Maroon 5

I am having quite the week. Quite the past two weeks. This isn't the time to complain or go into detail. It is the stuff of frustration, sadness, fear. Pretty universal. Who cares about the particulars. My friend Becky wanted me to go with her to see Sara Bareilles, Counting Crows, Maroon 5. I grudgingly agreed to go. When the time came, I really didn't feel in the mood to nod my head to any beat, let alone dance. Too late to back out. I went, and we had a most fabulous time. Someone even gave us their 3rd row tickets when they were leaving. We were ten feet from the stage for the last 2/3 of Maroon 5's performance. I could see all of Adam Levine's tattoos. Pretty cool. The music was awesome. I did dance.Thanks Becky! I needed that.

Dedication

In yoga class a few weeks back, our instructor asked us to dedicate the day's practice to somebody or something. What a wonderful idea. Imagine how much more invested we could be if we dedicated certain tasks to others or issues. I could dedicate a day of painting or writing to my sister-in-law who is at that pregnant, ready to burst, stage. I could dedicate my walk/jog to my kids as they are getting ready to start a new year of school. And, in it all, I could transcend my small egoic mind that gets so self-absorbed and thinks everything has to be about me. Make it bigger. Be expansive.

bloody stumps

I've been biting my nails like never before in my life. I can't even scrape the leftover food off the dishes that supposedly come clean out of the dishwasher. It's bloody. It hurts. I'm lucky nothing has gotten infected. If I bite anymore, I'll be typing with my knuckles. Lots of stress right now. Some of my own making. I think the world is stressed out now. Gas prices, the economy. The lack of proper summer vacations. Makes people irritable. Little problems become messes. My only goal for the week is to grow my nails to cover the nail beds and maybe not be so defenseless against predators.

Ten Quick posts

I am going to attempt ten quick posts--here and now. Like Haikus only not that spare and beautiful.

A final thought

***I do not intend a running commentary on the events taking place in my community. I hope to make this my last statement on the matter until the time when a verdict is reached, but I did want to add to my previous blog.

Today my neighbor, the husband and defendant in the murder case, released a statement through his lawyer that he is not guilty of this crime. Knowing the children and the family, I want more than anything else for this to be true. He deserves a fair trial in our system. I debated about taking down my earlier post, but I think it is a fair snapshot of what I and numerous others are experiencing as we move through this tragedy. Beyond that it is a testament to the scourge that is domestic violence. If this man is innocent of murder, then he, too, is a victim of domestic violence as it casts its large shadow over our society. Imagine a world in which law enforcement no longer needs to look to a spouse as the prime suspect in a murder investigation.

The sun will rise

In my blog, I make it a point to be candid about my influences and the sometimes frenetic life of a mother/artist/writer. I have not had an entry for two weeks because the latest issue is nothing short of tragic. Two weeks ago, a mother of four (my ten-year neighbor--until the family moved in January) was murdered. She was beaten, stabbed, strangled, and drowned. After an almost two week investigation, the police arrested her husband.

I live in a tiny neighborhood in a small community for whom these events have been devastating. I have personal sorrow over this. This sadness includes watching the pain that others are experiencing as they grapple with not only the questions of a spiritual/emotional nature but also the uncertainties of physical requirements. Four children, besides being parentless, are displaced from their home. Family businesses are at stake.

I cannot begin to catalog the atrocities that stem from this singular attack. The ripples, of which I am but a small one, fan out in all directions. I was struggling to confront my new novel and embrace my paintbrush before this happened. Now I am paralyzed. How can I make meaning out of the unimaginable? How can I do something so frivolous as telling a made-up story when the gravity of such a reality is on everyone's mind? If I, a casual friend of the family, am feeling this much anguish, imagine the anxiety and grief of the close friends, the blood relatives, the church, the community. My children feel it. How can I talk to my own children when I don't understand?

But, this is not a singular event. According to the Pennsylvania Coalition Against Domestic Violence, there were 120 domestic violence related fatalities in Pennsylvania in 2007 alone. Multiply the pain of my community by 120. Multiply that by the number of years it takes a community to heal. In the past, I have done workshops at the local shelter that houses and transitions survivors of domestic abuse. In the time I have spent there, I noticed what appeared to me as a deficit of women from upper/middle classes. Domestic violence knows no class boundary. What is the stigma that keeps these women from self-preservation? I don't have answers. What I have is question after question looping through my brain.

And yet there is surety amidst the chaos. The sun will rise. I know enough about my own inner processes to know that when I find my voice again--and it may take some time--this tragedy will inform my art. How can it not? Art is the computer through which I personally process the world. The results? I am not talking about heavy-handed message or great social activism here, though that is possible and certainly within my reach. But there will be nuances--some so subtle that I, as the author or painter, might not be aware. For this I am grateful. Because of this, I know that art is no little thing, and I have to make no apologies for being an artist when humanity is flailing. Guernica, anyone? I am not Picasso, but I know that I have to be the transformation I wish for those who are in mourning--and art can be a great converter. Good art or bad. It doesn't matter. It is the action, steeped in optimism and intent, that transforms pain into purpose, into beauty. Maybe that will be the motivation that allows me to make that not-so-trivial first stroke with my paintbrush.

*Please click on the link to Pennsylvania Coalition Against Domestic Violence to find out more including the article "31 People Die in 31 Days During Deadly Wave of Domestic Violence in PA". Also Click to Empower . Your click will provide a dollar toward education and job training programs which will help to financially empower survivors of domestic abuse.

A Place of My Own

When I have trouble falling asleep I imagine being in a cabin in the woods. That's just the start. I imagine I am building such a cabin. A little one. Maybe the romance of building my own little teeny house began when I saw the house on the Tumbleweed website. Much as I love living with my family, there is such romance in having a place of one's own. I imagine a site to do my solitary work--the writing and painting--where distraction doesn't enter into the labor. I imagine looking out a window at a wooded scene that becomes fuzzy as my focus softens to catch up on a new idea that is germinating not outside but in my own imagination. I imagine a loft for napping or reading and a front porch large enough to sit and rock or perhaps lay a yoga mat for a few stretches. Maybe I'll take my sun salutations out to a clearing. Some hiking trails to meander on when I need time and space to delve into issues of plot or character. I do think my place of solitude would include a dog bed. My pup is a silent companion who really doesn't ask more of me than my company and a timely potty break or too.
I have been reading Michael Pollan's book The Omnivore's Dilemma. I am enjoying this book immensely--more on this later. I went on Michael's site to find out more and stumbled upon his book entitled A Place of My Own. It was the picture of his Place that startled me. It was my imagined place. I immediately ordered the book. Used. Sorry Michael. It is the story of how he builds such a place. I know it will make the best bedtime reading.

Summer J list

Oprah has her "O" list

These are a few things I love for summer

Johnson's Cucumber Melon Babywash-- We got this in a gift bag from a run. We don't have a baby, but the scent is very summery and I've been using it for bubble bath.

Night Blooming Jasmine Body splash--(Bath and Bodyworks) For when you've already showered but have gotten a little clammy from the hot day and need a pick-me-up.

Homemade Limoncello Spritzers--I made a batch of limoncello. Very sweet, but good summer cocktail when combined with club soda or Prosecco (Italian sparkling wine).

So You Think You Can Dance--When it is too hot to get off the couch--watch other people dancing the Rumba or the Pas de deux. My daughter is a dancer, so we really get into this show. Basically, our only TV show over the summer.

Dry Rose--My summer wine of choice has replaced a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. (Not that I don't still like them). I like the Roses from France. We also stocked up with a bunch from the Finger lakes when we went and they are great.

Watermelon Feta Salad--MY new favorite summer salad--and I am not a huge watermelon fan. It's easy. Cube watermelon, add torn arugula, crumbled feta cheese, thinly sliced red tomato, and a dressing of two tablespoons each extra virgin olive oil and white wine vinegar. This might sound strange, but it got rave reviews at my book club.

Gazpacho--Nothing says summer like this cold tomato soup.

Gilligan and O'Malley Sleepwear--Target has this great stylish and comfortable (mostly cotton) line of sleepwear seperates. I love them. Will probably be my gift to give this year.

IKEA--With the redo of several rooms of our house, we've been making many trips to IKEA. I just love going there. Lots of inspiration.

Brightly colored chalk pastels--Got a new set for my home blackboard/menu board. So much fun.

Iced coffee--For some reason, I can't make this successfully at home. So I always have to buy it on the fly and make excuses to do so.

Slow food--We are really appreciating local produce and our garden. Having made an anti-fast food pact this summer--initiated by my kids--we are looking at our little farming community with new eyes and appreciation.

Outside copper torches--I love summer evenings, sitting in the yard while our torches blaze.

Mama Mia--Went to see this with my Mom. It was truly a delight. Women--don't take your husbands. It's a girl movie. I saw SATC movie earlier in June with my friend Marsha. Once again--a girl movie. I think that girl movie time is a must. I hadn't done it for ages, and now I've done it twice. I think I need to plan more of them.

Allergy medicine--Don't tackle the summer without it!
As I think of more things for my favorites, I'll add them. This is a good start though. I have to think about music. And I'd love to hear about the favored summer items of other people. Please feel free to post in the comments section.

Vacation

We just returned from vacation. Love vacation. We go to a place that is beyond relaxing for kids and adults. A friend's hilltop retreat in Ohio that is part barn, part spa, part field, part woodlands. The kids have fun playing, frolicking really. This year's pastimes included stargazing, toad catching, birdwatching, hoola hooping, swimming, hiking, treasure hunting, labyrinth walking, fishing, playing water tag with a domesticated deer, picnicking, throwing football, skipping stones, roasting marshmallows, toasting each other with good wine over grand buffets, setting off illegal fireworks, catching lightning bugs, watching the sun go down, hoola dancing (not to be confused with hoola hooping), playing cards, taking pictures, reading, and taking naps. AHHH!
It was most relaxing. But as with all good dreams, the dreamer must awaken to reality. We got home mid-week in time for my daughter to start her rehearsals for the Sound of Music which is pretty much a daily thing until the end of the summer. And then there was the mountain of laundry which we finished at the same time our 16 year old dryer decided to heave its last breath. Speaking of mountains. The Hills Are Alive with baskets of produce! One week plus lots of rain yielded one large mountain of squash. I've been gardening and and baking and processing zucchini ever since. (Apparently you can grate it and freeze it in bags.)
Every year, I try to see how long I can hold onto the vacation magic. Last year, we took home a lot of produce from the garden at Moondance where we stayed. As we ate some of our stash each night with dinner, I pretended to be ingesting that vacation calm. This year we didn't raid the garden, possibly because our own was doing so well. So I guess I lost the vacation magic rather early. But luckily for me, I took about 400 large-file digital photo which take forever to upload to Shutterfly.com where I will turn them into the annual vacation album. So I do get to look at them as I take an entire week to upload them. I remember. I sigh. Even after my new dryer buzzes to tell me that the load is done (a new feature), I pause and offer thanks to our supreme hostess, the good queen Susan, and all the vacation gods. You've given me a screen saver, a load of calming memories, lots of recipes to try at home, and the push to keep going until I can vacation again.

Blue tape

You've heard the expression--Cut through red tape. Well at our house we are cutting through blue tape. You'll remember that in January, we, in a state of cabin fever, changed up our living room a bit. That seemed to carry on. Recently we replaced old carpet and kitchen linoleum. Really, these needed to be replaced years ago, but something always came first. Heat pump. Car repair. You name it. Now was the time, but we needed to spruce up the paint job in the house. We have lots of color in our house, but a lot of white walls, too, that were still painted that industrial flat white that our builder used over 13 years ago. We chose to replace it with a soft gray that almost changes shades as the day goes on and the sun moves around the house. And then there is the trim which needed redoing. Mark doesn't like it when I wield a paint brush. I get a little too expressionistic for his liking on flat walls. He doesn't mind painting, but we must do it on his schedule. I can be patient. I can! But we are working on over a month of that blue painters tape in various parts of our house.
In the mean time, I have been using the time to reorganize cabinets and shelves as we invariably have to move them to paint. It will all be good when it is done. Fresh paint. Fresh flooring. An organized living space. But this cutting through the blue tape is getting old. I'm ready to get to the other side of blue.

Perez Hilton vs NPR

Last week I went to my first board meeting for the Lancaster Literary Guild. I was asked to be on the board by the founder of the guild, and I took it as quite an honor. I also knew that it would be a commitment--two years, minimum. In addition to monthly meetings, I'll be asked to attend and help at functions and to help on committees. I was a little leery to accept such a call. My kids are picking up speed in their activities, and my amount of parental involvement in these activities is a bit of an unknown. True, I am giving up PTA committees at Reamstown Elementary, but who knows what my daughter's new school, a performing arts center, will ask of its parents.

Looking around the room at the literary guild meeting, I am pretty sure that I am one of the few with kids still at home. But I am willing to give it a try. It will stretch me in more ways than just effort. Already the discussions were flying around the room. I heard phrases like posthumanist philosophy and questions such as, "Did you read that story in the New Yorker?" It isn't that I felt stupid or ignorant sitting with this group, but that I felt out of touch. A lifetime ago, I was one of the informed parties--at least informed enough to carry my own weight in a conversation. I am not going to say that having children has dulled my intellectual powers, but there is something to be said for having to devote part of your brain to survival of the young. The incessant voice that seems to play out: Stay aware in the parking lot. Eat your salad; I am sure it's the only green thing you've eaten all day. Your teacher emailed me and you are missing three assignments. Do you have your shoes for dance? Both pairs? Where are your rubber bands. Do you want to wear those braces until the end of time?
Is it any wonder that when I get a moment of downtime, I go to Perez Hilton to peruse the stupid doings of celebrities and wannabees? Now, here is where I say that I've kicked the habit. If you go to the history list on my computer, you won't find Perez listed. (It isn't that I think that smart people and Perez readers are mutually exclusive--just that my brain can't handle the dichotomy of desire to name Angelina's twins with the ability to discuss the the lineage of magical realism in literature.) Maybe I am ready to get back into the intellectual game. I used to listen to NPR when I was at work. Now that I am writing, I don't listen to it anymore. I can't write and listen at the same time. I could paint and listen, but I do better work while listening to Tina Turner or Maroon 5. Locally, I have trouble getting NPR on my car radio, but I did manage to get a classical station going while I was driving home from the meeting. (Listening to Britney Spears and Miley Cyrus would have really undermined my resolve.)

So what is a woman to do to feel smart and informed? If only there was a blog where I could get in tiny little hits of information with pictures like Perez. Last weekend, I went to the Perelman Building at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and saw three small exhibits: Fashioning Kimono: Art Deco and Modernism in Japan, Designing Modern: 1920 to the present, and Transcending the Literal: Photographs by Ansel Adams from the Collection. The shows were small and digestible, but left me with the feeling that I had expanded my horizons. Maybe that's what I need to do: each week make a small effort to branch out and add something to my knowledge base. It may not be much, but I am a work in progress.

Question

I had my first meeting today with my coach (career, creativity, life). During one sitting, I had compiled a list of roughly 130 questions to use to whittle down to one we could work with as a touchstone for our work. (She assured me that most, if not all, the questions would eventually be answered through this process.) She had me read the questions aloud while she took notes. Some of the question included:

How can I balance writing/art/workshops?

Should I focus on one area?

What do I see myself doing in 7 years when my kids have left the house?

What do I need in order to feel successful?

How does money affect my ideas of success?

How does my spiritual life inform my work?

What gender issues come into play in my work?

What is my last project trying to teach me about my future work?

After we reviewed the questions, Kathy asked for more details about my past. Why did I quit my job? Do the reasons I quit still apply? What do I think is the essence of Jill? (I had a hard time with that last one.) I filled her in on my creative and working life of the past ten years. Many a-ha moments later we came up with the question, How can I live my life to the fullest? This question was punctuated by a crashing leap by Kathy's cat. AMEN!

It may seem like a very broad question, but it encompasses so much of what I am trying to do. When asked leading questions about where I see my focus, I say I want it all. I like the painting and writing and workshop giving. I like raising my kids and making dinners. I like taking it all in and spitting it out in different forms. Like a conduit cable made of many wires.

Some themes did emerge. It became pretty apparent to me (Okay, Kathy told me and bells started going off) that I shut down when I receive criticism and direction. I don't like being told what forms my art and writing should take and this often has paralyzing results. We also discussed money which, interestingly enough, seems to be innately linked to gender roles in my mind. These roles are a big part of my process and art.

I am most excited to be going on this journey with Kathy. A former fiber artist who has studied gender roles in artmaking. That could describe me. I'm not sure where all this is going, but already today, I have written more than I have in the past month. I hope to journal a lot and make sense of this---starting with one large question.

Gentle Yoga

I was zipping around the universe trying to get working papers for my 10-year-old daughter so she could perform in dinner theater. Apparently, the school district where we reside has never seen such a beast as this form. There were calls to the state. I had to visit two schools to obtain signatures from unsuspecting school administrators. What is this for again? Then I needed to get my signature notorized in another place entirely. The notary happens to be in a little grouping of shops that includes a yoga studio,The Yoga Place. I have been eyeing this studio for years--it is the one closest to my house. Considering my kids' needs, in units of both money and time, I never signed myself up. But this time, I was frustrated by the run-around and felt the need to reward myself for the valiancy of my effort on behalf of my daughter's dream of summer stardom. This time, I saw a chunk of time between the end of school and our summer vacation that I could manage a short class. The only class that truly worked into my schedule was the Monday night Gentle Yoga class, but I was going to do it. Why else would my treasure hunt have ended at this little cluster of businesses? I would trust the flow.

I have always been physically active in some form or another. I have taken a smattering of yoga classes over a twenty year period and own quite a few yoga videos. Had my schedule allowed for the full choice of classes, I would have picked something like the aggressive yoga with the hot studio and endless sun salutations done in rapid fire succession. Or maybe I would have chosen another class that hinted at a goal--restoration or mindfulness, perhaps. This is quite funny. I have never had flexibilty or grace. I possess some strength and, thanks to my large flat feet, balance. And the idea of stillness? If ever one needed remedial yoga--it would be me. First night out--I rushed to the studio-- getting there late and having to find a place in the dark. Relax. Relax. Relax. What I was hoping would come off as a mantra was more like my inner drill seargent commanding me to do 100 pushups, but I made it through the beginning meditative stillness. When the lights came up, I saw the room I was in, and the beautiful shade of raspberry paint on the wall. It was both tranquil and enlivening at the same time. A huge stained glass artwork of lotus flowers hung illuminated at the front of the studio space. This was my kind of place. Maybe I didn't have to try so hard.

And so became my weekly June ritual. I have done three classes so far. Gentle Yoga seems made for me. Suzanne leads the class so I never feel as though I am exerting greater effort than rolling over in bed, but by the time the class is over, I am like a putty creature. Claymation Jill. My spine is a slinky. My ride home feels as though I am traveling by hover craft over a meadow instead of by minivan over potholed roads. I quite honestly feel like I've just had a full body massage and half a bottle of wine. And I sleep like a baby on Monday nights. I realize I've just exhausted the reader's tolerance for metaphor. But I don't think it is a coincidence that I started taking yoga class and am writing poetry again. Perhaps my poetic devices were trapped in the rigidity of my spine and limbs. Or maybe a purple room makes my brainwaves sing. Or maybe the lesson is that too often we try for and get discouraged by the grand gesture when it is small effort that yields big results.

Remembering Tasha Tudor 1915-2008

When I am asked what art exhibit has meant the most to me over the years, I always talk about the Tasha Tudor exhibit I saw at the Abby Aldridge Museum of Folk Art in Williamsburg, VA. We were down there on vacation with my parents and extended family. The month was August. I am going to guess that it was just this side of ten years ago. My mother is a huge fan of The Secret Garden. Her library includes many copies of the Francis Hodgson Burnett classic by many different illustrators, but her favorite is the one illustrated by Tasha Tudor. That's how she came to learn about this marvelous writer/artist. As we journeyed south for our vacation, my mom, still in her Tasha discovery phase, was reading a book about her life that included wonderful photography. Imagine my mother's surprise upon arriving in Williamsburg to discover the Aldridge Museum was featuring a huge exhibit of Tasha Tudor's life and work.

For the unitiated, a little background (and make sure to click on the above link): this remarkable lady lived in Vermont. She raised four children on her own in an era that was not easy on single mothers. To make money, she illustrated and wrote books. Her children put on plays and elaborate puppet shows as a way to make money. They made all the puppets and sets themselves. I hate to try to condense Tasha's life in this place, but I want to give a sense of the woman. She lived simply and off the land. She collected and wore a wardrobe of dresses from the 1830's--her favorite time period. Her idea of making a shirt was to grow her own flax. She ate a diet that included goat's milk from goats she raised. She drew upon her life for her illustrations which included several children's books featuring her beloved corgis.

The exhibit, my introduction to Tasha Tudor--other than an article I saw in our local newspaper; included short films; reproductions of rooms in her home; the huge dollhouse that she and her family created, furnished and decorated for each holiday (including the tiny valentines the dolls exchanged). There were dresses from Tasha Tudor's antique collection. Original illustrations. A display of the technique for turning flax into a shirt. The colors of the walls were rich to hold in the lushness of the displays. My heart sang as I rounded each corner to find a new discovery. This was a woman who lived creatively, lovingly, outside of society's dictates, and inside of her own imagining.

I have been on the Tasha Tudor e-mail notification list for many years. Today I received an email that told me that Tasha Tudor, at age 92, had died at her Vermont home surrounded by loved ones. I am in awe of the woman, and happy that she touched my life as a mother, an artist, and a writer. Last week I cleaned my bookshelves (a byproduct of a painting project which is the byproduct of new carpeting) and came across the book A Time to Keep: the Tasha Tudor Book of Holidays. It reminded me again the importance of pausing to notice and mark the seasons of our life with ones we love.

I hear that the Tasha Tudor foundation is working on a permanent museum to house the collections and exhibits. I for one, will be making a pilgrimage to see it one of these days when it is completed. Road trip to Vermont anyone? I promise, you will not be disappointed. As for today, I will pay homage to Tasha by enjoying my dog, spending some time in my garden, rereading her books, and spending a slowed-down dinner with my family in enjoyment of the season.

Coincidence?

I started off my day watching the Oprah Soul series interview that Oprah did with Dr. Wayne Dyer where he explains coincidence as a mathematical term used to describe two angles that fit together perfectly. Oprah countered with, "There are no coincidences." She used the word in the way we tend to use it today--as in surprise happenings.

I taught a workshop yesterday on Creative Journaling for artists. It was deeply satisfying. I got to explore the art making process and connect types of journaling to each part of the process. Then--to further instill it in my own mind, I got to teach it. I left my house with a smile, telling my son I was off to work. He said, "Yeah, but it's a job you love." That wasn't to discount my work, but to reinforce it.

I stopped in a cafe for coffee before my class and had some Ethiopian blend while journaling and finishing the final chapter in the Art and Fear book I am digesting. An interesting thing happened. I put off reading the last part of the book and instead wrote two poems. It has been a long time since I wrote poetry. I don't usually share my poems. Sometimes I take bits and pieces of them and use them in my novel writing. It was wonderfully freeing. Totally emboldening. Dare I say. . .decadent? I am being reunited with my words after a trial separation, and I am finding we are compatible. Why did we think we weren't?

I went to the workshop feeling light and happy. Eight people came, which is a great group size for me. Large enough to justify my time (and gas allowance) and small enough to interact. We brainstormed about what it is to be an artist. I read from Sue Bender's book Everyday Sacred. In the group itself, I reconnected with longtime participants and met some new faces. Though I travel 25 miles to teach this class, the newbies live three miles from my house. We discussed the local school system, where to buy raw milk, and cheesemaking. I found out that my new acquaintance is the baker who makes my favorite bread.

After the class, I again felt light. I bought some herbal bug repellent in Sarah's shop. My husband loves the scent; so if I can repel bugs and attract him, I am good for all the best possibilities of a summer evening. In addition, I had just finished reading Everyday Sacred which has as a running theme the symbolism of begging bowls. Tibetan monks go out and beg with their empty bowls and they learn to be grateful for whatever comes their way. I had been looking for a new summer purse. Radiance has lots of options made by Hemp Sisters. I picked up a particular bag that was woven with colorful fibers with black & white print accents. The print has a picture of a simple bowl. If that wasn't enough, when I found out that the colorful fibers were actually recycled Indian saris, I knew it was mine--in spite of the fact that my pay for giving the workshop was going to be seriously compromised by all my expenditures. And so, with my bug repellent/husband bait and my new purse, I left the shop and headed back to the cafe for my lunch date.

I was meeting a new friend Kathy who came to the labyrinth workshop at the end of May. She is a former fabric artist who is currently taking a course called Biography and Social Art at Sunbridge College in New York. We connected on about one hundred different levels. She was finishing a book by the author of Art and Fear so we discussed the things we both discovered from the books. We are both knitters, though Kathy is more actively so. She is doing an in-depth study of artist Judy Chicago for school. Judy Chicago had a great deal of influence over me and my art when I was in college and to this day. And Kathy's daughter lives in Northampton, MA, a town I love. So when Kathy asked if we could work together--she needs to practice coaching individuals as part of her program--I immediately agreed. With my scattered art and business practices I have been feeling the need for some unifying forces and direction. Coincidence? She asked that I come up with a central question around which to center our work. (Since the meeting, I've made a huge list of questions from which I hope to whittle down to one at our first session.)

If that wasn't enough, I came home to a surprise check in the mail. I sold another piece of art--one that, frankly, I forgot was hanging in a gallery. WOO HOO! I put the check in my begging bowl purse with much gratitude.

A cap on my day, I watched the movie Becoming Jane (about Jane Austen) with my daughter. (She is a big Anne Hathaway fan, and although she is more in the realm of The Princess Diaries--for literature as well as movies--she has watched Pride and Prejudice with me in the past.) We then proceeded to spend the rest of the day curtsying and perfecting our English accents.

A day of serendipity and light.