tie one on

A few years ago, I checked out a book from the library and taught myself how to paint on silk. I was making large assemblages at the time, and they were expensive to ship to galleries. I wanted something that was lightweight and also functional to add to my line of creations.

Dharma trading has been a wonderful resource. I order blank, white hemmed silk scarves from them, then stretch the scarves out, like small canvases--pinning them onto frames I rigged up. Then I paint them with silk dyes, and often draw on the scarves with fabric markers. Painting on silk is a lot like watercolor--sometimes the ink has a mind of its own. After the silk dye dries on the fabric, I dip the scarves in a fixative that sets the color and makes it permanent. They can be handwashed in cold water or dry cleaned.

I repeat certain designs as limited editions, but each and every scarf is a one-of-a-kind hand drawn, hand painted original. They measure 15" x 60". I wasn't big on wearing scarves before I started painting them. But since there were some around the house, I started using them and they do have a way of making you feel a put together. You can even tie one on the handle of your purse if you want to add a little color to your outfit, but don't want one around your neck.

This past holiday season, I began dedicating certain motifs to benefit different non-profit agencies, and it brought so much happiness, it is something I will continue: 

A portion of the sales of my whimsical bird designs go to Midland Hospice in Topeka. 

Wheat motifs benefit the Meals on Wheels route that was established in honor of my late friend, Krista Wagner. 

Abstract designs benefit Health Care Access. 

Floral design, "Flowers for June" benefit Red Cross blood mobile, in honor of my late mother--who loved flowers, and always donated blood. 

Dragonfly design benefits the Fugees, helping child victims of war rebuild their lives. 

It's a small way to give back after we have recieved lots of help over the years. It makes me happy, that's for sure.

I'll be showing my spring 2011 line for the first time at Body Boutique this weekend. They are having an open house; you don't have to be a member to stop by. There will be a few other businesses there as well:
Sat., April 7, 8am till 1pm
Sunday, April 8, noon to 5pm

I will also be at Art in the Park, Lawrence, Sunday, May 1st. Hope to see you soon.

Daniel in the lion's den, Betty with beer

Growing up, I attended a charismatic church with my parents. As a teen, I’d sit with my friend Leasa at every service—and we’d giggle so hard, we’d shake the pew.

We’d sit there, hour after hour, trying to decipher the pastor's round-about way of talking. What exactly was his point? It was anyone’s guess. He stressed certain words that did not need emphasis, and used multiple words that meant the same thing. Was it a means of delay, because he’d forgotten his sermon? This was decades ago, so if a lightening bolt was going to pop out of a cloud and zap me for doing this, maybe it would have happened by now. But I’d imitate him later:

“And he BEGAN to DO the thing which GOD asked him to START to PARTAKE along the WAY as he COMMENCED...”     Hunh?

 *******

I graduated at semester of my senior year in high school, then took college classes at Dodge City Community College and St. Mary of the Plains. During that time, I worked for an organization that had group homes for developmentally disabled adults. Mine was a live-in position; I had a private apartment in a large brick house that had, long ago, been a rooming house. Nine women with mild developmental disabilities lived in the home, and most of them worked in a sheltered workshop during the day.

My first day on the job another employee introduced me to all the women. One of the ladies who lived there was Sally. At around 45-50, she was one of the oldest residents there. She was sitting in the living room wearing nicely pressed slacks, one leg crossed over the other, reading the newspaper. Sally’s short dark hair was tightly and neatly curled. As we were introduced, Sally looked up at me warily over her reading glasses. Blue eyes regarded me cautiously for a couple of moments. Then she sat her paper and reading glasses aside, stood up and said, “Hi.” Moving closer and opening her arms to hug me, she said decidedly, “I love ya.”  This completely disarmed me and dispelled the nervousness of my first day on the job.

There was a group home for men about a block away; Sally’s boyfriend lived there. Most of the residents from my house and the men’s house attended church together. It was a small church within walking distance. One Sunday evening was going to be very special; my ladies were responsible for leading the service, and they hoped I would attend their church.

One night at the residence, "lights out" time had long passed, and I still heard someone talking. I went upstairs to check, and was surprised to see the light in Sally’s room on. “Sorry, just practicing!” she said. She was reading her Bible, and was excited about delivering the message at the church service the next evening.

Sunday evening, we walked to the church, along with the men from the group home nearby. When it came time for Sally to deliver the message for this special service, she approached the pulpit and told the story of Daniel in the lion’s den. A few minutes into it, she started to relax. After a few more minutes, Sally looked even more relaxed, and started adding arm movements to stress her point. She was a natural preacher; far better than the one I grew up with at my church.

Wrapping up, she said, “And that was the story of Daniel in the lion’s den." Sally knew she’d done a good job, and she enjoyed being at the pulpit. She didn’t really want to sit down. "  Pause.  "And my grandma taught me that story. And my grandma was a Good Christian Person." Pause. "My grandpa was a Good Christian Person. My mom was a Good Christian Person. And my dad…..my dad…..my….  Well, my dad TRIED to be a Good Christian Person.”

 *******

Around this time, at my own home church, something was unfolding. Our church was small, maybe 100 people. There was a couple there that I didn’t know personally, but had seen around. I’ll call them Gary and Betty. They had two very young sons. One had red hair and looked just like Gary, and one had dark hair and looked like Betty.

And then Gary contracted meningitis, and was sick for a long time. When he recuperated as much as he was going to recuperate, he was developmentally disabled. I was in the church lobby one day, and watched Betty lead her husband – now her dependent—and their two young sons up the aisle. She looked dignified and strong. Later, Gary became involved in the group home for men that was near where I worked. At 19, I thought that when bad things happen, it is because God allows it. And I was saying, “God? What are you, a practical joker?!”

I moved to Lawrence to attend KU soon afterwards. I never had a conversation with Betty, but her image—dignified, strong, steadfast—haunted me through the years. I hoped and prayed for good things for her.

 *****

Years passed, I married and had children. When my children were young, my husband was diagnosed with cancer. My dad died, my husband was going through chemotherapy, and I gave birth to my third child. One friend, not knowing what to say, tried to console me with, “Well, at least it can’t get any worse.” It got much, much worse for a very long time, before it got any better at all.

As I tried to hold everything together, I reminded myself of that image of Betty, and struggled to remain dignified.

*****

After my husband died, I used my art as my therapy. Once, some of my work was in a show at the art center in my hometown. A few weeks after that, I received a phone call from a woman who had purchased one of my pieces.

She called to tell me how much she was enjoying the painting. As we chatted, it came up that she attended the church I had attended as a child and teenager. I inquired as to the well-being of a few people from the church. And I asked about Betty, and said that although I hadn't really known her, she'd been an inspiration to me.

The woman "tisk-tisked" and said Betty wasn't doing all that well. She had incurred the wrath of the church, as well as the woman on the other end of the phone. After their kids were grown, Betty had divorced Gary! Gasp. And she had recently remarried and moved away. The woman on the phone wanted me to weigh in on the situation.

In the course of my life, I've tried a lot of things on for size, including gossiping. And announcing piously that I don't partake in gossip. Neither of those attitudes turned out to be all that becoming on me.

I said, "Oh, wow. Hmm. Well, I just don't think I'm in a position to decide that. Only Betty and God know what she went through and how she reached that decision."

Betty's dark hair might be peppered with white now, making her look even more dignified. I pictured her in a quiet cafe, maybe allowing herself a beer with dinner. And in my heart, I whispered, "Betty. . . have one for me, okay?"

velvet dresses and wide brown eyes

     Marcel had a hard time admitting he was dying. Looking through some papers a few years afterwards, I found a brochure from the American Cancer Society. Someone in one of the many doctor's offices we visited had given it to us. I leafed through the booklet. One spread listed cancer survival rates. The 6-month survival rate for the type of cancer Marcel had was very low; 20% or less.
     I was shocked to read that after the fact. It wasn't something we ever talked about. Marcel lived with his cancer for about 2-1/2 years after his diagnosis.
     I planned his funeral alone, when he was in hospice, and I felt like a traitor for doing so. We never talked about what kind of service he would have wanted.

     A lot of the funeral itself is a blur to me. It was within a day of Thanksgiving, and within a day of our youngest son's 1st birthday. I remember feeling like I didn't know what to do--play hostess? All of these people had come and I should thank them. I'd only been to two funerals--my grandmothers--one when I was 10, one when I was 18. My father had died a year before Marcel, but his funeral was on my due date for my 3rd son, and I could not make the trip to attend it.

     Marcel had worked at the Lawrence Interdenominational Soup Kitchen for some time. Many people he knew from there attended his funeral, including Mary, a woman who used to eat at the soup kitchen. I stood around all day blinking, blankly wondering what exactly it was that I was supposed to be doing. It came to the part of the service where people formed a line and greeted me. Mary was one of the last, and she told me serenely and very loudly that she hoped it would bring me comfort that all through the services, she had noticed a blue light hovering above my left shoulder. That seemed to have tremendous significance to Mary. While a lot of people looked on, I stammered something about appreciating her telling me. Weeks later, my friend Julie commented on it. She told me that life is way more surreal than we ever expect it to be. But that my life in particular seems to have "spikes of surrealism."

     The funeral home offered a support group for grieving families. We met once a week for about 8 weeks. I met a couple in the group, B. & R., who had lost their college-aged daughter--an honor student and talented musician--in a car wreck. This couple became very good friends for me and my sons. I love them. B & R told me about a native american belief:  a deceased person is actually still alive when there is someone here on earth, telling stories about them. A person is alive until the last person who knew them dies.

     B& R have often invited us to their home for the holidays, along with their extended family. On one such Christmas, we joined them for dinner. My sons were probably about 5, 7 and 9. B. & R.'s house was full of relatives. There was a little niece there, close to two years old, with sparkly blue eyes and a red velvet dress. Her feet never touched the ground--she was happily handed from one relative to the other the entire night. She looked so relaxed and loved. We had a wonderful time there. I gave B. & R. a funny book for Christmas, and some of us sat in a circle and took turns reading it aloud. More than one person laughed so hard, they cried.

     It wasn't always the holidays themselves back then that were so difficult. It was the going home. Alone. To my house where there was not another adult to shoulder the responsibility. Where there was not someone else to talk to at midnight. When the Mocking, Mean Voice slipped in behind me before I could close the door. And in time to my heart beat, it would chant:   "A-Lone. A-Lone. You. Are. A-Lone."

     By the time we arrived home from B & R's house that Christmas, I was nearly in tears. I thought about the niece, with extended family nearby to cherish her at every holiday. My sons had never had that experience--not like that. We were alone, a-lone, a-lone. Not wanting the boys to know I was upset, we came inside and I told them I was going to lie down for a little bit.

   Moms can't lie down without little boys needing something. One of them was at my bedroom door. "Mom? Are you crying?"  They found me out. They all filed into my room and assessed the situation. My oldest son, Frank, remembered that Calvin and Hobbes often made me laugh. He began, calmly and with great comedic timing, acting out a cartoon scene that we'd laughed over together. Freeman left to get kleenex. When he returned, Freeman stationed himself at my left eye. Frederick manned my right eye.

     They had a job to do. They positioned their heads, one on each side of me, their wide brown eyes one inch from mine. "Ah-ha! Kleenex please!" they'd say, when they saw liquid about to spill from my eye duct. And they'd dab it up. "Franklin, more Kleenex, please--stat!"

     I stopped crying, and burst out laughing.

     We never really were alone.

  

  
  

Hope

This post will make a whole lot more sense if you read the posts titled "Still Walking Around" and "Listen up!" before this one......


I communicated with Linda's daughter--I will call her "Ann"--on Facebook. My story about how her mom came to my aid really encouraged her. Ann suggested we exchange numbers! We talked on the phone today! She said that Linda was diagnosed with cancer in 2006.

Ann's story is so incredible, I could hardly sleep last night for thinking about it:


Ann said that Linda was in room 209 at Midland Hospice. I remember that room number well, as that was Marcel’s room at Midland nine years earlier. There were so many visitors to see Linda, her family finally posted visiting hours on her door. A constant stream of people, all the time. I don't doubt that one bit. Linda had a glow about her, and she made a difference in a lot of lives.

When I was first widowed, I was told to really take care of my health, because grief can bring out underlying conditions. Right after losing someone, it is very common to find out about a health condition you didn’t know about earlier.

Ann got very sick after her mother died. She'd never been sick in her life, and suddenly she was diagnosed with kidney problems—renal failure. She went through dialysis, and was eventually told she would need a new kidney. Ann was still busy grieving. One day, she felt God asking her to pray about providing a new kidney.

So Ann prayed about it, and thought about where the kidney would come from. She didn’t want a kidney because someone else died. She didn’t want a kidney from just any person off the street. And, she wanted a kidney from a white person. Ann shared that although that might sound funny, she is Black, and all the people she’d ever seen in dialysis were Black.

She left her prayer thinking she should focus on Hope. And that God was telling her to keep hope in him:  Having Only Positive Expectations.

She wondered why she had to get sick after her mother was gone?! Linda would have nurtured her through something like this. And through prayer, the message Ann received in response to that was, if you had been sick when your mother was here, you could not have taken such loving care of your mother in her last days.

Ann shared her health concerns in an email to her pastor, and the church was praying for a donor match. And then she put it in God’s hands:  “You made the universe, so I know you can get me a kidney if that is what is supposed to happen.”

One day as Ann was about to leave church, a pretty young white woman approached her. The woman said, “Did you know I am going through testing to see if I am a good match to be a kidney donor for you?” They  talked for a moment, and then the young woman moved to shake hands with Ann, offering, “Hi, I’m Hope.”

As it turned out, Hope was the youth pastor's wife, and she was the closest, most perfect match the doctor had ever seen. For any match. Ever. Looking at the lab results alone, he assumed they were sisters. Hope told the doctor, “Well, we are sisters in Christ.”

The day after Ann's last birthday, she received a new kidney from Hope.

Ann attributes the way it worked out of course to God first, but it didn't hurt to have her mom behind the scenes pullling strings, too. I have to say, I don't doubt that one bit.

Just before I (a stranger) wrote to Ann on Facebook introducing myself to share a story about her mom...Ann had prayed and said,"You know, Mom? I'd really like to hear from you...."