Loss

When my best friend's mother died, I watched her go through the tunnel of loss. It's a helpless feeling, to watch. But having lived through it myself, I could look her in the eye. People often call you brave when you're in the tunnel, as if you had a choice.

The day my dad died was the strangest day of my life, and it broke me. I was only 29. Years later, when I lost my mom, the dark cloud of her followed me for a year.  Now, I’ve lost my brother—my gifted, frustrating, inspiring, angry and passionate brother. 

Loss is isolating and surreal. You wander through days, out of body. As in an Escher drawing, you are the figure repeating into itself. You're a body in the Matrix. You rise each day, you move, and it really does feel as if you could jump off a building and live. 

Reminders are everywhere—as nebulous as a scent or as tangible as the shoes you're wearing. Denial burns in your throat and in your stomach. Tears don't come and you want to cry. You want to feel. You cling to the grief because somehow, it keeps them near.

My dad Jack

My dad was a no nonsense guy with a tremendous sense of humor. He had an answer for everything.
Me: "Hey, we're out of milk!"
Dad: "We have milk we haven't even used yet."

Dad: "Hey get down here."
Me: "Wait..."
Dad: "Weight broke the wagon down."

My personal favorite, when leaving a party or somewhere else...
"Don't think it ain't been nice...cuz it ain't!"
He would drop off the end part because after a while, everyone knew it so well.

What I really appreciated about him was his willingness to sit down and reason out a thing instead of yelling or getting mad or punishing.

Once, when I was in college, he sat me down and told me my mom had been reading my journal. I was incensed! He said my mom thought I was going to kill myself and couldn't I write something positive in there. How dare she! was all I could think. I eventually did write something in there, but not without a statement about invading one's privacy.

The thing I love about that story is that despite my mom's reaction, and despite whatever it was I wrote, he knew I wasn't going to kill myself. He knew it was just teenage angst. He was so practical and straight to the point. I loved him. Now, I adore him. And miss him.

Common Courtesy Series: The Elevator Man

Once upon a time elevators had captains.  The Captain sat on a stool by the number panel. "Floor?" he'd say, as you stepped aboard and pressed the number for your floor. He always held the door for his passengers to step out before the ones waiting got on.

Without the Elevator Man, common courtesy has gone down the shaft. These days, getting on and off elevators is a free-for-all. When an elevator door opens, it's a rush to get to the other side, bodies dodging and pushing and rushing, pushing buttons to close the door. Are we in that big of a hurry? Another elevator is seconds away. Step aside people.

Dear Otis, please bring back the Elevator Man.

Love,

Claustrophic Passenger

Creative Style Inventory

1. When did your creative awakening or re-awakening occur?

The first time was seeing a play when I was six. The reawakening has been recent, tapping into other creative talents and desires and actually being in them.

2. What talents do you have naturally?
Acting, writing, graphic design, art (mixed media, collage, oil pastels), singing, expressing.

3. Which elements draw you toward them? (Fire, Air, Wood, Water)
Wood and water.

4. Where and when do you create?
In my home studio/office.

Where and when do you wish to create?
Write at home and create at the Loft, spread out on tables.

5. What activates your creative energy? And what drains it?
I get inspired by other artists, talking with them, seeing their work, going to galleries and museums, the ocean, being outdoors, water, visiting artisan shops, movies, reading great books & great articles in great magazines.
Drains: Medication changes.


6. What creative rituals do you have?
Open the window next to my desk, light a candle and/or lavender incense. Corny, but true.

7. Does nature influence your creativity?
Yes, everything about it. Colors, textures, movement, all of it.

8. Biggest creative hurdle so far?
Being not enough in the process & too focused on the end result. Can paralyze you.

9. What time of day are you most receptive to inspiration?
Late at night!

Risk:
To sail around a cliff.

Sarah

How could you be a mother?
I am not a mother.

You were 12 when I met you, looking out at the snow-filled forest,
up to the mountains, full of confidence.
You never seemed to waver, stood strong like the trees before you.
I envied that.

Now you mother two beautiful girls, you engage
in it, you breathe it.

It is strange at once for me, but fascinating,
riveting. I read your elegant stories about your daily
challenges. I see the strong hand and soft heart.

I long for the experience, but knowing it's
behind me, I embrace yours.

Take My Hair

At
the
end
of
the
day,
wine swings
in its clear
bell
glass.

My head is flung back,
letting the breeze take my hair.

The Burgundy is perfect,
warm.

Necco Wafers

I once participated in a “Walk for Life” at a crisis pregnancy clinic. Since I went alone  I decided I would just walk to the one mile marker (there were three, one mile, five miles or 10). Before I knew it an older man caught up with me and struck up a conversation. He regaled me with stories of his childhood growing up in rural California. He spoke with the melancholy of a simpler time that I could see he loved and missed very much. He was curious and full of questions for me and I felt he was the last of his ilk. Like my dad; he was a real gentleman. He shared many stories that day but there was one that has stayed with me.

"One day when I was a child,” he began, “I was walking a road I'd walked down every day of my life. These were dirt roads back then and I was talking to Jesus, just as easy as you and I are talking now. I was nine years old and I was eating Necco Wafers candy. Do you know what Necco Wafers are?"

"Yes," I said, "I do know Necco Wafers! My parents gave them to us on long drives. ‘Hold them on your tongues,’ they'd say, ‘and see who can keep them there the longest without biting.’ This was, of course, their way of keeping us quiet in the car.”

“Ah, yes,” my friend continued, "a good trick.”

He continued. “So, like you, I’m eating my Neccos, but I am biting them, picking them out of their delicate paper one by one and crunching them, if you please, as happy as can be, walking and talking to Jesus. All of a sudden—just that quick..." he snapped his fingers, "I felt this huge burst of love and wanted to share my candy with Jesus, so I impulsively tossed all my Neccos up in the air!

Well, almost immediately I realized how foolish that was and that I was going to have to pick them all up. That's how my parents had raised me so I knew I couldn't just leave them out there littering the road. But when I went to pick them up, they weren't there. I thought I must have hurled them farther than I thought so I walked around and around looking for them, scratching my head. All I could see was the dirt road I'd been walking on all of my life, not a single candy in sight." I guess God liked Necco Wafers too.

We walked the full 10 miles without even noticing.