waste not

I am not big on breakfast but give me a salmon croquette or cold fried chicken accompanied with hot corn bread or a warm croissant to compliment a bowl of my favorite summer fruits -- juicy peaches, red ripe raspberries, orange cantaloupe, green honey dew -- any given morning. My family is from the south. When I visited my relatives in Little Rock, AK back in the 90’s, my 80-year-young great aunt was up well before sunrise stirring around in the kitchen. I thought I got up early, but by the time my nose woke me from a comfortable snooze in a room filled with clean morning breeze, she had prepared chicken and dumplings as the main course for the fresh melon she had picked from out back, cut and placed in a lovely bowl to whet my appetite. I hated to tell her that I was no longer used to devouring big country breakfast meals and hadn’t done so in years. I was raised on scrambled eggs, pork bacon or sausage, toast or biscuits made from scratch (I never leave home without my recipe securely tucked in my bag). When my grandmother from Virginia came to visit or we were at her house in Hampton, the platter may have also been graced with oh so salty Smithfield ham, grits, and her own fruit preserves, maybe some fried fish.

My palette totally shifted after I left home and went to college. There was a restaurant/bakery on Columbia Road called Avignon Frères that introduced me to the croissant. I visited them as often as I could to treat myself to one buttery fold of dough -- delicate golden flaky crust outside, soft velvety melt in your mouth inside. They were so seriously scrumptious that from the first bite I knew that petit déjeuner would never be the same for me. Sometimes I would scoff it down, more often with slow deliberation I would pull it apart extending the pleasure it brought to my tongue, mouth and tummy. If I had a little extra change, I would sit down at a table and order a dish of fruit to accompany my delicacy. I refer to it as such because as a student, I didn’t have lots of money to throw away, this truly was an indulgence.

Thinking back, a croissant was one dollar if that; when you’re an unemployed student trying to finish your degree every penny counts. But I knew how to turn a simple thing into a luxury that I relished, something I forgot when I graduated and started making money. It took a financial downfall on my big old tush to remind me that being able to afford something as small as a piece of baked bread was all that was needed to make my day. I am grateful for what I learned and rediscovered in the valley of I can’t pay my bills. When I climbed out, knees scuffed clothing tattered, I was a better gal who took nothing for granted. The lesson has since taken on another meaning as I attempt to be more mindful about being wasteful; buying only what I will eat then eating it before it goes bad takes some doing. My friend who pens www.thatskinnylittlebitch.blogspot.com has adapted that attitude when it comes to food, both in shopping for it and preparation. She takes great care to plan meals for the week in an effort to waste nothing and gives a whole new meaning to appreciating every single item purchased. Good things come to those who do not waste, I am taking copious notes from her which brings me back to breakfast.

I make it a practice to eat something every morning but have never returned to the type of meal my family ate when I was younger. A heavy breakfast weighs me down plus I NEVER liked eggs in the first place unless every mouthful was paired with a morsel of bacon or sausage. I will whip up a batch of scones or buttermilk biscuits if friends are around along with baked spiced apples doused in a secret liqueur and a baked egg and crab dish that I actually enjoy. However, fruit, croissants and a glass of champagne is my preference but a buzzed mind is a terrible thing to waste on a weekday so on occasion that’s the weekend treat. Cold pizza and champagne is good…ok, another Sat/Sun meal…well, let’s just say my Monday – Friday AM taste leans towards breakfast lite from foods more commonly found on lunch and dinner menus sans the alcoholic beverage. Come to think of it, I always did like pancakes for dinner.

keep your peepers open! ®

the shining

After a quick shower on a morning when I could have luxuriated in a leisure one, I am now in a crazed dash to get my “you know what” out the door! Why must I piddle? I wake up and get out of the bed with time to spare almost every day. Then somehow some thing diverts my attention and before I know it, I am completely absorbed in either meaningful or more often than not what feels like meaningless activity. Part of my AM ritual involves a sort of speaking meditation. Today as I pondered over men, dating, etc., I uttered two words -- shining knight -- that stuck in my head and caused me to stop getting ready, jot down some notes and yeah, make me late. A blog in progress, I knew it was going to be a hasty hop through the water.

Women have been known to use the phrase knight in shining armor when describing what I can only say is a fantasy man. I’d been guilty of dropping it in conversation, dropped it when during another meditation I was confronted with a couple of glaring truths. 1) I was not looking for a mate to save or rescue me which is what a knight in shining armor did for the distressed damsel in storybooks from my youth and 2) that metal suit really is quite a heavy outfit for an intended. Those four little words are an expectation that can knock a guy off his horse right onto his “what you know." So I found it interesting that knights shining or otherwise had entered my consciousness once again.

I considered shining knight…to me it says there is a luster about him that has caught my eye…a better start with less demands me thinks. Now shining also means unblemished, faultless, which takes a spell to discover meaning give him time to reveal who he is. Another synonym for shine is have a gift for. Perhaps if we let the dance between them and us move gracefully, the gleam in our eyes will be real not blinded and the gift of the relationship we desire will be bestowed upon us… then he can sweep us up onto his horse and ride off into the night (sorry, I am a sap for fairy tale endings and am sure working on one of my own).

Haste may indeed make waste, so the above is my homage to the art of piddling. A slow roll on occasion and making time for quiescent moments may take you exactly where you want to go and just maybe with whom so…

keep your peepers open! ®

graphic courtesy of Word clip art

light bright

I’ve never been keen on chandeliers dripping with crystals or any type of elaborate lighting fixture. I lean towards clean line softer illumination and cannot tolerate those bright overhead florescent bulbs prevalent in so many public spaces. Abominations that simply massacre color, I can count the number of times I have tried on and bought a tube of lipstick only to get outside and know instantly that it is so the wrong shade. Thankfully some stores will now let you correct your mistake; we love you Sephora for allowing us to bring our “misticks” back!

Earlier this year, I headed over to the Rufino Tamayo exhibit at the Meridian International Center here in Washington. I knew it wasn’t a traditional gallery space before I got there but was not prepared for the view at the top of a semi-circular driveway. Standing between the stone entrance walls with the gold address plaque, I was enthralled with the old mansion surrounded by lots of trees on quiet Crescent Place (and the street really is that shape which made the whole experience even more charming for me). I feel like I’ve stumbled on a gift from some unseen benefactor when I find peaceful escapes within the hustling bustle of a city, pinch myself even more when the dichotomy are just steps from one another. I skipped up the drive like Dorothy approaching Emerald City and once I set foot inside the doors, it was difficult to depart. I roamed from room to room, each almost devoid of furnishings, carefully absorbing the works of art in this new found oasis. On my third meander, I looked up and was enchanted by the ornate dangling chandeliers, circled through a fourth time to appreciate the ceiling art noticing the varied cuts of each crystal, the way light reflected in and through them. Having taken glass classes, I wondered how long it took to fire and form every piece of these hanging installations that more than likely went unnoticed in the presence of the collection installed on the walls. When I finally did tear myself away, I had a new appreciation for those decorative fixtures and though I still prefer more simplistic lights au naturale, I marvel at jewels above me, sparkling, twinkling, chatting with me…

The next day while piecing together a collage goddess, it dawned on me that I had been including pictures of lamps, lampshades, light fixtures and chandeliers in recent creations; my id was trying to tell me something. Perhaps its message was to continue bringing light to others through my work, maybe a reminder to let my own light shine, lighten up, or not to allow my light to dim or be snuffed out by disparaging remarks and insignificant individuals; all of the aforementioned applied to me. I made a mental note and kept pasting. One morning, the most miraculous rays of light beamed from behind the clouds, stopped me mid-stride, lifted my head, caressed my face with their radiance and answered. What was spoken is not important to share, that I was available to hear the enlightenment is what matters.

Just remember…light is not always needed for us to see so be alert and as always…

keep your peepers open! ®

on spring break

...back on Sunday. Until then…

keep your peepers open! ®

blooming buds

Cherry blossom time in my town is kinda crazy for those of us who live near the Waterfront. The Tidal Basin is overflowing with folks, dogs, baby strollers, cameras, tripods, and oh my goodness traffic galore even at 6:45AM! The sidewalk around the water is one continuous breathing swarm of awe negotiating a spot to stop and snap or just look; keeping yourself from falling into the drink is a sport unto itself! Almost all of my photos were underwhelming, but honestly I could have cared less this go round. They were taken with a joyous spirit brought on by just being out early on a morning that I must say made me feel privileged to be alive. The stroll around the basin with my best friend, sun rising over the shimmering water was exceptional, just glorious. And despite the chaos, swapping snowflakes for snow blossoms blowing from the trees is a more than marvelous situation that I’ll take any day!

Happy Easter, Happy Passover and wherever you are in the world on this spring day…

keep your peepers open! ®

PS – There are so many other beautiful trees that spring to life in spring, here are just a couple more.

take five

On my morning walk I became fixated with taking pictures of dome topped buildings against the dawn sky. While my I Phone is good, it cannot record things at a distance with the clarity or exact frame I’m after; my results were less than stellar so I decided to abandon this project and get back to steppin’. Passing by the Hirshhorn Museum, my gaze at eye level rather than in the clouds, a glow of light in one of the many alcoves that make up the base of this structure made me slow my gait, take a look at orange blush ensconced in sand colored wall. I picked up my stride, turned around to go back -- aim, click, point right, click, over, click, angle up, click, higher, click, done. The five pictures exposed abstracts painted without oils or acrylics that needed no canvas. When I manipulated them in Photoshop, the textures transformed into deep tactile surfaces. Darkening them brought forth hidden shadows, sharper silhouettes. Simply flipping an unchanged image changed it completely. Five that took about one minute to capture captured my undivided attention for over an hour of exploration painting with keystrokes, a neat means of creating without making a mess.

I gravitate to abstract paintings. What appears before me is simple, disjointed, chaotic, carelessness that is meticulous, ordered, connected, complex. If I stand close, every bumpy blemish (even the tiny ones made with watercolor) is a stroke to be reckoned with. Back up several yards, the protrusions flatten as the entire vision comes into focus. What is the artist saying as I comprehend the exact meaning most of the time. Even if I don’t get it, emotions still surface for me. Many adults I encounter stray away from abstracts opting for works that have easily identifiable objects, many children I know do not. Grown ups have a tendency to prefer things neater, kids don’t mind if stuff is messy. Big people over think what’s in front of them analyzing so much that they no longer see. Little folks just accept without judgment allowing a world of possibility to come alive before them. In less than 60 seconds, they captivate me with the most outlandish adventures as they dive into the artist’s view creating one that suits their youthful fancy. And actually, the pictures they paint make a whole lot of sense.

Listening to the mind of a child reminds me to take five, let my head air out then take another look at everything my senses encounter. What they envision should encourage you to…

keep your peepers open! ®

torn

Nine years ago, I walked into a position that prior to accepting I never knew existed. My intent when I first contacted the hospital was to volunteer; good deeds are not always punished. Though I had no formal training in arts in medicine, my journey thus far had carefully groomed me to be successful in this new endeavor. Unexpected talents and opportunities have been the rewards of taking a risk, a huge cut in salary, and essentially starting over with the career thing or rather than starting over I should say standing at the cusp of an arena that would make perfect sense of my entire past.

Among other things, working with the cultural arts in a medical institution has reinforced my belief that the arts need to be more accessible, less intimidating to anyone who has the desire to be creative. In grammar school, I questioned why my picture of a round house was graded poorly because it was not the shape the art teacher thought it should be. Heaven forbid you drew a triangle and it wasn’t the lesson on tee-pees -- branded across the top of your page would be the shameful scarlet “F”. As an adjunct professor teaching creative writing to adults, I remember seeing rows of windows opening when I removed that red mark from assignments past and told them there had always been more than one way to draw a home. Watching my students pop the tops of boxes that contained their stifled imaginations and begin to think outside for the first time was such a thrill. The use of visual art (I drew houses on the board to take them back in time) helped the class visualize their imprisoned mind as a metaphor for the word no. Seems like it was the first word we pronounced correctly the first time we spoke it as a toddler; each time we heard it, it took away something. I’m not suggesting that no doesn’t have its place in raising a child and that in many, many instances it definitely needs to be adhered to as we grow older. But let’s stay on point and direct our focus back to the arts shall we...

No can convince you that your norm is not normal, can put a stop to creative development. No made mine almost come to a screeching halt in junior high, suppressed my public voice driving it underground. I did not share my poetry and short stories with anyone anymore but continued to write secretly at night. In school, I conformed in an effort to please the art teacher and avoid a bad grade. I was tremendously disappointed each time I did not make first chair in band, felt pressure to keep it when I did. If I had been honest with myself I would have openly admitted that I really had no interest in playing the flute at that level. Blowing to explore various sounds that I found pleasurable satisfied me plenty. So I got in a box and partially shut the lid, slipping and peering out on occasion. Somewhere in my psyche I knew I was a nonconformist at heart and needed time to find my drum (if you listen, you’ll hear it banging long, hard, loud and often!).

One of the reasons I love to collage is that it really is an art form that anyone can do if they don’t try to mimic someone else. When I introduce it as part of a workshop I facilitate, I have participants select a picture from a magazine, tear it up, shuffle the pieces, then reconstruct it to design a different image. Each person has the freedom to show off their piece only if they want to. Judgment is not welcome in my classrooms, any way you do anything is right. Much like when I taught writing, I get a kick as do they when they see how cool their torn paper collages are, looks of satisfaction crowd the space. But the biggest treat is watching them watch themselves climb out of that box they’ve been residing in, free once again to freely express themselves after so many years. As they depart, many of them leave behind the carton they stepped from opting to discard it where trash is left. Others take it with them, torn like the strips they pieced together knowing that nothing will ever be quite the same.

Consider this…your morning routine is a dance that only you know and do, when you hum without thought it’s a song from inside of you, thoughts scribbled mindlessly in the margins may be telling you a story worth hearing…what I’m saying is we’re all creative beings so go tear up some paper and while you're at it...

keep your peepers open! ®