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.

Racial Incident

Recently Warwick High School, my alma mater had a lock down as a result of a non-violent racial incident. The news of this rocked my hometown of Lititz because they believed they didn't have a problem. As someone who has experienced moments of bigotry based on my sex and religion, I am not all that surprised. When I graduated high school, we had few if any people of color in our class, so my first experience with the color dynamic was in college. And guess what? When I was a freshman in college, the newly appointed president of the college resigned due to pressure about a badly phrased remark he made about racial disharmony on campus.

It's more comfortable to pretend this kind of hatred doesn't exist. Maybe it is about time to give our young people an education in tolerance. They need to know the faces of prejudice to recognize it when it shows its ugly face, and they need steps to take when it does. Over the past few years, the schools have tried to push an anti-bullying agenda. I applaud them for it. It is time to take another step forward. Kids need to feel safe in school no matter their race, sex, religion or sexual orientation. I applaud the programs in our area: Race against Racism, Crossroads (a forum for gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, youth), the work of the YWCA--among others.

My high school held a town meeting. I am happy to see how seriously they are taking this incident. Superintendent, Dr. George, said in his address that if one child is having a problem with racism, we have a problem with racism.

I can only take a stand where I am. Tonight I am going to have a frank discussion with my kids. I don't relish the idea of having this talk, but I think it is a place to start. And, like many creative practitioners, I try to work through issues using my various art practies. Art as therapy. In this vein, I started a landscape painting of the Lititz Springs Park (very closely situated to my old high school) yesterday. As I was painting it, I tried to keep thoughts of peace and tolerance. I wanted this vibe to be part of the painting. I wish I could say I was happy with the resultant piece of art that I started. It is too early to say, but I am having difficulties with it. The work is raw. I am experimenting with a new color palette, and I am not sure it is working. Color is a tricky thing and, in the end, I hope we all make it work.