Checking In On My Word For The Year … Slowly

April 28, 2011 By

Spider and Web with Dew, copyright Joan Z. Rough, 1984

It has become my custom at the end of each year to pick a word that I choose to work with for the coming year.  For 2010 I chose the word Open.  Simply carrying the intention of trying to open myself up was amazing. Whenever I felt the slightest urge to back away from something that was being offered to me, I remembered my word and went for it.  I’m still working with being open.  I believe it is something I’ll carry along with me for the rest of my life.

This past New Year I chose the word Slowly. The reason being that I’ve always done things too quickly. I’ve been a type A kind of person, easily getting impatient and frustrated with the slow pokes of the world who take too much time making decisions, lingering at stop lights and simply getting in my Speedy Gonzales way. I believed I had to do everything right now, perfectly and completely.  I hated stopping in the middle of things and might easily continue working in the garden for instance, with my back killing me and getting worse by the minute, just because it all has to be done NOW.

The past year was full of hurry, hurry, quick, quick.  We bought and moved into a new house in the midst of an already chaotic life.  I felt overwhelmed, exhausted and at times brain-dead.  I’ve moved many times throughout my life and have happily survived it all.  When I was kid I lived in 3 different houses and went to 3 different schools in one year.  Last year’s move seemed like the worst and as I sit here writing, I have no intention of moving again.  When it’s time for me to go, somebody will have to carry me out.  At least that’s my story right now.  I’m also known to be one who loves to rock the boat and move on to something else.

So, I figured the least that I could do to ease my way through life was to slow down.  I made my word choice in late December with no second thoughts, wrote about it here, then merrily went on my way.  I haven’t thought about it much until recently when I suddenly discovered that, wow, I am slowing down.

I’ve been taking the opportunity to be grateful for inconveniences that seem to slow my pace, frequently finding those few minutes of waiting a great time to take a few deep breaths and notice beautiful things going on around me … like the way early morning dew clings to a spider web, glistening in a newly rising sun.  This past Easter Sunday, I pulled a muscle in my back while planting perennials in my garden.  I stopped and did some stretching, leaving many other plants waiting for my attention.  Some are still waiting as I’ve taken the time to plant just a few at a time.  They are alive and well and I’ve had the chance to rethink my garden plan.  And my back is so much better.

Today, I started writing this piece at 11:15 AM and happily took the time for a leisurely lunch and a poke around the garden before coming back to it.  As I sit here finishing this bit of writing, I hear song birds singing their heart’s out, savor the cool breeze coming through my open window and wonder why it’s taken me so long to find this quiet place of being.

Are you a speedy type?  What’s the rush?

My Turtle Friend, Copyright Joan Z. Rough, 2004

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, wonderings

Re-being …

April 22, 2011 By

My muse, 22" x 28", oil on canvas, copyright, Joan Z. Rough 2002

Becky, a new friend I met at the retreat I talked about in my last post, birthed the word Re-be while we were there.  Becky, like myself is a person who has a ton of interests and has jumped from one field of interest to another.  If I have her story right, she spent her college years going from one school and major to another and later chose two majors in unrelated fields.

Barbara Sher, in her book, Refuse to Choose, defines people like Becky and myself as Scanners.  We are those who don’t follow one path or career through life, but go from one interest to another and another and another.  We do not walk the straight and narrow road.  Instead of having one passion we have many.  We start projects then drop them, leaving many unfinished.  We sometimes feel we are missing out by not having that “one thing” that is our passion in life.  Though we might wish for that one good road to travel, it isn’t really what we want deep down inside.  That wishfulness most likely arises because we are often considered lazy and are bullied because we can’t “settle down” and “finish” anything.

My mother once told me that my life was a train wreck because I had too many things going on. I loved what I was doing at the time, which was simply being me, as an artist, trying out my wings, going from one thing to another. I’d stop whatever I was doing from time to time and try on a different hat. I’ve worked with fibers, paint, mixed media, was a teacher, raised sheep and goats, wrote poetry, published a book and was a fine arts photographer.

Each time I started something new I was extremely excited and filled with a powerful energy that couldn’t be ignored.  Some of you may know what I’m talking about through your own experience.  Though I never saw my life as a train wreck, I did spend many years not thinking very highly of myself because I believed what those around me were thinking and saying.  I often felt guilty believing that my interests were trivial and would lead me nowhere.  There weren’t many people out there who encouraged me or would celebrate my gifts with me.  I often felt that I was forever trapped in a world that I couldn’t manuver in and be happy.

For the last seven years of her life, my mother lived in the same house with my husband and me.  During those years I gardened, cooked, studied herbs as medicine and did a bit of beading because it was easy to stop and start and carry along whenever I had to take mom somewhere and wait for her appointment to be over.  Though I was very interested in those things, there were times I was bored and didn’t feel I could go with a new interest that would suddenly catch my attention.  I’ve spent the last four years since her death digesting the fact that somewhere along the way I abandoned myself and most of what I wanted to do because I chose to be her caregiver.   I did what I had to do.  I am not blaming my mother or anyone else and if truth were told, I’d probably do it again.  I’ve learned a lot about myself as well as my mother and have lived to tell about it.

Now I feel like my old self again … excited and ready to jump back in and Re-be.  For several months now the idea of learning about encaustic painting has been swimming around in my unconscious, occasionally rising to the surface, like a dolphin, for a breath of air. I spent a long day and night this last week shedding my old skin and regrowing another.  I found a short and to-the-point class in encaustics at Book Works in Asheville, North Carolina and I’ve signed up for it.  My creative life is in tact and I’m ready to begin.  Excitement fills my days and I’m filled with an energy I haven’t experienced in years. To make it even sweeter, I get to see my daughter and grandkids who live in Black Mountain only a short distance away from where I’ll be!!  I’m looking forward to May!!

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, Retreats and Workshops, Travels

It Just Keeps Gettin’ Richer!

April 15, 2011 By

Bend of Ivy Lodge

I just returned from an amazing week of friendship, laughter, love and creativity.  It all began in Charlotte, NC, at the airport, where my good friend Sharon and I met and continued on to Asheville together.  It was a warm, sunny day and very windy.  We never expected that the next day would be cold and blustery with snow showers dampening the streets of Black Mountain. There, we spent three days exploring and spending time with my daughter and her family,  including one special day alone with Lisa herself.  I was so happy to see them all and shed a few tears as we drove away on Thursday towards our next destination.

I don’t get to see this part of my family more than 3 or 4 times a year so each visit is a special time as we all get re-aquainted.  I noticed that 10-year-old grand-daughter Zoe, is growing taller and more beautiful and that grandson Noah’s sense of humor and imagination is blossoming like the wild Rhododendrons that soon will color those smokey blue mountains in lovely shades of pink.  Both children told us their very own versions of how the world was created which cracked us up and gave us pause as to how wise these young ones are.  I wish I had recorded it.  These days details slip so easily from my mind.

I read one of Zoe’s freshly written stories.  She is already a wonderful writer, knowing exactly how to capture the reader in the first few lines of her tales dealing with everyday challenges, often speaking in the voice of a cat, dog or horse.

Noah gifted both Sharon and me with beloved toys he gave to us with pure, joyous love. We were both presented with well-worn Matchbox cars, a race car for Sharon, a police car for me.  To try to give them back at the end of our stay would have been a deep insult so my gift now rests on a windowsill in my studio that holds other small, precious items people have honored me with.  

I’m sure they noticed new wrinkles on my face, my hair turning more gray and the growing forgetfulness that seems to haunt us elders.   I remember noticing with sadness and sometimes shock my own mother’s aging when Lisa and Mark were small and thought that one day, they would be experiencing the same feelings as their mom slips into her dotage.

On Thursday we spent 3 hours with my friend, Clara, who I’d spent time talking to on the phone during our 6 month Live Now teleclass. We’d never met in person so it was a delight to finally meet her and I look forward to seeing her often whenever I get to Asheville.

Afterwards we sped up to the Bend of Ivy Lodge near Marshall, where we spent a long weekend with 12 awesome women and the amazing Patti Digh and David Robinson at a retreat based on Patti’s book, Creative is a Verb. She is also the author of Life is a Verb and 37 Days, all favorites of mine.  Patti and David were my teachers in the Live Now class mentioned above.  Artist Kim Joris, came with a van full of odd pieces of this and that and enticed us into creating works of recycled art from her fabulous collection of  findings … old books, jewelry, door nobs, machine parts, etc.  Dava nourished us with her sweet and savory vegetarian creations.

The group of women I met were simply spectacular.  Ranging in age from twenty- something to seventy-something, we came from different corners of this country with one from Calgary, Canada.  We shared our stories, our strengths, our weaknesses.  We taught each other what we’ve learned over our lifetimes.  There were tears, smiles and lots of laughter.  It was one of the best weekends I’ve spent on retreat.

I left feeling I wanted to pack Patti, David, Kim, Dava, along with all of my new friends into my suitcase and whisk them home with me.  What a perfect team we’d be:  continuously inspired, well nourished and always in a creative frame of mind.  But alas, we all have our own lives and families so none chose to come with me.  But I have a feeling we’ll see each other again.

I’m home again, with a nasty head cold that blossomed as soon as I walked in the door.  I’m happy to be here and celebrating that we have finally sold the home we moved from last June, after its lengthy stay on the market for a bit over a year.  The money is in the bank and there is a huge burden lifted from our shoulders!

Filed Under: stories, Travels

A Story Poem

April 3, 2011 By

 

The Family left to right. First row: cousin John, cousin Tom, Zed. Middle row: cousin Jane, me, mom. Back Row: Dziadzio, Babcia, Aunt Polly, Dad with Reid. Circa 1954.

It’s National Poetry Month and here is one of my story poems to celebrate words and the images they create.  Just to fill you in, Babcia is the Polish word for Grandmother and Zed and Reid are my brothers.

Five Finger Exercise

1

Roast pork Sunday dinner.                                                                                                                 Babcia hems skirts, replaces                                                                                                             buttons.  Speaking in broken English                                                                                          implores us to eat one more bite.                                                                                                     Sings skinny no good, plumpy is healthy.                                                                                       Warns of the wolf in the pump house                                                                                             who feeds on underfed children.

2

Thanksgiving in New Jersey.                                                                                                             Smoke stacks belching blueblack vapor.                                                                                         Hateful boy cousins tease, torment,                                                                                                 look up my skirt.                                                                                                                                 My uncle shows me middle C.

3

A black baby grand.                                                                                                                             Glossy red John Thompson books.                                                                                                   A metronome beating the air.                                                                                                           Mrs. Miller sits too close,                                                                                                                   pushes and prods.                                                                                                                                 I try to keep up, forgetting                                                                                                               lines in a recital.

4

My brother Zed squeezes                                                                                                                   his accordion, seeking approval.                                                                                                       Eyes bandaged, we feed him                                                                                                               canned yellow peaches,                                                                                                                     calling them slimy goldfish, raw eggs                                                                                             to be swallowed whole.

5

Winter blows an icy dirge.                                                                                                                 My father fumbling farewells                                                                                                           but honestly trying,                                                                                                                             asks Reid to build him                                                                                                                       a plain pine box.

 

I will be away for a week.  This time to visit my daughter and grandkids,  spend time with a dear friend and to go on retreat for a couple of days.  My sweet man will stay home to hold down the fort, keep the dogs company and water the garden.

We had our first lettuce of the season a few days ago, the carrots are just beginning to show tiny green sprouts in their dark, rich soil and broccoli and spinach will be ready for the table in about a month.

When I return, I’ll plant more words right here.  Have a wonderful week!

Filed Under: Poetry, stories

About the Bus

March 29, 2011 By

 

 

When the history books are written in the future somebody will have to say there lived a race of people, a black people, fleecy locks and black complexion, a people who had moral courage to stand up for their rights, and thereby they injected a new meaning in the veins of history.

Rosa Parks

After we saw the film Freedom Riders, and considered joining Julian Bond’s civil rights tour of the south, I thought long and hard about the required travel by bus. I wondered if I could  manage sitting in one place for long stretches of time without encouraging lots of aches and pains which set in when I am not moving about.  Bill and I needed to make a decision quickly because there were only “a few seats left” and it was going to be the “last trip” Julian would lead.  So, I decided that I’d trust the Universe and just get on with it. It seemed like an important trip to make to further my understanding of the world as well as myself.

I have always considered myself a student. I’m curious and like to know how most things work and why.  My school experience ended when I graduated from college with a Bachelor of Science Degree in Elementary Education.  Since that time I’ve found that learning by experiencing was the way for me to go.  Why sit in a classroom and read a book if an opportunity to see the world, near or far arose? When traveling to places where people don’t speak my language, are culturally unlike me or are in situations I’ve never known, I gain a new understanding of the world, who I am and where I fit in.

But back to the bus.  It was an image that stayed with me throughout my preparation for this trip.  As the day of our departure drew nearer, the bus became a symbol that haunted me as we traveled. Back in the early days of segregation, buses were one of the easiest and sometimes the only way to travel.  Not everyone had a car.  I thought again of  those courageous freedom riders, who risked their lives in the process of trying to end segregation.  I thought of Rosa Parks, who one day in 1955, simply got tired of being humiliated and doing the things white people ordered her to do.  She refused to move from her seat on a bus in Montgomery, Alabama, when the driver told her to move further to the back to make room for a white man, even though there were other seats available to him.

Mrs. Parks was arrested and the next day black citizens of the city and county met in mass meetings at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church (where Martin Luther King Jr., was pastor at the time), and in other churches throughout the city.   After a one day boycott, the people came together again and agreed to continue with the boycott until the city  agreed to desegregate the bus service. Blacks and some whites found other ways to get to their jobs. People who owned cars drove others to their destinations free of charge. They walked, rode bikes and helped each other out.  The city bus company started losing money and they gave in to the demands of the black community.

With that in mind, I decided that to travel by bus was the only way to make this journey.  It was the only way to get as close to history as possible. It was a way of sitting with the ghosts of those who had forged the way to freedom. They were humiliated, beaten, and sometimes killed, but in the long run, they won the right to sit where ever they wanted, to eat in any restaurant they wanted to and ultimately to become voters. Yes, I was uncomfortable at times. Yes, I wasn’t getting the exercise I normally get.  But my aches and pains never came close to what those ghosts had suffered.  I was happy to listen to their stories and the pain they experienced as we rode the bus through the land where slavery had been a way of life for too many years.

Filed Under: stories, Travels, Uncategorized
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