Tag: postaday2012

thoughts on Whitney Houston’s death

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Whitney Houston (from creative commons, wikipedia)

I like being ordinary. When I was younger, I wanted to be famous. I wanted to act, dance, write, host a talk show, be on TV. (Okay, yes, I did these things, but not in a big way. When I was younger, I was frustrated with my lack of fame; but lately I’m happy I never hit it big. I could never have withstood the attention.)

I don’t know whether to blame Whitney’s death (or Michael Jackson’s or Amy Winehouse’s or Elvis’s or you name them) on our f’ed up culture that elevates celebrity and then loves to watch our elevated gods plummet. Or maybe I should blame the pervasiveness of drugs and alcohol in pop culture. Or better yet, let’s acknowledge the reality that drug and alcohol addictions are diseases — diseases that inevitably and eventually kill people if left untreated. The best treatment is the one that includes 12 steps and anonymity (the exact opposite of celebrity!)

As a society, we need to get in the habit of finding heroes in our real lives, not in movies, fan magazines, or political parties. Then, let’s build each other up — don’t put each other down or delight in anyone’s demise.

Our outpouring of love for people who’ve died from addiction is too late. Yet every person has the potential to heal from diseases of addiction.

If someone you know needs healing from a disease of addiction, tell them, write to them, let them know that their illness can be treated; that they can get better. This is hard to do. Do we ever tell people we worry about their drinking? I rarely do. When I have had those conversations, it’s been very hard. I’ve needed to detach with love. Give people their dignity. Give them their choice — the choice to recover is always there. Making that choice as a public person must be extremely difficult.

Yet life’s difficult journeys are the ones we learn and grow the most from. The difficult times are the moments that teach us to be real and to love one another. That is, at least, what I tell myself. Me, someone ordinary, not someone famous, but someone who is alive and happy and grateful for each new day.

Marriage and Work

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While my husband has been away for a month, I’ve been extremely productive — embarking on a new job; completing writing and art projects; making new parenting connections. I wonder if my productivity has anything to do with being single, even briefly.

Was thinking about this when I took a walk in Riverside Park at lunch time yesterday.

Is it possible that relationships — particularly marriages — take up energy that might be (better?) spent pursuing art?

In my Henry James class in college we talked about this a lot. James never married and was incredibly prolific — coincidence? James advocated substituting sexual desire with creativity. He thought marriage was deadly to artists, particularly writers.

I remember feeling this after I split up from my first husband (I always feel like Zsa Zsa Gabor when I refer to my “first” husband), I remember wondering then: ‘If I had not spent all this effort in my marriage, to what heights could I have climbed.’

No one argues that relationships take work, but once free of that work, even for a month, the possibilities for other creative and, let’s face it, better paying, work emerges.

Going Just A Little Bit Out of My Way

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I am always shocked that my kids make it to the school bus on time. In the morning, I am the pit boss of the Indy 500 — fixing broken wheels and finding socks. So the fact that the kids get launched into the world every single morning — and have never missed the bus — shocks me.

It’s about the routine. To save me from the huffing and puffing and stress of the morning launch, I’m thinking we should tune up our morning and evening routines.

Grant's Tomb at dusk

I started thinking about how one small action can cause a new chain reaction last night, when I stood waiting at my usual bus stop for my usual M5 bus. I saw the golden light of sunset and realized I had not taken a photo for the day. So I walked towards the next bus stop.

And on the way to my new stop in the dusky light, the sunset was brighter, the Hudson more reflective and Grant’s Tomb more pinkish.

kids skateboard near Grant's Tomb

Walking to my new bus stop, I passed a bunch of kids skateboarding. And I thought, I’ve got to do this more often — find a new way. Because right next to my usual routine is something dazzling and brilliant.

I don’t know if one small tweak will help me with our morning and evening family routines, but I think it’s worth a shot. Chris, my husband, has been gone for nearly a month, directing a show in Florida, so I think the time is now to get into a good new habit before he comes home!

What My Girls Think of Barbie

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We’re not really into Barbie but the girls and I were picking up some hula hoops at Toys R Us and one of my girls wanted to visit Barbie’s Dream House.20120205-221144.jpg

I liked seeing all the professions a girl could choose for her Barbie, including architect and art teacher.20120205-222922.jpg

As we were walking out of the store onto Times Square, one of my daughters said, “You know Barbie is never shown as homeless, so it’s not really real.”

My other daughter said, “Real girls are never perfect and perfect girls are never real.”

And just for a moment, with a hula hoop over my shoulder, I felt like I was doing pretty well as a mother of girls.

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advice from my art teachers

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My art teacher Naomi Campbell at the Art Students League said to do these three things:

1. Make it strong
2. Keep it simple
3. Edit it down

Is this brilliant or what? She advised us to start with a big solid shape. To convey a gesture, make a strong line.

I love this. I’m a dip-my-toe-in kind of painter but this advice gives me permission to be bold.

Speaking of permission, Robert Burridge, my teacher at the Holbein workshop in Vermont, begins his class by passing out permission slips – bright magenta slips with the word “Permission” printed on them.

And whatever question you ask him, Burridge said, he will always answer, “Yes.”

“More blue?” “Yes.”

So one smart aleck asked, “What if I ask, ‘Does my painting stink?’ Will you say Yes?”

And Burridge said, “I’ll say, ‘You have permission to start over.'”

And that’s kinda what Campbell said today too when she said, “It’s only paper. Don’t try to make it perfect.”

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This guy was eating lunch and smoking at the same time, sitting outside the Art Students League today.

My Life as Superwoman

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My days have been chock full. In no particular order, over the last couple of weeks:

  • I discovered I have more basal cell carcinoma (this time, on my hairline). Surgery is tomorrow.
  • I have taught creative writing at a public middle school.
  • I bought a sectional couch and rearranged the family room. (I believe the Raymour & Flanigan salesman gave me a nice discount because he admired my tenacity and good spirits as I furniture shopped with boisterous preteens and a teen.)
  • I have been solo-parenting while my husband Chris is in Florida for a month, directing Picasso at Lapin Agile.
  • I have met a challenge with teen boys’ behavior. Say no more.
  • I have had sick daughters (one with strep throat, the other with swimmer’s ear).
  • I have started an interim job as a writer for another faith-based organization, a women’s group.
  • I have received an email, first contact in 20 years, from my ex.
  • I have been taking a sketch class at the Art Students League. I have been painting, drawing, and collaging a lot. And even sold some art.
  • I have been taking a photo every day.
  • I have been journaling every day.
the fog in Riverside Park on one of my lunchtime walks

I could elaborate on any one one of these bullet points. Suffice it to say, I have felt like Superwoman, empowered and challenged. Being Superwoman is tiring.

I have felt, just recently, the need to slow down. Perhaps February can be a month for that.

All of my work — my art, writing, and teaching fills my soul and I intend to keep on keeping on. My husband suggested that when he comes back, I should go to a spa for a few days. I like that. Until then, I might just curl up on the new sofa with a good book.

Facebook group for home organizing

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This is totally embarrassing. I had been doing a lot of stash and dash at my desk at home – work papers, teaching ideas, bills, notes for blog topics, kids’ school papers, my art projects.

I posted a picture in a closed Facebook group, 2012 – Out With the Old Declutter Group. The group, founded by Alison, is a way for about 30 eclectic friends and acquaintances to hold one other accountable for making and keeping our home organizing goals.

And one Saturday in January I posted this picture:

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I saw what I needed to do. I told the group I would clean my desk. So, little by little, throughout that one day, I organized. I found things I had been missing, like my wedding ring. I also found a still life of a pear that I’d painted and thought was pretty good, so I framed it.

To organize my papers, I grouped like with like. I filed some papers in my file cabinet, started a binder full of curricula, threw out papers, Christmas cards, my art.

And then I posted a pic of the finished, decluttered desk:

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It felt so good to make my home space pretty and functional. And I didn’t need to hire personal organizer. I just needed social media — my online accountability group and my camera phone. Priceless.

Making Stuff Makes Me Happy

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I have been taking a photo a day for about two months now. I post the pictures on Facebook. Sometimes I don’t feel like taking a picture. But it takes two seconds and often the result surprises me. One friend told me on Facebook, “I love your photos of the day. They are always so lovely, AND they make me want to move to NYC.” She made that comment yesterday when I had stopped for a moment to notice this doorway.

But I can’t take all the credit. The filters at Instagram make my photos look artsy. Ten million people are using Instagram (is that possible?) Also, I’ve been dipping into the Effy Wild’s Book of Days, which is inspiring one thousand people to fling glitter and self-love around in pursuit of a daily journal. (I try for weekly.)

Everyone is an artist. I believe this. I believe we get an endorphin rush every time we create. When we run too — although I have not been running much lately. Humans are wired to love creativity and fitness. Being athletic and artsy are natural de-stressors.

I love the feeling of an inch of charcoal in my fingers or the swoosh of a loaded paint brush against the paper. I love the click on my phone’s camera. I love hitting the Publish button on my blog.

I just love making stuff.

No Good Night Sleep

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Started walking home last night, on Riverside Drive

For two nights in a row I’ve hardly slept at all. Last night started out well. I fell asleep at 10:30. But C. came into my bed at 11:15, calling, “Mom? Mom?” I blew my lid.

I hate yelling, but there I was, yelling, “Are you kidding me? I need a good night’s sleep! Unbelievable! Get back to bed!”

I believe in the future that yelling at children will be looked in the same way we look at hitting children nowadays — a relic of some misguided child-rearing dysfunction.

C. was just being a kid. She was teary. She was probably worried about returning to school after a couple weeks of Christmas vacay. I don’t know what was going on with her, because I didn’t listen. I had no compassion.

At 3 am, after tossing and turning, I tried to express my unhappiness to my husband but he was not as supportive as I needed.  He was watching the movie, Mean Bosses. The crazy-ness of his staying up all night (due to his Parkinson’s) contributed to my sleeplessness and, I believe, contributes to the family sleep dysfunction.

“I need a retreat at a convent,” I told my husband in the middle of the night.

I haven’t been writing much. I’m unhappy. “Maybe I should get on anti-depressants or go back to therapy,” I said.

“I know I should work out.” I tried to walk home last night, but it was too cold and I hopped on the bus when it pulled up beside me.

Happy New Year.