small works in wool

Sunday Scribble.

2012-01-29T11:19:00.006-06:00

Red Spot II, Wassily Kandinsky

this

don't try to understand it

even if I did

I could not explain it to you

it tastes good, feels

easy going down

why peel back the casing

and poke at what's inside

call it our ink blot

whatever works for you

and let's go on

--smh

Must be time for The Mag . . .

click on the link and hop on board!

Hello again, you . . .

2012-01-26T11:49:00.000-06:00

So my favorite girl is back in the studio,

having leaped from her usual sphere to land upright on my desk where she can quite literally wave her flower at me as if wagging a finger. She has, as usual, words of advice, and probably hopes I will apply them liberally in all the places where my life feels like it is pinching a bit and needs to stretch . . .

All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without benefit of experience.

-- Henry Miller

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure

nor this thing nor that,

but simply growth. We are happy

when we are growing.

-- William Butler Yeats

Love dies only when growth stops.

-- Pearl S. Buck

The purpose of learning is growth, and our minds, unlike our bodies, can continue growing as we continue to live.

-- Mortimer Adler

Growth, in some curious way, I suspect, depends on always being in motion just a bit, one way or another.

-- Norman Mailer

Only in growth, reform, and change, paradoxically enough, is true security to be found.

-- Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Thanks, friend.

I have missed you, and I needed that.

Happy Thursday!

n'allez pas trop vite . . .

2012-01-24T11:17:00.002-06:00

OR --

in the language of Simon & Garfunkel:

Slow down, you move too fast

You got to make the morning last...

Not that I'm not pleased in SO MANY WAYS when the winter months speed by, but lately it seems that the world is spinning at a dizzying rate, which has everything to do, I am sure, with a looming deadline.

(Although my father recently said something to the effect that the nearer he gets to 80, the weekends seem to come so quickly that soon he expects his life to be a series of Sundays with no weeks in between at all. But then he suspects that has something to do with a looming deadline as well.)

So it could also be a function of age I suppose, but at any rate today seems like a good day to be reminded to slow down and smell a rose or two (or perhaps savor the diet coke a little...)

Which brings me to the point --

I've been reading something really wonderful:

How Proust Can Change Your Life, by Alain de Botton

Santa hit it out of the park with this gift! Although I was an English major, I am unfortunately not well-acquainted with Proust -- a situation which will be rectified after I have finished this. And it is one of the most delightful surprises of a little book! One of the reviewers described it as "seriously cheeky...cheekily serious", a type of writing that has tremendous appeal to me.

I recommend it to one and all -- regardless of your previous relationship (or lack of one) with Proust.

Marcel Proust

In one passage, a young diplomat named Harold Nicolson recounts meeting Proust at a party in 1919. Proust asked him questions about his work --

"Will I please tell him how the Committees work. I say, 'Well, we generally meet at 10:00, there are secretaries behind...'

[after which Proust interrupts him with a string of french -- which I'm delighted to say I could understand -- begging him to slow down and begin again. Roughly translated: 'You go to the building, you climb the stairs, you enter the room... and then? Tell me everything....']

'So I tell him everything. The sham cordiality of it all: the handshakes: the maps: the rustle of papers: the tea in the next room: the macaroons. He listens enthralled, interrupting from time to time -- n'allez pas trop vite.'"

The author of the book continues:

"And an advantage of not going by too fast is that the world has a chance of becoming more interesting in the process. For Nicolson, an early morning that had been summed up by the terse statement "Well we generally meet at 10:00" had been expanded to reveal handshakes and maps, rustling papers and macaroons -- the macaroon acting as a useful symbol, in its seductive sweetness, of what gets noticed when we don't go by trop vite."

My stitching is so slow, but -- alas --

my mind continues to go so fast . . .

Perhaps if I were to enjoy a mental macaroon or two along the way,

it would improve not only the process but eventually the product as well.

A perfect reminder for a too-hurried Tuesday.

Pass the cookies, please.

Sunday Scribble

2012-01-22T11:08:00.005-06:00

Please

too many textures

chafe this tender shell

and even the softest

cords will cut

when tightly wound

sometimes world

I wish to say

stop touching me

in all my softest places

-- smh

A little Sunday-something for The Mag.

Now pop over and add your own words to the mix . . .

Hello, my friend Friday!

2012-01-20T11:29:00.009-06:00

You know, people never cease to amaze me with their kindness. A lovely blog post featuring an interview with yours truly came my way yesterday, and it was enough to make me feel warm all over, despite our first real blast of Minnesota winter. You can see/read it here.
Thanks, Nestle and Soar!

I've been very busy this week -- actually on task for a change! -- and it has felt good. Some day I'm probably going to stop my procrastinating ways and be ready for a show in advance . . .

but please don't hold your breath. Just know that when the calendar turns over to February, the wail you hear will be from my studio. Because everything that should have been done in November is still sitting around tapping its foot and waiting for my attention. Oh well -- I've never missed a deadline yet. (Keep telling yourself that, Susan!)

One of the things screaming for my attention is getting my profile uploaded to the new TAFA website, which launched this week.

Rachel Biel has created something amazing in TAFA, and we owe her a debt of gratitude. I hope you'll all stop by and visit, and keep coming back (because new profiles from slowpokes such as myself will keep appearing every day.) Thanks, Rachel!

So, as many of you know, it sorta sucks being an artist in today's economy. Yes, there may be more poetic ways to express that, but we'll call it what it is -- sucky. I had just figured out the whole game when suddenly the game changed, and I (being somewhat more averse to change than most) was reluctant to do anything to adapt. That was okay for awhile, because my art was not my livelihood, so I had the luxury of just going along my merry way. HOWEVER...

Now it's becoming clear that we have not hit just a small pothole in our industry, but a completely different road altogether --

and it doesn't look like we'll be returning to our previous path anytime soon. So I'm looking to incorporate a little something new for Baltimore.

I've tried a few alternatives along the way (the collages, for instance) but with the ACC shows the jurying parameters are so strict that I'm very limited in how much I can deviate from my usual work.

So I have been formulating a plan,

and today I will give you a hint:

Voila!

She's so sweet, I'd almost like to eat her up . . . but she's not the finished product! You'll have to stay tuned for that. Or better yet, come to Baltimore yourself! I promise that even if my work disappoints, you'll have hundreds of exceptional artists that will make you ooooh and aaaah and wonder why you waited so long to see this show...

For now, sending you

warm wishes for a

wonderful weekend!

(full of alliteration, obviously...

but also whatever makes a weekend just perfect for YOU.)

Tuesday Ta-Da!

2012-01-17T13:15:00.017-06:00

My New Mexico Magazine arrived this week, and it was the photo issue. Just the thing for this winter-weary Minnesotan's eyes. My favorite image was the one they selected for the cover, (although it didn't scan very well for some reason)...

Ship Rock Following a Storm, Bob Ayre

This photo shows everything I love about NM, minus the food, but that's okay -- I can imagine myself walking along with a basket of sopaipillas/green chiles/guacamole and being completely blissful.

That's the feeling I was thinking about when I decided to make this piece:

Don't Fence Me In (working title), Susan M. Hinckley, 2012, 7.25 x 9.75"

For some reason, this little creation fought me every step of the way! I felt like I'd just competed in a stitching rodeo of some kind by the time I finally put the backing on.

Hannah saw the finished product last night and said, "I love the pink cloud! She's in New Mexico!" I knew I raised her right -- a girl after my own heart.

My Kind of Town, Susan M. Hinckley, 2005

When I made my first cowboy piece years ago, I had many people comment that they wish it had been a cowgirl instead. Being my feminist self, I couldn't believe I didn't think of that! But I've wanted to remake it ever since, and now I finally have. She's not saying anything, but the tune she's whistling will be evident on the piece of 1944 sheet music that will be in the frame with her. It is, of course, "Don't Fence Me In", and I am eagerly awaiting its arrival in the mail. I hope it is in good condition, the paper is a good color, it looks right with the piece, etc. etc. etc. I have a feeling she's not done bucking yet -- fingers crossed!

Whew! One down, and so many more to finish before the big show!

Back to work, Susan....

Happy Tuesday Trails to You!

[You know, it just this moment occurs to me that I fully intended to give the horse in this piece spots....cover your ears, kiddies.... SHE'S GONNA SWEAR LIKE A COWBOY!]

Later, back at the ranch . . .

Tuesday Ta Da . . . Part Two.

So we all know that creating things by hand is a messy and imperfect process -- emphasis on the process. If you want someone to remember the spots ALL the time, hire a machine, right? But I don't think I've ever had to remove the backing/mounting board from a piece in order to keep stitching on it. Good heavens. Chalk it up to one of those cases of looking at something for so long that you stop seeing it. That's the danger with really slow work. I had to start cleaning up my desk and unearth my original drawing, and THEN find the pile of spots I had cut out to play with (2 weeks ago) to remember my original intent. And I'm glad I did:

Aha . . . that's more like it.

What's the point of being friends if we can't share our mistakes and imperfections? Now:

Happy Tuesday (whatever's left of it) Trails to You! 2.0

ps. look what arrived in the mail:

mint condition.....yeehaw!!

Sunday Scribble.

2012-01-15T16:09:00.009-06:00

Sunk

So deep underwater

heart weighted to keep me

lost in you

I hear your muffled sounds, feel

your call from far away

your shape, a trick of light

and I can only hope you see

my siren bubbles

hear their song breaking

your surface, a reminder

that I am here beneath you

-- smh

[sculpture by Jason deCaires Taylor]

Magpie Tales turns 100!

(Thanks, Tess, for all the inspiration.)

Now... Stop by and join the celebration for yourself!

Friday.

2012-01-13T15:31:00.005-06:00

Always a pleasure
to find oneself in good company . . .

and I had just that kind of luck earlier this week when I was fortunate
to be included in Nestle and Soar's "Top Ten Tuesday" collection.

The piece Georgianne featured is my painting, "And Your Bird Can Sing". I hope you'll check out her blog -- it's lovely to look at, interesting and informative . . . and her wool work is wonderful!

In other news....

Chelsea came over last night and helped me make my new card for 2012, in preparation for the upcoming Baltimore extravaganza. Last year's card caused me no end of difficulty, because although it was an attractive image, I received the feedback over and over that it was not truly representative of my work. I knew I'd made a mistake with it after the first show. So I tried to be more careful with my selection this year. I can't wait to see the finished cards when they arrived -- went with a nice, oversized 5 x 7. Here's a preview, front and back:

(If THAT card doesn't say Susan M. Hinckley, I'm at a loss for what to try next.)

And lastly...

I truly hoped to have a new piece finished to show you today, but due to a VERY unruly cactus, as well as a host of technical difficulties (read: piece from hell) it is not yet finished.

Alas and alack. Seriously.

However -- it will be ready for a Monday reveal!

You have that promise in writing. (Please hold me to it.)

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep . . .

-- Robert Frost

(Yup. Working weekend.)

Happy Friday!

Show and Tell......well...sorta.

2012-01-11T16:36:00.067-06:00

One of the nice things . . .

. . . about getting the holiday clutter put away is that it gives me a chance to better appreciate my familiar old things.

We like each other much more after a few weeks apart. By the time December rolls around and we've been staring at each other all year, unfortunately it seems we hardly notice each other anymore.

This, for instance, is one of my most prized possessions:

Desert Bloom, Robert Daughters, 34 x 24, hand-pulled serigraph of 27 colors

It lives in my dining room, where I pass it 100 times per day. But eventually I stop seeing it. Despite its imposing size. And despite the fact that it has so much of what I love -- movement, sky, amazing color, the desert.

So I have spent the past few days apologizing to it and getting reacquainted -- giving it the notice it deserves -- and I think we're both happier as a result.

Which leads me back to last Friday's post,

my Beauty Scavenger Hunt challenge.

I often have pretty good ideas, but sometimes I don't think them through very well before I blurt them out, and it can get me in trouble.

I should have considered, for instance, before I issued the challenge, whether I would have the technology

to do it justice when I reported on it later. It only took me about 3 seconds (after I hit publish, of course) to smack my head and remember that I can't take a decent photo to save my life.

SO HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO DOCUMENT

MY COLLECTION OF BEAUTY? Rats.

I stewed about it all weekend, while simultaneously enjoying the search for the items I would like to include on my list, but had no idea what to do when Monday rolled around.

Then yesterday, the lovely Leenie at Side Trips (unhampered by a lack of talent in any area) posted her results in an ABSOLUTELY PERFECT array . . . I hope hope hope you will visit! Her list is splendid, and it's difficult to choose which item of her collection I like best.

I am so glad she did it so very well. Because now I feel much better about taking my own report another direction entirely...I'm much better at the TELL than at the SHOW, after all, so I decided to try to communicate my scavenger experience in words.

Yes, I know a picture is worth a thousand of them . . .

But the idea was for me to get in touch with 7 items of beauty, and I definitely did so! My list is contained in the following poem. I'm only sorry I was not able to buy beautiful postcards to better share my experience with you, Dear Reader. Please forgive me.

Scavenger of Beauty

no thanks is given

for what is left unseen

beauty un-grasped

un-savored, empty

eyes and hands, minds

that walk a straight line, look

ahead but not around

and fail to find a gift

along the way --

lines that trace their change

in sticks, in stems and branches, buds

a curl of hair, a wrinkle

at the corner of an eye

the song of a voice, its sound

or the silent hole it leaves

the color of light, spilling

weightless love on all it touches

words that bump and spin a dance

ideas, thoughts fleeting, minds that chase

the heart, its beating blur of movement

moon's blunt glow on ice

a drift, a graceful skiff of snow

clouds crossing sky, their mark of time

a crowd of anything, alive

and teeming with itself

our moment standing in this place
still, one breath between us

there for all if we will take them

to pocket, wonder, praise --

our thanks is in our notice

keep collecting

--smh

P.S. This just in -- best horoscope ever:

Gemini -- You're a sensual being. As intellectual as you may be, you're always operating on another level, too, a level that is affected by things like color, warmth and music. You'll gravitate toward beauty....

Hey, thanks, Ms. Fate!

Monday means....ALMOST 50 DEGREES??!!! See you in a bit -- I'm going ...um...out.

2012-01-09T14:19:00.020-06:00

I'm having a bit of a hard time
staying focused these days...

Usually, I'm able to maintain some semblance of discipline in my life

but so far this January, I'm feeling a bit like

I really need someone to put an electronic collar on me

and then sit me down at my desk and tell me to STAY.

No, no, no!!!

Not like that..... that's where I WANT to be

(and with a good book, please.)

Well, while we're at it, this would be even better...

But I seem to be under the spell of something

even more insidious than my usual post-holiday lazy stupor . . .

I'm going to blame

Mother Nature.

It's a little disconcerting, the way she's toying with us...

Last January, I was writing about it being 46 degrees BELOW ZERO in our fair state. This year, someone in MN saw a fly on their porch rail the other day. It was ALIVE.

A FLY!!

In Minnesota!

In January!

We're all a little confused, I think. Maybe completely addled.

Human life itself may be
almost pure chaos,
but the work of the artist
is to take these handfuls
of confusion and disparate things,
things that seem
to be irreconcilable,
and put them together in a frame
to give them some kind
of shape and meaning.

-- Katherine Anne Porter

I love you, Katherine Anne Porter -- you are one of my favorite writers EVER, and you are exactly right again!

The work of THIS artist, at least, is to take these handfuls of wooly, thready, un-stitched snips of confused nothingness and put them together, and THEN put them in a frame and hope they have some kind of shape and meaning.

And do it before Baltimore,

which is mere weeks away.

Weeks! EEK.

If anyone sees me move from my desk, will you please push the button on that collar? Just a little twinge should do it. Actually, do the same if you see me going after a piece of cake.

Thank you!

(You are true friends.)

2012-01-06T12:15:00.007-06:00

When I was a kid, the scavenger hunt

was a staple of party entertainment . . .

We were given a list of things to find, and then we pestered neighbors (and complete strangers, actually) by ringing their doorbells and making our requests until we had everything on the list. It's only one of the things that responsible adults have surely thought better of in current child-rearing practices. (However, it was great fun at the time...)

I was thinking about scavenger hunts while pondering beauty for the essay I recently intended to write, but ended up not writing.

Because I decided that I aspire to be

a scavenger of beauty.

And it gave me

a weekend idea:

I propose a beauty scavenger hunt!

I'm not talking about knocking on people's doors, but something more like the auto-bingo game we also used to play, where you marked off a space if you saw a tow truck or a railroad crossing.

A beauty scavenger hunt might be just the thing for a humdrum January weekend in which you've just finished vacuuming up a full quart of pine needles, and you've exceeded your holiday going-to-movies budget.

So -- here's my challenge to you, Dear Reader --

I want you to find:

1. A beautiful line

(could be the curl of a wisp of smoke, the curve of a lover's smile, or the silhouette of a tree-branch against a January sky, for instance)

2. A beautiful sound

(maybe a laugh, a symphony, birdsong, or something you've never heard before)

3. A beautiful color
(even winter gray can be lovely, when adequately savored)

4. A beautiful turn-of-phrase

(pay attention to the dance of words for a change, and notice the ones that create an immediate spark when they brush up against one another)

5. A beautiful thought
(think one yourself, or look and listen -- people have them all the time)

6. A beautiful movement

(particularly expressive of grace, or energy, or emotion)

7. A beautiful moment

(the kind that makes you want to hit "pause" or perhaps even "rewind")

The "Art" of the world around us, naturally occurring and only waiting to be discovered . . . I think taking a moment to have a relationship with 7 items of beauty is a good start. I'll take notes and bring you back my findings next week.

(I really hope some of you might share yours as well...?)

Happy Hunting!

Note to Self.

2012-01-04T11:18:00.018-06:00

I'm a bit flummoxed.

I feel as if I had drawn a sketch of the Mona Lisa before bed,
intending to get up and paint it this morning . . .

only to find out upon awaking
that someone already painted the Mona Lisa
and did a REALLY GOOD JOB.

There's no need for another Mona Lisa.

You see, I intended to write a little essay about beauty here today -- started planning it yesterday. It seemed like the January thing to do. I had found some nice quotes, chosen some images . . . and then last night I finally finished the book I've been reading --

I know I complained about it in the beginning, because it made me feel -- how to best say it -- STUPID.

But!

My dear friends, the beauty at the end left me weeping like a baby. It was simply extraordinary. And I won't do it justice to quote it now, because part of its luster is derived from all that comes before, of course, but I do want to share a single idea from the last few lines:

"...I have finally concluded, maybe that's what life is about: there's a lot of despair, but also the odd moment of beauty, where time is no longer the same. It's as if those strains of music created a sort of interlude in time, something suspended, an elsewhere that had come to us, an always within never.

Yes, that's it, an always within never.

...from now on...I'll be searching for those moments of always within never.

Beauty, in this world."

If you haven't read the book, you should -- whether you know anything about abstruse German philosophy or, like me, know nothing at all. Because the shocking beauty of the end is more than worth the feeling of being stupid in the beginning.

My life is permanently enriched.

Thank you, Muriel Barbery . . .

And Mona Lisa. And everyone else who puts beauty in the world so that I can find it and have a relationship with it.

Because the loveliest sunset is just an every day occurrence if there's not someone there enjoying a moment with it -- a moment that slips itself into memory like a bright coin in a pocket. Later you can put your hand in when you need to and still feel it there -- you have grown a bit richer.

Beauty is whatever gives joy.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Yes, there is definitely beauty in this world,

with plenty to go around.

We can all share equally in the wealth.

Even in January.

Monday Meander....

2012-01-02T14:44:00.026-06:00

River, Maria Moevs, 2005

Ripple Effect

I could float away on you, lulled

pulled softly, dislodged

adrift in your current and far

from where I was
when I fell in

there must be something

around the bend to grab

hold onto, catch

if I follow you, face up

keep breathing

in your quiet

your green

your stillness

your birdsong

your gentle rustling

breezy fingers

teasing my every leaf

and stirring something deep

-- smh

This poem is a Magpie Tale.

Click on the link to read more.

And I hope this lovely image might inspire you

to create a contribution of your own . . .

Happy First-Monday-of-the-Year!

It's party time . . . . AGAIN?! Bleh.

2011-12-31T12:13:00.004-06:00

Yes, it's true -- I'm usually not the life of the New Year's Party....

I'm likely to shout:

Happy New Year!

Welcome to dieting . . .

budgeting . . .

attempted-self-improvement of all kinds,

and . . . wait for it . . .

JANUARY!!

BUT --

That doesn't mean that somewhere under my gloomy exterior I'm not filled with good cheer and warm wishes for all!

Small Works wishes you and yours a New Year
filled with everything that would make it your best year ever!

(And if that's not realistic . . . success on your diet.)

CHEERS!

2011-12-29T12:03:00.111-06:00

"Swearing was invented as a compromise
between running away and fighting."

-- Peter Finley Dunne

I was not raised in a manner that allowed me to become accustomed either to saying or hearing those kinds of ...ahem....words, but it's amazing how quickly they still manage to spring from my mouth sometimes with even the slightest provocation.

A day or two ago, I spent the afternoon hanging shelves in Hannah's room -- actually, I think attempting to hang shelves would be a more accurate description, although they are still clinging to the wall through some kind of amazing grace -- and found the wall to be so wavy that I actually wondered if someone had spiked my diet Coke.

It was quite a fight. The funky wall made the otherwise brilliant design of the flush-mounting hardware almost completely useless, and therefore ingenuity was required....as well as some strong language.

By about the third time something undesirable/unexpected had popped out, Hannah and I were both laughing hard and she decided to contribute a few expletives of her own. While perhaps not the ideal mother/daughter bonding moment, it was memorable nonetheless. But it made me wonder why someone who loves language with an absolute burning passion would resort to words of the meanest sort when confronted with nothing more menacing than a wavy piece of drywall...

"Language is the dress of thought."

-- Samuel Johnson

When I started writing, as a child, everything was written longhand. I still have boxes of those childish manuscripts. It was difficult for my pen to keep up with my thoughts, and frustrating trying to chase the strings of words that ran through my mind and get them down before they disappeared from sight.

When I learned to type in high school, it was a huge leap forward. Even though it was on a manual typewriter with a touch so stiff that I hardly had the hand strength to operate it, I suddenly felt I had a much wider net with which to pursue my ideas.

And one of the most exciting days I can remember was purchasing our first electric typewriter -- it was a transformational moment, and led me to attempt writing a novel -- one of the worst pieces of fiction ever committed to paper.

(I have not yet been able to bring myself to destroy the manuscript, but I do admit to sometimes secretly hoping for a house fire, lest someone find it after I die and decide they'd like a good laugh.)

Now technology continues to woo me
and enable my affair with all-things-words . . .

I had an absolutely marvelous time compiling

a little book of poetry for Christmas gifts this year:

Sung in Secret by Susan M. Hinckley | Make Your Own Book

I'd heard about the wonders of blurb, but had been too something to try my hand at producing a book. But -- wow! Forget electric typewriters! The immediate gratification of being able to publish your own book with so little effort is a heady thing indeed for someone engaged in a lifelong love affair with writing. I've discovered a dangerous new drug . . .

If you have not tried it, let me be the pusher that gets you hooked! (and I think I only swore once while trying to figure out the software -- so easy a Susan can do it)

If you were on my gift list this year, do not fear! I promise not to give you something I've written every holiday for the rest of our lives. BUT -- I do not promise I will not now have the writing career I have always dreamed of, even if only in my own mind and/or bookcase.

I feel I have a potentially powerful
new set of wings
sitting on my finger
and waiting to be released . . .

best feeling I've had
since the day I first laid my fingers
on my new electric typewriter.

Serenade No. 19, Susan M. Hinckley. 2008

"Language is a skin:
I rub my language against the other.
It is as if I had words instead of fingers,
or fingers at the tips of my words.
My language trembles with desire."

-- Roland Barthes

(Seriously . . . what the @&#% will they think of next?!)

Christmas Present.

2011-12-25T19:11:00.006-06:00

And so another wonderful Christmas has come and gone, and here at Small Works, we feel we were blessed/spoiled out of all proportion to what we deserved . . .

First there was the spectacular weather -- any Minnesotan attending Christmas church services in a light sweater can only be grateful! Sure a white Christmas would be nice, but there's still plenty of time for a white January, February, March, and April . . . so there were no complaints about the amazing lack of snow and cold.

Then there was the entertainment -- we like to choose a movie from OUR family-favorite archives for our Christmas Eve sing along pleasure, and this year we revisited a favorite from everyone's childhood: Cat Ballou

There's nothing to beat a Christmas Eve spent eating oneself silly surrounded by not only the people you love, but also Nat King Cole and Stubby Kaye . . . sometimes life is almost TOO good! I may not have raised my daughters right in every respect, but they know a good movie when they see one, and can quote the important dialogue from all the best scenes. It warms a mother's heart.

Then there were the gifts . . . Every year since we started the Hinckley Holiday Handmade Gift Spectacular, there have been wonderful surprises, and this year was no exception.

The first surprise was that Lindsay opted out this year -- AHEM (not wonderful!) -- and although she bought us splendid gifts, her contribution was sorely missed and we can only hope we shamed her sufficiently to guarantee her participation next year. In her defense, she is in school and working 3 jobs . . . so Santa gives her a pass.

Hannah made some lovely gifts, including this embroidery for Chelsea (which I believe is my favorite of her fiber pieces so far -- Hannah, you amaze!)

Electro-Fro, Hannah Hinckley, 2011

Hannah is also a self-taught embroiderer (who never even had Aunt Lillie's tutelage to get her started!) She sews her images free-hand, creating the design as she goes, and they just keep getting better. Talk about warming a mother's heart . . .

For Lindsay, she created a custom-designed display piece for Lindsay's agate collection (Lindsay was astounded at her thoughtfulness, and especially delighted to have this semi-secret collection given some validity -- it will no longer live in a Tupperware!)

There is ample storage, as well as a special shelf for the featured "Agate of the Month." I'll say it again . . . everyone needs a Hannah.

I published a small book of poetry for my offering this year -- it contained poems I've written in the past 18 months or so, as well as some illustrations.

There was some debate about whether or not it truly passed the "handmade" test, but then I always get grief for my gifts flirting with being "too professional" -- I remain unapologetic. Forget about writing the words -- just the HOURS I spent trying to be smart enough to use the software to create the book I wanted qualifies it as a true gift of self.

Russ embellished some mats for our recent family portrait with some of his signature sketchy wildlife drawings --

they don't photograph well, which I think he HOPES will keep his gifts from being on the blog, but NO. It simply wouldn't be Christmas without them, and they are always loved and welcomed by his girls.

But everyone agreed that Chels truly hit one out of the park this year with her gift:

SMH

HFH

MRH

LAH

Beautiful Photo-Initial Art for each of us! Her presentation was lovely, her photos were not only creative but so visually appealing . . . it was truly a perfect gift.

Everything was just lovely . . . and then . . .

the cherry atop my Christmas happiness sundae!

I opened the gift from my son-in-law
(I knew he was a prize Chels, but REALLY...)

It was this enchanting old tin box bearing the word "loveliness" --

and when I looked inside . . .

It was as if I had wandered into Aunt Lillie's sewing room! Someone's vintage sewing box full of someone's vintage sewing supplies! And somehow he not only managed to find that and wrap it up,

but right on top was the "Sewing Susan" package of needles. It was absolutely one of the most thoughtful gifts I could ever imagine. It just pushed my pile-of-gift-goodness right over the top! I am now a firm believer that every man should be taught the wonders of shopping on Etsy . . . well done, Jake! I could not love it more.

(Santa also brought me some new bi-focals, because he knew that this sewing Susan was suddenly experiencing a bit of difficulty threading her own needles -- thanks, Santa!)

All in all, it was just a perfectly splendid day.

Hope this finds each of you feeling exactly the same way.

Now . . . group sigh:

*SIGH*

2011-12-22T15:12:00.005-06:00

Christmas is a season of wishes . . .

Wishing it would snow, or wouldn't.

Wishing you didn't have to do so much work,

or wishing you could get everything done you'd like to do.

Wishing you were getting something wonderful,

or wishing you had something perfect to give.

And on top of it all,

always wishing to be with the ones you love.

We spent time watching a favorite Northern Exposure Christmas episode the other night, and I was reminded of how much I wish I could still turn on my TV and see things like Northern Exposure...

On this particular episode,
Chris-in-the-Morning delivers a little holiday reflection
that I just love. It perfectly sums up my

Small Works Christmas wish

for each of you.

"It's an old legend, that on Christmas Eve at midnight, all the animals fall on their knees and speak -- praising the new born Jesus.

"Back in the winter of '68, my Dad was doing a short term for D and D. Mom was -- I'm not sure where Mom was. Anyway, I was home alone on Christmas Eve and I stayed up late to see if my dog, Buddy, would talk. He did -- at least I think he did. I don't remember Buddy's exact words, but that's not important. What matters is that a seven-year-old boy experienced his own personal epiphany.

"My point? It's that Christmas reveals itself to each of us in a personal way -- be it secular or sacred. Whatever Christmas is -- and it's many things to many people -- we all own a piece of it. Kinda like Santa's bag, inside there's a gift for everyone.

"My Christmas wish for you tonight -- may your dog talk."

Whatever you wish for this holiday . . .

whether it be something lofty as world peace,

or practical as a new vacuum cleaner,

my dear friends,

I hope you find it.

In your heart or in your stocking.

(Or maybe both.)

Humbug! . . . I mean . . . Happy Monday!

2011-12-19T11:47:00.002-06:00

I know I've been a bit of a Scrooge so far this year...

My apologies. It's just that there seem to be too many jobs to do and not enough of me to do them. There have been a few small victories, however.

For instance, I feel I should report on my success at the post office:

Over $150.00 later...poor, but so very happy!

This year's receipt is perhaps even longer than last year's, but every bit as sweet. We experienced a Christmas miracle, pulling into the post office around 10:00 Friday night only to find that there was no line at all. We always go to the 24 hr. airport p.o. and it's usually pretty late by the time we get there, but last year we waited an hour just to park! So to have the entire ordeal over in just under an hour was sweet indeed.

(That great experience will probably not be a good deterrent for next year's procrastination, however. Know thyself.)

Sweeter still was having Hannah whisk the receipt from my hand and go after it with a pair of scissors. In her capable fingers, the dreaded receipt became this:

and then this:

It's just wonderful to have

a snowflake genius on staff when you need one!

Still plenty to do before the big day, however . . .

Hmmmmm...

Let's see if she's as good

with a mop as she is

with those scissors!

Sunday Scribble

2011-12-18T10:22:00.004-06:00

image by Lee Friedlander, 1966

Leftover

you have taken your piece

from the middle and now

only edges and angles remain

hard parts, rough crust

crumbs of myself, really

not enough to keep, I wish

you had finished, if only

you had thought

to have eaten me whole

-- smh

This poem is a Magpie Tale.

Do us all a favor...

Visit the link and create

some Magpie fun of your own!

On Holiday -- as well as general -- IQ...

2011-12-15T10:22:00.007-06:00

I am reminded all the time that
I'm really not that smart . . .

I'm reading this book, for instance, that I picked up at the bookstore because it looked charming and had spent a big chunk of its life on the bestseller list. Which means it was popular, right? Lots of people have read it?

But I feel a bit like I have finagled an invitation to an esoteric dinner party for bookish geniuses where I have somehow managed to BS my way through the appetizers, but can't avoid the panicked feeling that there is still the main course to come. By dessert I will be hanging by my fingernails.

The bouncer is eying me suspiciously, and I am but a single recondite allusion from being asked to leave.
I feel my grasp of abstruse German philosophy is suddenly inadequate, even though until now I had not necessarily considered myself to be lacking in that particular area. I may need a dictionary just to write this review.

It's still enormously enjoyable, of course, but sort of in the way that your first time swimming in the deep-end is -- that reckless yet heady moment where you yell "Look Mom!" while flailing your limbs and simultaneously hoping you can keep your chin above the water long enough for her to put down her magazine. You don't want to get too far from the wall.

Hannah was telling me the other day that a doctor recently asked her when she first realized she was smarter than her teachers, and she immediately replied, "First grade."

"Really?!" I asked. I was impressed. Those kinds of thoughts had not occurred to me until at least 7th grade, which only goes to show that I am usually not the smartest person in the room, even in my own house.

(I am not tooting my own horn; for the record, I have encountered a few truly questionable teachers over the years, in classes where roughly 1/2 the students had the intellectual upper hand over the instructor.)

Would I recommend the book? Absolutely!

Especially if you are smarter than I am. And I once had an adorable 5 year old boy look straight at me and deadpan: "You're not the smartest Susan I know." (He was so cute, I couldn't even hold it against him.)

So I must not be too far above average.

Witness the fact, for instance,
that it is now December 15
and my packages are not yet mailed . . .

AGAIN. No one of even average intelligence -- including Miss Gibson, my 10th grade Social Studies teacher -- would make that kind of mistake year after year.

My own mother explained to me recently (looking up from her magazine -- she was busy relaxing) that if one finishes one's Christmas preparations in October, one is able to just sit back and enjoy the wonders of the holiday season. A revolutionary philosophical idea that I had not previously considered, or had at least failed to grasp. Obviously.

Remember this picture? It was taken after my Christmas post office pilgrimage last year (yes, that's the receipt -- I have A LOT to mail) . . .

But hold on . . . I think that was on December 18!

Hooray! There's still time to improve!

I plan to make it there by Saturday the seventeenth, so I may actually be wising up after all . . .

Baby steps, friends. Baby steps.

Let the craziness begin....er, I mean....continue.

2011-12-12T08:34:00.008-06:00

Now that we're halfway down the slippery slope

to the Big Day...

It's easy to get distracted

from your normal responsible behavior...

Between the weather...

and the noise...

and the never-ending social engagements...

and the freezer stocking...

and the capacity-stretching...

and the toy testing...

and the photo ops...

and the reaching-out-and-touching...

and the search for the perfect gift...

and the figuring out how to pay for it

once it's found...

and the where to hide it?!

while you're waiting for the big reveal...

I've decided the best plan is probably just

to loosen up a little...

and enjoy what

the season has to offer.

Yes, all of it.

So bring it.

(you can drop by anytime!)

Happy Mid-December-Monday Madness!

Sunday Scribble

2011-12-11T09:26:00.034-06:00

image by Mostafa Habibi

Technical Difficulties

no bootstraps

but there are no boots

no paddles because

there is not a boat

and this creek continues

its rise around me

anyway, no matter

I can't feel my arms

even if I wanted to take it

I could not hold a hand

what with being buried

and all, I guess

I'll just wait here

-- smh

This poem is a Magpie Tale. I identified with the picture immediately, coming from a family in which 6 generations have struggled with severe depression. I'm okay now, thank you, but there are those around me who remain in quicksand. Not being able to help is its own kind of helpless feeling.

At least I understand, which is a place to start.

(now . . . click on the link to share your own take on this image)

The Reward of Art.

2011-12-09T10:12:00.007-06:00

I love the illustrated quotes of L.K. Hanson.

It seems to me that having a paying gig that causes you to be always surrounded by wise words is about as lucky as an artist can get.

But I also loved this particular quote -- it just explains so much.

Because the majority of art exists only to feed its maker's soul. It is never bought, sold, shown, collected, or even appreciated. It lives in closets, in boxes under beds, on mothers' walls, and in stacks in storage rooms.

But -- hooray for all the bad artists of the world who don't give up!

Art does not need a commercial application.

Art just needs to exist and it has accomplished a lot.

One of the things I did on my recent break was avail myself of the opportunity to take some of author Natalie Goldberg's advice (previous post) and do some writing exercises.

I got a pen and a notebook (Writing by hand?! I know, right?!) and sat down at night with a prompt and a staring blank page and wrote. And just like she promised, it was awesome. Writing with no reason whatsoever, but to feel my thoughts travel to my hand and my hand travel across the page.

Most everything I wrote will never see the light of day, although there are a few ideas I may return to and pursue further. But I decided to share one little piece with you.

This came from the prompt,

"I Write Because . . ."

I write because there are things that need to be said and no one will say them.

I write out of fear that my mouth cannot be trusted, and a hope that my hands can.

I write to relieve the pressure in my head. I write to release the stream of hot and cold running words that build behind my tongue but cannot be formed by it.

I write because there is no other choice.

I write because I was there then and I am here now which means there was a journey.

I write because the words pour out of me and only paper can mop them up.

I write to tell the story, making it up as I go and never worrying about the ending but rather about running out of ink.

I write because if I don't tell it, did it really happen?

I write because I want to dare to exist, even after I am gone.

I write the pictures I cannot draw.

I write because he did not, but he should have.

I write to be a voice that cannot be taken back.

I write so there will be no confusion about what I meant or hoped to accomplish.

I write to breathe. I breathe so I can write. Words are air and food and light, my beat, the pulse of everything in and around me. I take it in and chew it a bit and spit it out. Who would know how I could see forever on my morning run if I did not write? Who would know the disappointment of my cheeseburger? The confusion at the intersection of my path with others that lead away from where I stand?

Someone needs to take it down, put it somewhere where it can't get away no matter how it slips or runs or tries to hide.

I write because even if they criticize or disapprove, my words can outlast them and when they are erased or deleted, crumpled or thrown away, I can grab a pen and begin again. Words without end. I write.

Whatever your weekend holds, I hope it brings at least a little of doing something you love merely for the sake of doing it.

It's not too much to ask.

Happy Friday!

A Tiny Tuesday Tidbit.

2011-12-06T12:51:00.027-06:00

I know it's hard to tell
in the winter sometimes . . .

but occasionally I come across
things that make me smile.

For instance, I looked out my bedroom window the other morning

and there was a tiny path leading away across my roof:

Not sure who left it or where they were headed, but I knew it couldn't last

so I reached for my camera.

And sure enough, within a few hours, the trail,
and the moment, were lost.

This morning of the small snow

I count the blessings,

the leak in the faucet

which makes of the sink time,

the drop of the water on water.

-- Charles Olson

That's all today. Not much.

Just a small thanks for a small gift,

even though the giver never knew

there was a gift at all . . .

Sometimes those are the best kind.

Sunday Scribble

2011-12-04T15:22:00.004-06:00

Relativity

every face looks

like someone else's, same eyes

same cheekbones, curve of chin

and the words our mothers

once said to us, a surprise

coming from our own mouths

someone should, perhaps

try something new

just a thought, the world is old --

there are so many similar people

walking around now

-- smh

The artwork is Lunch, by George Tooker,
1964, Columbus Museum of Art,
and comes to Small Works via Tess at
Magpie Tales.

Got something to say about it?

Follow the link and join the fun!

Three Cheers (and a little chocolate) for Friday!

2011-12-02T12:08:00.013-06:00

So now that
the calendar
has turned over
to December . . .

I guess it's no longer fair to begrudge Old Man Winter his fun.
Embrace, embrace, embrace!
Shiver a lot, but embrace it nonetheless.
Okay, swear a little too, but --

One of my first yearly chores to welcome in The Most Wonderful Time of the Year is creating the cover for our annual Christmas cd, and I'm pleased to report that mission has been accomplished!

We're still waiting for the cds themselves to arrive so we can begin the assembly line, but the part that keeps me awake at night is finished. (Rest assured I have wasted no time in finding other things to keep me awake at night . . .)

Step 2 of my "Embrace Winter with a Smile" plan involved turning on the fireplace in my studio while wearing two sweatshirts until I was so warm I almost couldn't stand it. I was so busy the first few days this week that I forgot I had a fireplace and I was cold and grumpy all day. Finally Russ came down on Wednesday night and said, "Why is it cold down here!?"

I guess I also cannot begrudge Old Man Winter my own stupidity. My fireplace will probably be on now until about April.

Step 3 is going to involve baking and eating something old fashioned and winter-ish -- and I mean that in the best possible way -- which I believe will be this:

Susan's Favorite Hot Fudge Pudding Cake

with a hefty slab of peppermint ice cream on the side!

This is an old-fashioned pudding cake (there used to be Betty Crocker mixes for such things, and if you remember them you are, like me, OLD. There was a lemon version that I loved.)

I came across the recipe for this chocolate delight about 30 years ago and have been making it ever since -- usually sometime in December, because it gives me another excuse to eat my favorite peppermint ice cream. I like the kind that is actually vanilla ice cream with peppermint candies in it, as opposed to the too-strong but more readily available peppermint flavored ice cream.

In case you'd like to join the warm gooey fun,

here's the sorta-strange-but-so-easy recipe:

Susan's Favorite Hot Fudge Pudding Cake

1-1/4 cups sugar, divided

1 cup flour

7 Tbsp. Hershey's Cocoa, divided

2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. salt

1/2 cup milk

1/3 cup butter, melted

1-1/2 tsp. vanilla

1/2 cup packed brown sugar

1-1/4 cups hot water

Heat oven to 350. Combine 3/4 cup sugar, flour, 3 Tbsp. cocoa, baking powder and salt. Blend in milk, butter and vanilla; beat until smooth. Pour batter in 8 or 9" square pan. In small bowl, combine remaining 1/2 cup sugar, brown sugar, and remaining 4 Tbsp. cocoa. Mix well. Sprinkle mixture evenly over batter (mixture will look like sand). Pour hot water over top; do not stir. Bake 40 minutes or until center is almost set. Let stand 15 minutes. Spoon into dishes, garnish with whipped cream or ice cream (or both!)

Now -- I hope your weekend (and your winter)

is off to a warm and wonderful start . . .

Happy

(hot-fudge-y)

Spoon Licking!

Welcome Home Wednesday.

2011-11-30T14:17:00.047-06:00

Coming home after having run away from it for a month is a good-news, bad-news situation . . .

On the one hand, you get to see the people you missed, and the dog seems genuine in his enthusiasm. On the other hand, your houseplants may have given up on you ever coming back, and the vacuum cleaner probably failed to run itself in your absence --

Which makes me wonder,

am I the only one who sees this stuff?

And can I somehow learn to not see it, like everyone else?

(If anyone is keeping track, Mark Trail is still on the same story line as when I left. True story. Which can only make me think that either I wasn't gone long enough, or time actually stands still in Lost Forest. Maybe both.)

When you've done nothing but think selfish thoughts, soak in the sunshine and hang out with your parents for a month while they treat you to lunches and afternoon matinees, the re-entry can feel a bit like a cold November slap in your greedy/lazy face.

Even if you readily admit

you deserved the slap,

it still stings . . .

So if you, who diligently stayed home working and acting like a grown-up, have your Christmas tree decorated, lovely lights on your house, your packages mailed, AND all your work done for your February show, please keep it to yourself. A smug smile will suffice -- no need to raise hands. But please bear with me while I try to catch up. And I will endeavor to do so with minimal complaint.

Perhaps because my mind
has had nothing but endless freedom

to wander, I've been thinking writing thoughts, and they seem to have continued across Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, and southern Minnesota -- the word tap continues to drip.

So while I sort mail,
here's some writing for your Wednesday . . .

Loveseat

I cannot be everywhere

heart in one place, my head

in another entirely

body parts scattered, working

across worries, states, time

all of me wanting to just sit

with you, hold your hands

bodies touching, barely space

for both, but we fit

share one breath for a beat

trace the line of your life

my fingertip on your palm

and in that spot, that moment

find my pieces put together

-- smh

The lovely photo prompt comes courtesy of Magpie Tales.

Follow the link to enjoy more.

And how could I not write about a couch when all I want to do is sit on mine? Well, move it out into the sunshine and then sit on it. Somewhere else.
Like Hawaii, or Mexico or something...

Now there's that pesky laundry buzzing again,

and just when I get a daydream going . . . Geez!

Okay, I hear you.

I'm growing

-- er, I mean coming --

right up.

Thanksgiving Week Already? Eeek!

2011-11-22T20:08:00.002-06:00

David Letterman said something the other night that I loved -- it was along the lines of:

The problem with children is . . .

they're our replacements.

Exactly. You spend your whole career, not to mention the majority of your resources, grooming the person who is really there to take your job . . . and probably look better doing it. Hmmm.

My personal replacements: Hannah, Chelsea and Lindsay

On the other hand, they're irreplaceable.

It's a fact -- I can't imagine a world without my daughters, as if they always existed and we were just waiting to be introduced. My favorite guests at any dinner party. And they even like my cooking.

This is the first time I will not have any of them at my table for Thanksgiving. That's the downside of running away from home -- you can't bring everyone else with you, and so you are forced to spend Thanksgiving without them. On the bright side, for Thanksgiving I'll be with a lot of people I never get to see during the holidays: parents, nieces and their children, siblings.

Probably a good thing I couldn't have all of them together at once. Too much goodness at one sitting. No room for pie when there is so much happiness inside and everywhere I look.

From the Hinckley Thanksgiving Placecard Archives

I hope your Thanksgiving is overflowing with all the things that make you feel thankful, Dear Reader! Whether you can eat them or not . . .

(I'll be traveling home for a day or two, so Small Works will return next Wednesday or so, at which time I promise not to complain about the weather. For one post.)

Until then . . .

Happy Blessing-Counting!

Sunday Scribble 2.0

2011-11-20T09:46:00.012-06:00

Goodbye

you go this way, I'll go that
your way, mine
but if -- just if
we keep walking won't we
always come together
this thing that doubles
back on itself, our spiral
slowly unspooled, curling
toward one place
a knot pulled tighter until
there are no loose ends at all
hello

-- smh

How can you not love that photo! Thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales.

Click on the link for more and then -- deep breath -- dare to write your own!

Or just go find someone to really kiss.

Yeah, that's good too....

Happy Sunday!

Great Books.

2011-11-15T20:59:00.002-06:00

Besides reminding me that my affinity for large fountain drinks is actually a genetic one, my visit home has also been good for a few other things . . .

For instance, I spent some time this evening in Dad's study looking at his books with him.

I have always loved his library, but this current version is "library-lite".

My dad's library is wholly responsible for my life-long obsession with all things words

My love affair began in the big house where his library contained floor-to-ceiling shelves, an exotic hidden wet bar, a lighted Geochron on the wall showing a map of the world in its current relation to the sun, a plush wig-hair rug, a leather couch with a very particular "library-like" smell, and nearly every National Geographic magazine that had been published in his lifetime.

The library was the room with the 3 small arched windows

I spent hours there -- trespassing -- looking at his books and reading things that were far beyond my young comprehension, ranging from off-color limericks to the world's great literature. I believe I may or may not have wrecked a few very old copies of Dickens and Hawthorne...I noticed they failed to make the cut in this latest incarnation of his collection. (Sorry, Dad. I was too young to handle them properly but if it helps, they had a profound effect on me).

Tonight he began our conversation by confiding that his books make him feel terribly guilty. I could not imagine how that would be the case, but he explained that he feels bad about all the beautiful and worthwhile books he owns that he has not read. He said that reading has now become something of a chore for him -- his eyes don't like to work so hard and it has become much easier to watch TV.

This made me sad because one of my dad's defining characteristics has always been that he not only read the dictionary and the complete Encyclopedia Britannica as a young boy -- just because that's the kind of nerdy thing he enjoyed doing -- but also managed to retain a whole lot of it.

The conversation made me think about how things change, and how our relationship to them changes as well. And feel sad, but feel glad I'm here. And also fortunate to visit a few of these old mutual friends with him -- even the ones with which we are not as well acquainted as we'd like to be. Just seeing their wise, familiar faces has value. And feel a little guilty about the ones I have not read myself, but pretty glad for the ones I have.

And realize that time is not to be wasted and that words matter, the ones on the page and especially the ones we share with the people we love.

Thanks, Dad . . . lucky me.

Sunday Scribble.

2011-11-13T12:04:00.007-06:00

Regret

I have no pockets
should have thought of that
when choosing what I would wear
should have known there might be
something to pick up, keep
take home, a souvenir
to remind me where I went

what I saw and how I felt
while you were here

--smh

This poem is a Magpie Tale.

Visit the site for more Magpie fun . . .
and while you are there, write your own!

The view from St. George.

2011-11-10T14:11:00.007-06:00

It's good to come home every now and then,

if only to be reminded where you come from. For my continual stream of candy, cookies and cupcakes, for instance, I can place blame squarely on my mother. The 32 oz. soft drink for breakfast comes from my father.
(Hopefully I inherited a few of their good qualities, too!)

Anyway, it's a trip
to bizarre-o-world . . .

when you find yourself suddenly strapped into the back seat of your parents' car again. You feel a strange combination of really old, and still hovering around 10 or so.

"Quilting Mom", by 10-year-old Hannah

At least there's plenty of natural beauty here to bask in
while I'm trying to make sense of it all and get my bearings.

upside down in St. George

About the time I master that, I'll be back to being the mother again in Minnesota, driving my own children crazy with my endearing quirks and reminding them where they came from . . .

I was a wonderful parent before I had children.

I was an expert on why everyone else

was having problems with theirs.

Then I had three of my own.

-- Adele Faber

Hope you're enjoying my vacation too!

Happy Thursday!

Lies, lies, and more lies...

2011-11-07T16:14:00.003-06:00

When I said Small Works would return November 4,

I had the best of intentions. I truly hoped for that to be the case.
But it turns out that I was a liar. Because it is now November 7.

That's the first lie. The second must be every St. George weather report I read for the month leading up to my escape from Minnesota. Because it's cold here. It was 78 degrees the day before I arrived, but now we're breaking cold records right and left. The people of St. George must be wondering what blew into town and how they can arrange to send it back.

I should have known you can run,

but you can't hide.

If you're a Minnesotan, Mother Nature is going to be gunnin' for you

around the beginning of November.

Luckily I've had plenty of distractions to help me deal with the optimistic packing that has left me under-dressed and over-cold. Utahns specialize in fine baked goods, so I've been drowning my sorrows in all-things-delicious since about 5 minutes after I pulled into town. Which is probably a good idea, because when I get back home around December 1, the extra layers I have put on here are going to help me deal with what's happened since I left there.

Of course, when I planned the trip (bringing my blades and my weights and 2 pair of running shoes) I was thinking that I'd have so much opportunity for outdoor exercise that I'd go home lean and mean and able to wear my skinny black jeans all the way to Christmas and beyond. Looks like that's probably lie number 3. Oh well. You have to be flexible when you're traveling...plans change.

But it's Monday, and no laundry!

Life is a little chilly, but good.

Oh. So. Good.

(Hope your Monday finds you well...wish you were here!)

These boots are made for walkin....

2011-10-28T10:57:00.006-05:00

I'm afraid I've been voted off the island.
By my family . . .

But it's kind of hard to feel bad about. If I were voted off the island on Survivor, I think I'd say something like "Oh yeah?! Well I'm going to be eating a cheeseburger in a whirlpool tub tonight!" as I left. In fact, I'd probably pay them a million dollars to let me go home.

I feel a little that way now, actually.

November is the grayest month in Minnesota, statistically speaking. (And it's a bit gray in my personal psyche, truth be told.) The loss of light somehow deals me a blow that is hard to recover from. Of course, by the time the holidays roll around, I'm as full of good cheer as the next guy. But the adjustment can be tough. So someone had the idea (was it me? was it them?) that perhaps I'd be happier going to the desert for the month of November and sitting in the sunshine.

There wasn't a whole lot of arm twisting involved....on either side, actually, which I guess should offend me a little, but....I'll recover from the sting.

I suspect I may discover that leaving Minnesota in November
is what all the smart people do. . .

The Wise Men, who, incidentally, were also following light.

This is what I've been working on this week, part of an ongoing Christmas collaboration.

Eventually it will become fabric and join the Nativity I did this summer.

(And the really smart ones probably look hard at a destination for February, as well.)

The only downside is that November needs to be a big work month for me, with Baltimore looming in just 3 months (yes, I'm going to Baltimore!) So there's a bit of packing that needs to take place. I'm wondering if I'll even get started working before I figure out everything I've forgotten that makes it so I can't do what I need to?

Oh well, if that happens, I'll just strap on my roller blades and blow off some steam, or maybe eat a little fine Mexican food to soften the disappointment. (And then get creative about working without all my usual supplies, of course.)

The good news is, you're all invited! So I hope you'll enjoy a little sun with me once I get there....which is going to take a few days. Small Works will return a week from today (November 4 already?! EEEK!), full of sunshiny goodness and all the beauty that is St. George in November.

Bring your blades! We're going to put them to good use! (and a few art supplies, please, because I have a feeling I'm going to forget something.....)

Now I've got to get busy packing,

and pretend to feel really really sad about leaving.....

Happy Weekend!

First Thoughts.

2011-10-26T10:42:00.010-05:00

You'll have to forgive me . . . *yawn . . .

if I seem a little tired.

I finished the book I was reading last night soon after I climbed into bed and it left me still wide awake and looking for another chapter. So I grabbed a book I had purchased on my recent trip to New Mexico thinking it would probably put me to sleep immediately.

Wrong.

Instead I was soon asking the book "where have you been all my life?" and promising myself "just one more page...just one more page...just one more..." At first I was trying to tell myself to slow down, because it was a book I needed to savor. Then I just decided if I wanted to savor it, I'd simply read it again.

I bought the book because when I read the blurb about the author, I could see that she spent her life bouncing between Minnesota and New Mexico, so I thought we must be related.

And because it was about writing, of course.

I've been scaring my family lately, having packages of information about Creative Non-fiction MFA programs show up in the mailbox and on the kitchen counter. Just daydreaming, really, but it's good to keep them on their toes...You know, remind them that the old girl has some life in her yet.

But if you are already a writer, or an artist, or a dancer, or a businessman, or an auto mechanic, and you want to do any of those things better, this book seems like it would be a good place to start.

Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg

The book is not divided into chapters so much as into small essays -- the author wanted each to be able to stand alone, so the reader can pick them up individually -- and the one that struck me right out of the gate was called "First Thoughts." Natalie Goldberg says this:

"... the aim is to burn through to first thoughts, to the place where energy is unobstructed by social politeness or the internal censor, to the place where you are writing what your mind actually sees and feels, not what it thinks it should see or feel. It's a great opportunity to capture the oddities of your mind. Explore the rugged edge of thought. Like grating a carrot, give the paper the colorful coleslaw of your consciousness.

First thoughts have tremendous energy. It is the way the mind first flashes on something. The internal censor usually squelches them, so we live in the realm of second and third thoughts, thoughts on thought, twice and three times removed from the direct connection of the first fresh flash.

First thoughts are also unemcumbered by ego, by that mechanism in us that tries to be in control, tries to prove the world is permanent and solid, enduring and logical. The world is not permanent, is ever-changing and full of human suffering. So if you express something egoless, it is also full of energy because it is expressing the truth of the way things are.

First thoughts . . . are not a cover-up of what is actually happening or being felt. The present is imbued with tremendous energy. It is what is."

Wait -- what did that say?

Not "it is what it is," which is kind of a popular saying right now. But -- the present is what is.
It's really the only thing that actually is at all, if you think about it. But we don't always spend our time here.

Do we live in a realm of second and third thoughts? Actually, I think I often live in a realm of 50th or 60th thoughts. Thoughts on thoughts on thoughts -- about other thoughts.

I am a person who lives under an enormous pile of filters. Some who know me may scoff at that idea, because the filter between my brain and mouth often seems to be thin and of little use, but the filters operating in my brain are immense and complex, thick and judgmental and clogged with fear.

As I was reading I was thinking of the time when it was Chelsea's birthday (she was maybe 10) and we took her to a restaurant, and when the staff came out clapping and shouting to embarrass/sing to her, they had her stand on a chair and they put a coffee-filter on her head and had her hold up a dessert with a burning candle -- a sort of Birthday-Statue-of-Liberty.

She was darling and blushing, but the image of the girl with a filter on her head has stuck with me. And I have wanted to pluck it off ever since.

First thoughts.

The idea that speaks before it even takes time to worry about what it's going to say. Or how to say it. Or perhaps most importantly, how it will be received.

It seems to me to be what's at the heart of all creative activity -- the desire to capture the essential, elusive flash, to coax it to stay while doing nothing to take away its immediacy or its spirit or its fleetness. And I think that's why we respond to great art. We see in it the seeds of first thought, and it speaks truth to us in a way that plows right through the filters and gets to the heart of things.

Get yourself a copy of the book. Or you can borrow mine, if I'm ever done with it. It may be a little beat-up by the time you get it, but that will just be a testament to its value.

And now, is it bedtime yet?

A nap perhaps?

Because I'd like to do a little more

savoring of my new favorite book....

Maybe you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but is there hope for your mother?

2011-10-24T11:30:00.010-05:00

When I had little kids,
they enjoyed all of the usual toys.

Susan & Hannah, ca. 1988

(incidentally, one of us has more hair now and one has less)

Many were the same Fisher Price things we were raised on -- the clock that tick-tocked and played music, the "popcorn popper" that a toddler pushed and it made no end of ear-popping racket (the kind of gift a grandma gives . . . *wink), the Little People with their farm and their house and their parking garage, CandyLand, and the See 'n Say "Farmer Says." You know, where you pull the string and the pointer in the center spins around and then stops and it says something like, "the cow says 'moooo.'"

So I felt really old the other day

when I met Lindsay for lunch . . .

She had the cute baby girl she nannies (not yet two) in tow, and her state-of-the art stroller was enough to make me feel like a dinosaur, but what came next was much worse. I mean I basically understand a stroller, because we had them for our kids. Only they folded up like an umbrella instead of being the size of a small car.

Anyway, Lindsay was excited because she had a new app for her iPad that she hoped would keep the baby busy while we ate. I could not imagine giving a baby an iPad, but I was intrigued. The app basically turned the iPad into a See 'n Say. The baby could cruise through pictures of animals and it would say the animal's name and make the noise. She told me the baby had never played with the iPad before (but she can operate Lindsay's phone.) It was fascinating for me to watch Lindsay show her how to sweep her not-yet-two-year-old finger across the screen to change the pictures and tap it to make it stop on the one she wanted. She only had to show her once. And the baby played. ( For the record, it took my own children a little longer to master pulling the string.)

I was amazed. But then, my phone has no camera. My phone only makes phone calls. It can text too, but there is no keyboard. And it flips closed. And I have a cell-phone charm on it (consisting of an antique bottlecap that says "imitation grape soda" and some beads).

Forget the bottlecap, my phone is an antique -- which is perfect because I've always liked antiques. And I love my phone.

I probably started being eligible for a new phone about 6 years ago. But this one works, so why would I need a new one? And more importantly, I know how to operate the darn thing. (At least enough of the features to make phone calls and send texts. My kids say it can do more, but why would I need more?)

But I want to transition to being able to swipe credit cards on my phone (I know, right?!) so now suddenly I need a REAL phone. It makes me nervous just to think about. Finally forced to step forward into the future! . . . er, I mean the present. Chelsea worked at T-Mobile for several years, so she has volunteered to take me and hold my hand. But first, she's going to reassure me that operating the kind of phone the rest of the world has been using forever is actually within my intellectual reach.

She hands me her android phone to "play with", hoping we can start to make friends before she takes me to the store where I will embarrass her with my stammering and sweaty hands. And I look at it and I have no idea where to even start. There are no buttons.

And suddenly I'm like the old person --

who occasionally steps up (in front of me because I've picked the wrong line)
to place an order at McDonald's and asks,
"What is the difference between a Quarter Pounder and a Big Mac?
And what comes on a Filet-o-Fish?"

and I think, ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?

And the young thing running the cash register can't even understand the question.

She's much too young to sing, "two-all-beef-patties-special-sauce-lettuce-cheese-pickles-onions-on-a-sesame-seed-bun," but I can hardly restrain myself from busting it out. (And there's no guarantee I wouldn't go straight into "grab a bucket and mop...")

Who doesn't know the McDonald's menu?

I mean -- we were raised on it!

But I think the cash-register-girl

was actually born knowing it.

All of which brings me back to the baby with the iPad. For anyone who doesn't believe in evolution, I feel I need offer no further proof. We don't even need to have a discussion, let alone an argument. Because the See 'n Say has become an iPad, and the kid running the thing knows exactly what to do with it, even though there is no string . . .

Friday?!

2011-10-21T12:37:00.007-05:00

Sometimes I come to the end of the week and it feels like nothing has happened in the studio. Progress is slow when you are in the "Good Things Take Time" business, and when you have weeks that are hijacked by life and its attendant activities and concerns (read: doctor appointments, fights with banks and insurance companies, etc.etc.etc.) even a little progress resulting in something shoddy or thrown together seems like it might be welcome.

Plus, I am working on something I don't want to think about, let alone talk about....

It involves the "C" word.

(ahem! Christmas, of course.)

Speaking of which, remember the nativity piece

I made for a Christmas cd?

The cd is just coming out -- you can find it here!

Now where was I . . .

Oh yes -- On weeks like this, I feel like

I am trapped in the Mark Trail comic strip.

Russ and I started reading Mark Trail a long time ago, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and quickly realized that it was so ridiculous, we couldn't possibly stop. We can't believe that someone gets paid to produce it. And that people read it (which seems silly since we read it, I know, but -- )

Because NOTHING EVER HAPPENS.

here's a sample of the progress Mark has made this week

We can go on vacation for 10 days and come back, and we haven't missed a beat because the story has not advanced. It's worse than a soap opera.

I thought it was bad when I took 20 years off from TheYoung and the Restless and then was able to pick up immediately, but Mark Trail makes Y&R seem like it's moving at warp speed. (I am currently on another multi-year Y&R hiatus, incidentally. Hopefully they will cancel it before my next 20-year check-in).

Mark Trail still feels like something

that would step out of the pages of my 1950's magazines.

It actually started in 1946, originally drawn by a cartoonist who worked as a national parks guide, and focused on nature/environmental themes. In the 1950's, there was a Mark Trail radio show, as well as a series of comic books and a magazine. And then the world moved on. But Mark stayed in Lost Forest.

For years Russ and I have wanted to take Mark Trail strips and swap out the dialogue for something much ... racier! ... and publish them online. Turns out someone already does that. Rats. In fact, I didn't have to search long at all to figure out that there is an entire underground Mark Trail world populated by self-described "Trail-heads".

I'm not sure I'm a full-blown Trail-head yet, but if you'd like me to catch you up on the story so you can pick up Mark Trail yourself, let me know and I'll send you a sentence or two. That's all it will take.

In the meantime, I'm going to stay here

in Lost Studio and conduct a safari of my own,

trying to find what I did this week --

I'm sure it's buried somewhere

on this mess-of-a-desk . . .

Mark sez:

Happy Weekend Trails,

one and all!

Wednesday? Well then . . . A Conundrum for your Consideration.

2011-10-19T15:59:00.003-05:00

We go back and forth at our house (it's a dinner topic oft revisited) between believing that Etsy is the greatest thing that ever happened, and thinking that Etsy is the evil empire and is making it a little harder every day to be in the handmade business.

When it comes to killing time or spending money, you can't beat it. The amount of great eye candy and the ready availability of almost anything you can think of makes Etsy an excellent gateway drug to lure people to the land of "made by hand."

But! . . . Never before have people been able to buy so much great stuff, and at such a cheap price! Sure, people want the hand-knit scarf, but they have come to expect to be able to have it for $15.00.

Hannah and I were just having this conversation yet again --

and despite her eloquent tirade against Etsy, the next day she reported another sale with a big smile.

Always I come back to the conclusion that anything that helps people to make the connection between goods-and-maker benefits all of us.

I remembered this list I came up with for a post on the TAFA blog awhile back.

I'm standing by it.

You don't have to think

very hard at all

to come up with 15 good reasons

to buy handmade:

1. You're helping the economy. Most craftspeople are small business owners who can really use your support. And if you buy at a local show, you're keeping the money close to home.

2. It's good for the environment. Many hand-produced goods are made using green methods and/or materials. And there's no impact from fuel burned in shipping long distances.

3. There's a human connection. The kind you won't find at Walmart. It's a very different feeling when you pick up something that was made with care by a pair of human hands.

4. The item tells a story. Either in the item itself or in the hands that created it, there's often more than meets the eye.

5. It's personal. An item that you've picked specifically for someone, or had created just for them, is a more intimate gift than a gift card can ever be.

6. It's unique. No two hand-crafted items can ever be exactly alike. That's the point of handmade!

7. It can be inspiring. Seeing a well-crafted object might inspire you to look at your own scrap bag/wood pile/free time in new and exciting ways.

8. You're helping someone else. Buying handmade gives an artist the opportunity to continue doing the work they love, and helps them make a living using their skills.

9. You spread the word. Buying and giving handmade is a great way to spread the gospel of hand-crafted.

10. There's a potential heirloom. When you commission a piece to commemorate a specific occasion, a handmade item will carry the story you want to tell down through the generations.

11. It's interesting. In addition to enjoying your hand-crafted object, there's always plenty to learn about the person who made it, and the materials and techniques that were used in its creation.

12. It's fun. Shopping at craft fairs or browsing online is a great way to fill your hours with eye candy.

13. Your item is well-crafted. The kinds of people who create beautiful objects are the kinds of people who derive joy from the process. Your item is likely to be made to last.

14. It'll give you a good feeling. For all the reasons listed above and many more, you'll feel good when you buy and give handmade. It's the right thing to do.

15. It's easy! Etsy makes it easy to find thousands of hand-crafted items from the comfort of your own home. Never before in history has there been such easy access to all-things-handmade . . . (And if you're looking for something a bit more upscale, the ACC is chock-full o' artists who will be happy to help you, online or at a show!)

What are you waiting for?!

For instance -- time to get busy on that Christmas list yet?

Ouch! I said the word! Sorry about that.

I promise not to say it again until it's time for me to offer specific complaints about my to-do list. Which judging by the Christmas stuff I saw at Target this week, could be soon. I will not feel guilty before Halloween...I will not feel guilty before Halloween...I will not feel guilty before Halloween... Hmmm. It appears the big box stores may be much more evil than Etsy.

Take-your-mind-off-it Monday.

2011-10-17T14:14:00.046-05:00

Some of my favorite things

are favorites for no particular reason.

One of those things is this sampler:

I've had it for years -- picked it up at an antique store somewhere along the way. It has no date, no name, no clues whatsoever as to its maker. I don't know whether or not it came from a kit, but I assume it did. The frame is in atrocious shape and was dime-store quality to begin with, and yet it suits it somehow and so it has endured.

I've always had a soft spot for samplers. Much of my own work, with its rows of decorative borders, repetitive images and wise or quirky mottoes definitely owes more than a nod to the conventions of sampler-making, especially when taken in the context of the greater domestic needlework tradition to which I trace my lineage. So I suppose that's reason enough to explain my connection to this one.

We've recently been juggling some art around in the house,

the latest arrival, happy in its new home

trying to find new or better homes for things and incorporate a few new ones. It's nice to mix things up now and then just to encourage our eyes to notice them. After several years, even the most beautiful and inspiring art becomes invisible when viewed as part of the daily wallpaper. I toyed briefly with the idea of moving the sampler or getting rid of it altogether, but I found I just can't do it. And so it survives another round.

I was thinking about samplers to begin with . . .
because of some extraordinary work I came across the other day while wasting time on the internet.

Nothing is more appealing to me than traditional work that leaps the time chasm and finds a foothold in the present!

Michael Dinges, from Hand/Eye magazine

Michael Dinges' work is technically described as scrimshaw, a fascinating historical art in its own right. (I suppose that traditional scrimshaw could have been considered "samplers for sailors," and I thank the artist for connecting those dots for me!) Rather than ivory, Dinges works his magic on ubitquitous plastic. And although he transforms all kinds of society's plastic discards, the specific article I came across was about his "Dead Laptop Series."

Please visit the artist's

website to view the collection here!

In the article, Dinges explains his sampler connection in this way:

" Beyond tattoos and scrimshaw, it’s important to say that my “Dead Laptop Series” was formally inspired by 19th-century American schoolgirl needlepoint samplers. Images here often included the alphabet, botanicals, and simple moral verse meant to inspire virtue. Samplers almost look like laptops in size and they sort of represent the keyboard by way of the alphabet. I love the moral verses on them, and how their “knowledge” gets codified and transmitted in an intimate way. I make up my own simple poems to engrave, which are intentionally not meant to be great poetry but simply posit moral questions."

So very cool! And something to take your mind off a hum-drum Monday (assuming you're having one, since I certainly am.)

Sometimes it helps me stumble through the laundry with a smile when I remember that someone, somewhere is doing something that is so much... more... interesting.

Happy
Back-at-it
Monday!

"Housework can't kill you, but why take a chance?" . . . Phyllis Diller

2011-10-14T12:17:00.017-05:00

Exactly!
And having endured all manner of physical trials in the past 6 weeks or so, I have to ask myself that question quite seriously...

But when I came upstairs the other day and my husband had not only cleaned the bathrooms but dusted EVERYTHING, I had to wonder why.

"Was it that bad?" I asked, trying my best combination

of sheepish/coquettish/completely innocent.

He just gave me a look.

The look said a lot, including:

"I have not been able to actually
see the television in several weeks."

So yesterday I took a good look around, and it wasn't pretty. I mean, it STILL wasn't pretty, despite his well-intentioned good works.

It's amazing what you don't see when you don't care to.

"When it comes to housework

the one thing no book of

household management

can ever tell you is how to begin.

Or maybe I mean why."

--Katharine Whitehorn

I decided the floors were most worthy of my immediate efforts, but in doing the preparatory work for that herculean job, I noticed this:

I felt bad. Now, I really need a haircut myself, so it's not as if I've been lolling around a salon while the rest of the family is forced to walk around holding their bangs up out of their eyes, but REALLY.

I went through a topiary phase that lasted most of the 90's -- this is the sole relic of those years. For one thing, ivy doesn't grow well in Minnesota -- our houses are too dry. But this one refuses to die. It started life as a 4" houseplant from Target, when Hannah was in elementary school. It lived on the lanai in Florida, which is probably where all houseplants should begin life, because it has been happy ever since. When we moved from Florida, we had to drive the van up just so we could bring it with us. It rode in the back next to our cocker spaniel, who, incidentally, was so scared he stood up for the entire drive. (The ivy wasn't nervous in the least. Even when the two of them rode out a tornado in Tennessee while we sought shelter in an Outback Steakhouse and calmed our nerves with cheese fries. But I digress.)

"I hate housework!

You make the beds, you do the dishes,

and six months later,

you have to start all over again."

--Joan Rivers

Exactly. And this darn ivy just keeps growing. We've put it outside for the summer and hoped the sprinklers reached it. We've put it in the basement for the winter and pretty much forgotten to water it for 6 months. We've potted and re-potted. This last time, we vowed that the next time it outgrows the pot, it is just going to be too bad. It is in its final resting place. But I suppose I should reward its spunk and loyalty with a little more dignity in its old age.

30 minutes and a full garbage bag later, we both felt much better about ourselves.

Two+ hours and the dirtiest mop water I've ever personally been exposed to later, the kitchen looked quite improved as well.

"Housework is work directly opposed

to the possibility of

human self-actualization."

--Anne Oakley

So I'm not sure whether this last bit is true or not. It's difficult to feel terribly self-actualized when you can't find whatever you need to get that way under the layers of dust and/or clutter and/or grime.

Right now I think I'm going to go drop my sandwich on the kitchen floor, and then eat it anyway. Because I can, and there's a fair amount of satisfaction in that. It doesn't happen often.

But I'd better hurry... 24 hour rule...

Happy Weekend!

Writing Wednesday.

2011-10-12T13:49:00.015-05:00

Not a Magpie Tale today,

but a bird of a different sort . . .

My walk was so utterly lovely yesterday, with all the poignancy of a last embrace. And indeed today rain and wind are snatching the last of autumn's splendor off the trees as I type.

As often happens when confronted with beautiful things,
my walk got my word-wheels turning. . .

and when I came home

I just had to jot some lines

about what I had seen.

There's a sharp divide over birds in my family, with some viewing them as creepy dinosaur leftovers and some who love everything about them, from the birds themselves to bird-as-metaphor. (I fall into the latter camp, in case you are wondering. But I suspect you knew that.)

Anyway, my brief morning encounter with a feathered friend who was also busy soaking up the last sunshine resulted in a poem --

Autumn Cardinal

a crimson flit, fickle

unable to stay it offers

its lovely apology

a sliver of red song

on a quivering yellow perch --

shimmering coins, a curtain

of summer's last currency to spend

laid out against the blue

and counting out their worth

a pivotal contrast, this stark duet

of voice and color reaching

to sing the highest notes

hoping to be heard

above all else, remembered

the tremulous crescendo of a song

that will need to last awhile

-- smh

A little memento of a picture-perfect morning.

I hope you've been able to bask in a bit of autumn beauty in your own neck of the woods, or wherever it finds you.

More than she bargained for . . . !!!!!

2011-10-10T10:16:00.005-05:00

I am prone to hyperbole. And I think we can all agree that is not an exaggeration. However, in this particular case, I feel that my complaining has been completely justified and proportionate to my suffering. The main problem is, I feel that when I made the decision to have nasal surgery, I underestimated what I was setting myself up for.

It was big.

Actually, I'd like to go a step further and in a rare instance of being grateful to George W. Bush for making up words, I'd like to use a word even bigger than underestimated --

I would go so far as to say -- misunderestimated.

Underestimated with a little extra something . . . for emphasis.

It could be my ENT's utterly bland demeanor as he very briefly explained the procedure and the recovery --

to hear me recount the details, for instance, would be quite a different experience.

It could be the book they gave me to read in advance in which everyone looked so gosh darned normal, just carrying on with their day to day lives as if they had not just endured a life-threatening invasion of the worst
sort.

(Kind of like the movie Walt Disney made

to sell menstruation to girls

and make it seem like a fun part of growing up!)

I felt justified in my combination horror/self-pity/despair when my oldest daughter looked at me the other day and said, "Good. At least your eyes have gone back in their right place." WHAT??!! Thank goodness she had not previously remarked that my eyes were NOT in their right place, which would have only heightened the nightmarish scenarios my own brain was concocting overtime during sleepless hours of snotty suffering.

Although I'm standing by my surgical decision in the hope that it will indeed pay off, I must admit that at times it has seemed like the worst idea since my previous worst idea: jumping off a jungle gym as a kid while holding a bag over my head. I thought there would be a cool parachute effect of some kind. Instead there was a crash, which may have looked cool but was actually very painful (and also temporarily robbed me of the ability to breathe, now that I think about it.)

At any rate, when I wrote about my impending "procedure" last Monday, I did so fully expecting that I would be back here laughing about it with you on Wednesday, perhaps slightly loopy from pain pills but those would only add to the charm and merriment of the essay.

In reality, on Wednesday, I was wishing and thinking dire things that are not suitable to print or even consider on a family friendly website such as Small Works.

I would tell you more but I fear there are not enough exclamation points available to underscore the depth of my feeling about the experience!!!

Partly because the over-use of the exclamation point has sucked

all possible meaning out of it, leaving us with nothing when we

really, really need to communicate that we mean it.

As Jennifer Egan (recent winner of the Pulitzer Prize for fiction for her brilliant work, A Visit From the Goon Squad) observed, "The more exclamation points you use, the more you need to use in order to create an impression of exclamation."

My predicament precisely!

Although Mark Twain decried the use of the exclamation point as being akin to laughing at one's own joke and instead advocated a more understated burying of the punchline, we unfortunately do not all have Twain's talent to communicate things with exquisite precision through a deft (almost surgical!) choice of words.

So instead we use an exclamation point as if to say, "Look here! This is what I mean! It's the important part!" And without such crutches to make communicating things easy, we might never get the email/essay/text message written at all.

"But not many would think of that.

They would think of it next day,

but that is the difference between talent

and the imitation of it. Talent thinks of it at the time."

--Mark Twain

It's much easier to just stick an exclamation point (or 5) on the end and then think of what might have been the right words later, when you are smacking yourself on the forehead for your dopey overuse of exclamation points...

In a recent NY Times article on the proliferation of exclamation points, Aimee Lee Ball explained that "Writing is by definition an imperfect medium for relaying the human voice, And in the age of electronic communication . . . many literate and articulate people find themselves justifying the exclamation point to convey emotion, enthusiasm or excitement. Some do so guiltily, as if on a slippery slope to smiley faces."

So since punctuation has become meaningless, and the face (definitely not smiley!!!!!!) icon has not yet been invented to suit this particular purpose, I suppose I shall be content just to tell you that: 1) I am glad I am back, and that 2) my absence was somewhat . . . er . . . more trying than I expected.

But I can't help but wonder if it would have changed things if, ANYWHERE in the literature or the doctor's calm delivery, there had been one single well-placed exclamation point . . . something along the lines of :

YOU'LL BE SORRY (!)

(At the very least it might have helped me prepare for impact.)

Happy glad-to-be-alive Monday! (*sniff)

Happy Trials . . . . er. . . I mean Trails . . .

2011-10-03T11:52:00.006-05:00

One of my favorite movie speeches of all time

is from the movie City Slickers.

It's in the scene where a depressed Billy Crystal
is visiting his son's classroom on career day
to talk about his (dead-end) job and he says this:

"Value this time in your life kids, because this is the time in your life when you still have your choices, and it goes by so fast. When you’re a teenager you think you can do anything, and you do. Your twenties are a blur. Your thirties, you raise your family, you make a little money and you think to yourself, “What happened to my twenties?” Your forties, you grow a little pot belly, you grow another chin. The music starts to get too loud. One of your old girlfriends from high school becomes a grandmother. Fifties you have a minor surgery. You’ll call it a procedure, but it’s a surgery. Sixties you have a major surgery, the music is still loud, but it doesn’t matter because you can’t hear it anyway. Seventies, you and the wife retire to Fort Lauderdale, start eating dinner at two o'clock in the afternoon, lunch around ten, breakfast the night before..."

We've laughed at this speech for years,
but like a lot of things related to aging, in some ways it's not so funny anymore?! Because every time we go out to dinner we look around and say, "Oh -- we're here with the old people." And then inevitably one of us notices that it is only about 4:30pm, which explains it, and we say,
"Maybe we should just order breakfast."

And never mind that my dining habits are in line with the 70-year-olds -- somehow now I seem to have skipped the rest of my 40's and zipped into my 50's, and I'm starting to become way too experienced at having "procedures."

Yes, that's what we're going to call it, even though technically I think the hospital is calling it a surgery. Since they did such a brilliant job with my arm, I've decided to give them a crack at fixing my nose, in hopes that I'll be able to breathe again. I'm not sure exactly when I stopped being able to breathe, but it was sometime in my 30's and . . . I've sorta missed it.

Unfortunately, they're not going to do anything about the aesthetically-challenged, slightly disproportionate aspects of my nose. Proud as I am to take after Aunt Lillie, it is not cause for celebration in every area of life and her nose was not the quality I most aspired to. By about 8th grade, however, it became apparent that it had come along in the same gift bag with many of her good genes, and after a few years of chafing against my misfortune, I made friends with it and now I guess it's just me.

If the surgeon does, however, happen to have an OOPS! moment in which he shaves off an unplanned inch or two, I won't necessarily complain as long as he doesn't make it look WORSE. (For a person who is already nose-challenged, that fear is perhaps even greater than the one experienced by the artist who lets a surgeon go after her precious left arm.)

Anyway, that's what's on my agenda tomorrow.

How about yours? Any root canals scheduled?

Anything fun in the works for your week?

If I could, today I think I would figure out how to just jump into this picture

and ride off into the sunset, maybe rope some cows with Jack Palance...

I've been working on a stitched version in hopes that perhaps it could happen,
but as you can see, I haven't gotten very far yet.

Oh well -- at least I know she can't go without me....

(I think I'll wait to put the face on until after they get done playing with mine tomorrow...)

Happy Monday!

Friday means I've already been back from vacation....for ALMOST A WEEK??!!

2011-09-30T14:11:00.005-05:00

Time flies whether you're having fun or not --
certainly proof of that adage.

And I will confess that while many things have been done this week, there is still a mail pile rendering it almost impossible to use the kitchen counter in any truly meaningful way. But that's what the weekend will be for, right?

After I move the pile so I can bake some chocolate chip cookies that is, because I've been dieting so faithfully this week trying to make some headway against my vacation sins, I've earned a dozen-sized reward . . .

And when I move that pile to bake, I will most likely forget about it until something happens like I miss the party for which there is an unopened invitation there . . .

Do I sound like this could be familiar territory?
Draw your own conclusions.

ANYWAY -- I was having a conversation with someone about how Facebook (and all things social media, really) may be the new small-town America, and I've continued thinking about it.

Aunt Lillie's house, American Fork, Utah

As a child waking up in Aunt Lillie's house, you could rely on the fact that Lillie would be on the phone. She had her morning circle of friends to call every day, and I remember laying in bed listening to her end of those conversations and trying to piece together the bits of gossip into some kind of plot line.

Then when she got to work at her shop, people would stop by all day long to "chew the fat" and swap gossip about anything and everything that might have happened since they last talked, which was very recently. Everyone knew who I was, and I was just a weekend visitor. But then everyone knew my mother, and her parents, and and and . . .

. . . a bad place to try to hide, but a good place if you really wanted a sense of community.

My generation seemed to move away from that way of living, by and large, and I have not stayed in contact with any but a very small handful of friends from my youth (until Facebook, of course).

Plus my own family has moved a lot, so our roots have been shallow and mostly contained to a pretty small plot of ground, easy to transplant should it become necessary.

Now I am watching my children remain in contact with just about everyone who has ever been in their lives, and I'm also re-establishing some old contacts of my own . . . and it feels good. Because I notice that we suddenly know the kinds of insignificant details about people's lives that Aunt Lillie might have been able to tell you after her morning phone calls were completed.

Who stopped by for dinner last night, or what new recipe they tried, or what was making them cranky on any given day, or where they found a great price on blueberries -- it's pretty much all there for the picking. And I guess we'd gotten far enough away from it as a culture to be hungry for it again.

So I've been very pleased this week to receive a variety of notes from previously-unknown blog readers (who so kindly stepped out of the woodwork!) because it makes my circle seem just that much wider.

Friends in the virtual realm comprise

a kind of personal "small town"

that we can take with us

wherever we happen to go.

So to all my Small Works friends, who take the time to reach out to me
(to ask a question, or make a comment, or just wave and say hello) . . . thank you!

I didn't even know I missed you,

but now I know you're here,

my neighborhood feels just that little bit friendlier . . .

Happy Weekend!

2011-09-28T14:20:00.022-05:00

Someone insinuated recently that

I have too many rules.

I replied that they are not my rules
(my favorite Mr. Monk-ism)
but it got me thinking . . .

It might explain why I am so drawn to characters -- almost all of my closest friends could be classified that way -- people who operate a little outside most boxes, who seem to have their own code of rules for what's normal, or appropriate, or should be expected.

I've always blamed it on being raised by Aunt Lillie, who was a certified character, or the fact that I'm a writer and therefore always scouting for new material, but it could just be that I feel a little boxed in by all my rules and wish I could shed them.

Anyway, it all constitutes a fairly lengthy introduction to:

why-I-love-all-things-Ed-Larson

and have from the moment I first laid eyes on them.

Ed Larson is a Santa Fe artist who operates in absolutely no one's box but his own. And his own box is little more than that -- a sort of shed located near the top of Canyon Road and literally bursting at the seams with Ed and his creativity.

Before I ever got to Ed's place, I saw a hand-painted sign that said, "See Ed Larson -- The Gaugin of Canyon Road" and I knew I had to investigate the claim. When I actually set foot in his yard/studio/shed/gallery, I was hooked forever. I was immediately drawn by his folk-art-like, quasi-outsider style, having been a student of folk and outsider artists for years. But I was puzzled as to why he did not appear in any of the materials I had studied.

I guess it's because Ed is a trained artist, technically speaking, and so he is disqualified. But Ed has managed to bury his art training under so much life-training, it informs his work only in the most subtle and perfect way.

People call him "Wonderful Ed" because, as he tells it, every time he finishes a piece someone will say, "That's wonderful, Ed." And I would have to agree with them.

The sign above his door says, "Jesus said buy folk art." If you ask Ed where he obtained that quote, he may explain to you that it is in Ephesians . . . "Not everybody knows that, but I've studied the bible."

Ed Larson's art explores the complete range of his life experience: there are western themes, Navy service during the Korean war themes, small-town America themes (Ed hails from Joplin, MO), and a whole lot of political themes that leave little doubt as to which way Ed leans.

He seems to do everything, his paintings and sculpture flowing together in a way that sometimes makes it difficult to distinguish the two. He also has a large body (400!) of what he calls "picture quilts." Ed came up with the idea to make quilts, but because he didn't sew, he approached a quilter with his pattern and color scheme. Many collaborations later, one of his quilts is in the Smithsonian, and another was chosen one of the 100 best quilts of the 20th century.

We own 3 pieces of Ed's work. One of my favorites was actually painted on a palette (very used) that belonged to a well-known Santa Fe painter, a friend of Ed's whose statue lives in a park northeast of the plaza. The artist was gone before I ever discovered Santa Fe, but I am delighted that my collection includes a piece with a little bit of Ed's personal history attached.

It is one of my happy things, a portrait of Ed on horseback that, like all of his work, tells just a little piece of his story. There are pieces of his story in all of his work, and he will gladly reveal the context to you if you are lucky enough to be looking at Ed's work with Ed sitting nearby. (And he usually is, working away and listening to whatever happens to be on NPR.)

Here's a link to a video in which Ed tells all about his work
and the fascinating life that inspires it:

Wonderful Ed Larson's Folk Art

But I have long dreamed of owning a bigger piece of Ed's world, and I am more than happy to report that all I had to do was stay married for 30 years to have that dream realized . . .

(Well, stay married to someone who loves Ed's work as much as I do, which already got us off on the right foot, making the 30 year goal much more readily attainable -- just sayin'.)

We first saw our piece hanging

on the outside wall of Ed's place . . .

and were drawn to it immediately. Because it featured 3 girls (so do we!) and was a campy take-off on a wild-west show poster (remember my Bonanza affair? she's a sucker for western camp!) and it was signed "wonderful Ed" with a little portrait of him, and carried a large 2011 (our 30th year!) as well as the title "Positively No Disappointment" . . . all resulting in the perfect commemorative piece. Wouldn't you agree?

Best of all, it's scheduled to arrive in Hinckleyville . . . LATER TODAY!

And I, for one, can't wait.
A perfect souvenir from a perfect trip.
Created by just the man for the job.
It doesn't get much better than that.

Thanks, Ed.

That's wonderful.

(and talk about timing -- there's the doorbell. Could it be? .......EEEEEK!)

There's no place like home (although it's just possible there's someplace better) . . .

2011-09-26T12:48:00.008-05:00

Most of what I do during the week after a vacation --

when I'm not busy dealing with things that have piled up, i.e. mail, laundry, bills, pounds --
is say things that begin with:

"Last week at this time, we were _______."

That sentence can be finished in any one of a thousand ways, such as "sharing that amazing sandwich under the cottonwoods near Ghost Ranch..." or "much warmer/so full/crazy happy."

I'm sure it gets annoying, but I like to relive every moment, mainly as an avoidance technique to help me pretend I don't really have to face the plethora of annoying chores du jour.

And in this case . . .

it was definitely a vacation to remember!

Every second was one to savor -- a feast for the eyes, the mind, the soul, and of course the stomach. In fact, I believe I have perhaps set a new scientific bar for the amount of weight one small-ish woman can gain in an 8 day period of time. Let's just say that pancakes and sopaipillas may or may not have been enjoyed in the same meal....more than once.

But dining episodes like that are just one of the things that makes New Mexico the adopted home-away-from-home for this Minnesotan's heart.

There's something about the bluer-than-blue sky that makes me want to fly, and I feel just happy enough within its bright embrace

to believe it's possible . . .

We have a goal to drive the entire state, and added a lovely new route in addition to enjoying some of our old favorites this time. For your future travel reference, the Jemez mountains are spectacular in September! We put over 1200 miles on our trusty rental car during the week, and only wished there had been time to log a few more....

First, of course, there was a stop at our favorite quirky used-cd store for a big heap of new music, then a stop to buy a cooler, then a stop at the Santa Fe Whole Foods (which is, for some reason, better than any Whole Foods on the planet -- there are others who agree with me on this point -- and it could have something to do with the guy roasting fresh green chiles in the parking lot) . . . to fill our cooler with delicacies of all kinds.

Then we just let the scenery unspool itself, experiencing every second through as many of our senses as we could involve in the process . . .

Near Ghost Ranch

Our favorite spot at the top of New Mexico

Brazos Cliffs

In the Jemez Mountains

Battleship Rock

Susan, outstanding in her field . . . and high atop the Sandia Crest

Because it was a vacation

to mark our 30-year milestone,

we decided to buy a commemorative piece of art.

(Note: Sending Susan to Santa Fe with the charge to find a piece of art is a somewhat risky proposition -- sometimes her decider gets overwhelmed and there is enough good art in New Mexico to potentially leave her whimpering in a corner in a wide-eyed and quivering fetal position)

Luckily, in this case, we knew our piece the moment it introduced itself to us. There were a few moments of hemming-and-hawing, of course, while we considered other pieces that were so so so wonderful, but in our hearts we knew.....and once the decision was made, we made a literal screaming U-turn on our way to a hike in the Pecos Wilderness Area that was never realized, because we had to stake our claim on our perfect piece before it introduced itself to someone else.

But I'll tell you about that next time.

The art and the artist deserve a post of their own.

Today is for remembering all the other things

that made it so hard to want to leave . . .

green chile

red rocks

blue sky

pink sunsets

purple sage

golden chamisa

. . . and one happy, happy camper.

(Okay, I'll admit that home is good, too. But home would be improved by someone delivering a fresh-from-the-fryer basket of sopaipillas to the table with every meal. There is a place on earth, after all, where it happens.....and once you discover that secret, you may never really bring your whole heart home.)

Small Works is brought to you today by the letter F..... and by the number 9.

2011-09-16T14:48:00.007-05:00

F because it's Friday,

for starters, dear friends!

And also because Fall definitely arrived here this week -- my walk this morning required both my trusty black cap and my magic gloves -- a sure sign that the times they are a changin'.

But mostly the letter F because I'm here to say farewell....

I celebrated a whopper of an anniversary last week (30! EEEK!)

The festivities included a fabulous dinner with the family . . .

Although I was not aware that 30 is the "pearl" anniversary, Chelsea proved that I've been successful in teaching her some useful skills when she presented us with a giant papier mache pearl!

The fact that she knew instinctively how to create such an object (that looks as if I made it myself) made me smile. If you know the story of my career in craft, papier mache is where it all began.
So it was truly a fun gift! (Her father may take more pride in the fact that she has a master's degree and is pursuing a JD, but I happen to feel it's equally important to know your way around a studio....)

F is also for forgo . . . . as in we didn't buy any gifts because we are leaving in the morning for a
fabulous trip to . . . wait for it . . . my favorite destination . . .
forever my first choice . . .

Santa Fe!

It's been far too long -- I'll hardly feel like a native the way I once did, but I'm hopeful that Gabriel's will have readied a table and the punch-bowl sized guacamole for my personal fiesta!

Small Works will return in 9 days . . .
fatter and happier and hopeful that the driveway isn't already full of snow.

Adios, amigos!

(See you September 26!)

[Oops! I almost forgot.....
If you need an inspirational fix,
check out my favorite find
from blog world this week at Side Trips....]