself of all those pesky, overrated, not so profound words. Here’s hoping the little bastards don’t cling to me as I leave.

Apr 19

8 Comments

Robin: Experiencing Freedom Through Creativity

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron calls for the artist/writer to gauge his/her process week by week with questions like:

  • How many of the 7 days in the week did I write/create?
  • How am I feeling about the writing/creating?
  • Do I see any shifts in my approach to writing/creating?

While my writing time is not as frequent as I would like, my feelings about the work and the way I approach the writing have shown improvement. One shift I definitely see is that I have begun writing for the pure joy of the words flowing together. For quite a while my words felt like weapons, nothing more than rants of anger and bitterness about time lost, life stolen, accomplishments robbed.

Freedom. An interesting concept. I thought I was feeling freed up when I ranted on paper. The problem was that I put so much energy into the feelings behind the rant that when I got them out of me, I was left with an empty vessel. Not empty in the sense that I was “free” to think about other things. I found that bitterness so consumed me that getting the words down only gave me enough “space” to sustain me so I was able to fulfill my daily responsibilities. I was in survival mode in a way I did not see until I came out of it.

The financial slavery our family was under for years had me in such mental and emotional bondage I thought there could be no way out; there was no hope for any new dreams. The emotional disappointments in my marriage began to cause me to question the value of creative expression (or expression in general, for that matter). The only expression I seemed to engage in revolved around a vicious cycle of suppress/release.

I realize now that, if in my freedom, I am not experiencing an ability to change or grow, I should challenge my interpretation of freedom. Change and growth does not have to look like a mass exodus from life and the responsibilities that we hold. But the awareness of pain needs to be coupled with the desire to feel redemption or we run the risk of some weird manifestation of pride and self reliance. Freedom is a gift from God; a grace. Freedom means to be released from bondage with the implication that we gain the ability to pursue something (inwardly or otherwise) that is new, edifying, satisfying.

Writing holds something for me today that life experiences snagged from me long ago. The words on the page help me to experience redemption.

How have you experienced freedom through creativity?

[photo credit]

Apr 16

13 Comments

Cathy: writerly crisis of faith and confirmation of all my fears

This entry is a combination of a couple of recent posts on my personal blog.

on Monday, I wrote:

writerly crisis of faith
Almost two weeks ago, I gave the first 33 pages of my baby, er, children’s novel manuscript to my critique group. We meet tomorrow. During school vacation. At my house. With my gang of mayhem and two other kids added to the mix. And the one person I know outside the group will not be there, so she returned my pages with her comments yesterday.

I’ve done a lot of work on those first 30 pages in the past 6ish years since I started writing this little tale. They are the initial inspiration, and what I always felt really worked about the book. The changes I had made were on the small side, grammar, tense, slight rearranging of things. Now I feel like I have to move a thought bubble that wraps the first third of the novel very nicely and turn into a scene that will be the new opening of the book. Not that that was her exact suggestion, but that’s where my mind took it.

But I love my opening! There’s a great slow build to what happened to make this kid so upset in the opening lines.

I have had other readers who really loved the opening. I have four more readers to hear from tomorrow.

How can my heart be simultaneously in my throat and in the bottom of my gut at the same time? I feel like I have a big envelope to open, and it either has very very good news, or absolutely horrid news to bear. Quite possibly both. And once I open it, I will have to cut my big ball of dough in half, knead it, fold it over and over again into itself, pound on it, and hopefully, a beautiful loaf will emerge from the oven.

I know, mixed metaphor central, but give me a break!

Anticipation is a killer.

On Tuesday, came:

confirmation of all my fears

Great writers’ group this morning — afternoon. We wrote, I was interrupted by kids a variety of ways (school vacation and toddler), and then we got hungry, ate lunch and discussed the first third of my novel, as I mentioned yesterday.

They confirmed all of my misgivings about the manuscript’s current state, and now, boy do I have a lot of work to do. But it’s good, not the dread that my anticipation was giving me.

I kind of wish I was done already…but I guess this is what they mean about 2nd draft work. It’s not just about picking through the first draft and the million and a half edits already done, but about the complete restructuring of the storytelling… focus description into action, rearrange parts, rethink what is important about characters and how they serve the story, get rid of unnecessary adverbs…you know, the big stuff.

So big stuff, here I come. Right after this diaper change….

Psst! And guess what else?  They liked it, too!

Apr 14

3 Comments

Alexsondra: Bunches of Bowls for Gathering at the Well

The Gathering at the Well

These little gems just got pulled from my kiln. It’s been so many years since I last fired a glaze kiln, or produced any functional pottery, I was more than relieved to see that they all made it through the firing. It still amazes me, when  I hold a finished bowl in my hands, remembering the hours past, when it was a simple lump of moist clay.

Each one has its own little personality as it stands on its own, waiting to be admired, touched, and lovingly used by its new owner.

They are mine, but not mine, much like our  own children. We join with God in the creation process, always remembering that children are gifts. It is the same God, who generously infused me with the gift of making these bowls which soon, will no longer be mine.

When I was forty something, my mother took my hand in hers, stroking it gently. She said, “It’s amazing that I can still feel your hand as it was so many years ago, when you were just a baby.” It’s equally amazing that I remember the roadmap left in each of these bowls by those very same hands.

[Cross-posted from Mud of the Ages: Tempered Tantrums.]

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