Busy.

There are a couple of topics that have been running through my mind lately- one of them is how busy Americans are- including myself. Here's a little note about busyness, it is in no way intended to sound preachy, but is intended to challenge you and me. 'Busy' doesn't necessarily mean 'productive' and it hardly ever means 'fulfilled'.

Imagine:

A frail man lies in bed with his family around him. Gathering as much strength as he has left, the old man lifts his hand to summon everyone closer- he slightly lifts his head and opens his eyes to see all of his loved ones near. He takes a shallow breath and forms one last sentence:
“I wish I would have spent more time working at the office.”

And then he dies.

If you’re having a hard time getting this to play out in your mind, that’s probably because things like this don’t happen. Men and women don’t ever reflect on their life and say that they wish they would have worked more-  worked later, harder, more frantically, no one every says “Gee, I guess I could have used a little more stress in my life.” It just doesn’t happen. Instead, what happens is that people work their fingers to the bone, sacrifice their relationships, their health, and their sanity only to regret it later.

Have you ever heard a mother complain about her kids’ hectic schedule? “Joey has soccer, Anna has ballet, and Madison has piano…I just don’t think we’re going to get home before 9 o’clock.”  

 Have you ever heard someone brag about how many miles they put on their car? “Dude, I put 2000 miles on my car last week” it’s like they’re looking for the ‘I Drove the Wheels off My Car Because I Am So Busy’ Prize.

What about the guy that brags about how many hours of work he put in? “I worked 60 hours this week and then went home on the weekend to help remodel my friend’s house- I haven’t slept in two and a half days.”

Have you ever heard a college student say “I just read fourteen chapters of biochem. and now I am off to study group…right after I finish typing this twelve page paper.”

If you answered yes to any of these, or maybe you’re finding that you are the one saying them, you’re not alone- Americans are busy- too busy. Why are we doing this to ourselves? Is someone forcing you to be so frazzled or are you filling your schedule with things that only add to your stress? Is it worth it?

I recently got into a conversation with a friend back home who was trying to decide whether to drive across the state of Washington right after work ended at 5pm or to wait and drive back the next day. I encouraged him to spend the night and make the 8 hour drive that next morning. He seemed to have  a hard time with the idea- like NOT being in a rush made him uncomfortable. Somewhere along the line, this friend of mine has been convinced that being busy is noble and that taking time for himself is ‘lazy’.  

Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard:
“You gotta work hard if you want to get ahead in this world, Son.” This bit of advice is usually passed down from generation to generation and, to some extent, I totally agree. Yes, it does take hard work to get ahead- but that’s not the only requirement for success. Notice that the statement is “You gotta work hard…” not “You gotta be really, really busy…”

The old man in the scenario written at the top didn’t say “I wish I would have spent more time working at the office” because when a person has a chance to reflect on what life is all about, he or she will find that life is about the relationships that are made- not a paycheck or a promotion.

Emotional Leftovers

Last night, I stumbled across some news that stopped me in my tracks. I was doing my evening cruise through Facebook to catch up on the latest from back home when I noticed a little heart shaped indicator on my screen annoucning that my ex husband is now engaged to be married. I tried to act like it didn't bother me, but I admit that it did.  My stomach dropped. The feelings I had were unidentifyable- it wasn't jealousy, it wasn't anger or bitterness but more like a slight mixture of sadness and confusion. Just when I think that the last part of me stopped hurting and stopped caring, I find residual emotions that reveal themeselves over time- last night was one of those instances. 

Finding these tender spots inside is kind of like picking up glass off the floor after you've dropped a mug: you pick up the large pieces first, and then you sweep with the hand-broom. Even after those two steps, a person still finds little shards here and there- under the toe space, next to the door. A person never gets it all at once, and somtimes even hours, or days afterwards, you might find one or two little pieces glinting in the light. 

I found a little glinting piece of tenderness last night.

 I layed in bed for what seemed like forever, just staring at the celing, thinking and wrestling with conflicting emotions,. With the seconds and minutes ticking steadily by, my brain tried to make sense of everything that has happened these past several years with Matt.  Like any sort of complicated situation, however, it's not easy to wrap everything up in a nice little package and put it on a shelf along with the rest of life's biggest scenarios. Life is not simple though, it is not sterile- it is often complicated and messy.

This is one of those complicated and messy moments.

"You know... CHAMPAGNE!"

Yesterday was one for the record books. Sally, Tom (a fellow resident writer from South Africa), Juanita and I piled into Sally's little black Twingo and drove to see the 30,000 year old Pech-Merle cave paintings. Sally brought up the idea of going two days ago and I nearly jumped out of my skin from excitement. I originally learned about the prehistoric cave paintings my sophomore year of college and found them facinating. I remember Google searching the web to see if I could get posters of the paintings- their simplicity as well as their history combine to put these primitive works of art on my top 5 favorite artistic pieces.
This might all sound a little dry to you, but for an art history nerd like me, it was kind of a big deal- like a football fan going to the Super Bowl or a NASCAR fanatic going to the Indy 500.

I decided to bring Juanita along for the trip as she's been pretty bored just sitting in the room and waiting for me to come back in the afternoons from my painting expeditions. I told her she could go as long as there wasn't any monkey business.  I was happy to pack her a banana or two for the road since it kept her quiet on our hour long car ride.

We arrived at Pech-Merle and went on the 50 minute tour, which was completely in French. It was a really good thing that Sally came to translate- I kept hearing 'buh-tum' whenever the tour guide took his laser pointer over a certain part of a drawing. I asked Sally what he was saying... turns out that the drawing he was pointing to was a shilouette of a woman- with a very large 'buh-tum'. One thing I noticed about the drawings of women was that the artists didn't seem to care to include heads on the ladies- they just drew very fertile looking women with lines for heads.... kind of makes me think that these primitive men didn't really value their women's brains too much. They definitely put of a lot of emphasis on the physical attributes vs. anything else. I won't be too judgemental of these artistic men, however, I mean, they did do some works of art that lasted a lot longer than any of my paintings will- and I am SURE a woman played a large part in the cleaning of his animal skin clothes when he returned from his cave expeditions- covered in iron oxide and charcoal.

After we got done with the tour, I asked if we could do it all over again. Sally said 'no' because it was well past lunch time and we were due to have a bite in St. Cirq Lapopie- noted the most beautiful village in France. St. Cirq Lapopie is famous as the gem of the Lot region of France and, in one tour guide, it was referred to as one of the most beautiful places not just in France, but in their entire world. Well over 800 years old, this town is built on a rock outcropping that looks over the gorgeous Lot river. It once had three castles in the village- just ruins are left now, but a lot of the other buildings in the town are almost a thousand years old... which makes our puny little stick homes back in Ferry County look like short-term investments. If you really want something to last, it's gotta be build out of limestone, have a roof of limestone, and be build on a foundation of limestone.
On our way to 'Lapopie, we passed a massive field of sunflowers. Tom and I begged Sally to pull over and let us take some photos.  When I think 'France' I think 'sunflowers', and I admit I was disappointed to hear that they'd all bloomed by September and the locals told me that I probably would only see one or two individual flowers still yellow... but this patch proved the locals wrong. I joked that walking on the road above the sunflowers, with them 'looking' in my direction made me feel like a rockstar going on stage to face adoring fans.
"HELLO SUNFLOWERS! I LOVE YOU! Here's a new song I wrote, just for you..."

There's no real use in my trying to desribe the town of St. Cirq Lapopie to you, because I just won't do it justice. Let me just say this: if I could pack things up and move there, I'd do it without hesitation. There are just some places in the world that actually do take your breath away- St. CL is one of those places. You might want to Google it if you want some really good photos. I am just showing you one of the best ones I took.. and I will post more pictures later.

I had a little Cassis Sorbet in the village, just to celebrate my being there. The server gave me a metallic plastic spoon. It looked so real that I asked him if he wanted it back when I was finished with it. He looked at me like I was a weirdo and said 'No."

Another gentleman I met at the panini shop told me he used to be a bank manager in Champagne and then said "You know... CHAMPAGNE!" and then pantomimed popping a cork- he and I got along really well after that.

Juanita looks over the Lot River with St. Cirq Lapopie Church in the background.

Well, I have to go to bed. It's 10:19pm here. I have a full day of painting in Puy l'eveque tomorrow- I hope to do one good painting of the city. Wish me luck.

My First Day of School

School started back in Curlew this week.  Last night I had an anxiety dream that I was frantically preparing to teach a combination class of high school seniors and first graders. Even though I am not back home in the classroom, I can't help but feel the buzz of Back to School excitement.

In honor of all those students, parents, and teachers back home I thought I would share an exerpt from an essay I wrote a year ago about my first day of school at Inchelium. The essay was in response to the question "Why did you choose to be a teacher?" I wrote about my trouble fitting in at Inchelium and how I went on to discover that standing and teaching at the front of the class was the only place I truly felt like I belonged....anyway, it's directed towards an audience of officials in Olympia who were in charge of grading my professional portfolio, so I won't bore you with the whole essay, but here's the part about my first day of school and why it is burned into my memory:
       ______________________________________________

            A white girl born and raised on an Indian Reservation has very little chance of ever fitting in. Although not impossible, the odds of having a sense of belonging are rare.  Basic outward appearances automatically create an obvious division among people that is extremely difficult ignore. In order to fit in, a girl must play her cards right. No, she must play them perfectly and a certain sort of luck must be involved as well. For instance, if a girl were born with dark, straight hair and deep-brown eyes, it would definitely help with the fitting-in process. If her natural behavior was similar to those around her, if she was to think and act and react like the rest, she might have an easier time being accepted by her classmates. Let’s say that, hypothetically speaking, if she were significantly gifted in the area of athletics, the people in her community might be willing to accept her for her ability to contribute to the local sports teams. With matching physical characteristics, similar mannerisms, and a supernatural athletic ability, a white girl just might possibly fit in. Unfortunately, for me, I struck-out in all three areas and have spent a large chunk of my life searching for a place where I truly belong.
            If I ever stood a chance at fitting in at Inchelium (the tiny reservation town where I grew up) I blew it- big time. My one chance to fit in was shot to pieces the minute I stepped foot on the bus- headed to school for the first time, my first day of kindergarten.
            Mom had spent extra time that morning combing my blonde hair and dividing it into pig tails. She talked gently to me as she finished my hair, tying each pigtail with a bright ribbon. She spent the rest of the morning trying to make sure that, in all my excitement for school, I had not forgotten to pack my box of Crayolas, my new PE shoes or my sack lunch. I’d heard so much about school from my older brother, Hunter, I anxiously awaited the time for him and me to go out the door and catch the bus. The time finally came. Mom walked us out the door, led us out onto the driveway, turned us to face the sun, and took a photo of Hunter and me- hand in hand, ready to start school.
            The bus’ diesel engine grew loud as it rounded the far corner of our dirt road.  A cloud of dust trailed behind it and, as it approached, I felt scared and excited at the same time. As it arrived at our stop, the bus lurched to a halt, the air brakes let out a hiss, and the bus driver opened the doors for us to come aboard. Hunter let me get on first. I climbed the three giant steps and waltzed down the tiny aisle to find a seat- a big brown seat for my brother and me to sit in.
            The bus pulled away from our stop and rolled down the road, my azure-blue eyes grew wide as I began to look around. My world had instantly expanded. I couldn’t get enough of looking around at the interesting sights that surrounded me. There were so many sounds to listen to, my ears felt overwhelmed. My hands instantly wanted to touch everything- the windows, the rugged metal siding, the vinyl seats. I was awe-struck. I’d heard that school was great, but I had no idea that the ride to school would be this incredible. I know now, that it was at that exact point in time that I realized life was worth celebrating- and each moment in it, even the small ones, were worth celebrating too.

            I could hardly sit in my seat as we traveled from house to house, picking up more kids. I’d hardly noticed the rest of the students on the bus since I’d been preoccupied with the wonders of the ride. We had one more stop to make before making the trip down hill to the school parking lot. At this stop, a grumpy high school student stepped on the bus, shuffled to her seat, threw her bag down, and sat with an obvious frown on her face. Her body language communicated a very clear message that she was not at all pleased with the fact that school had started again.
            After making the remarkable discovery that the school bus offered innumerable wonders to be cherished, I could not figure out why this girl looked do displeased. Didn’t everyone else see the wonders I did? Didn’t this girl see life, full of new opportunities, was offering her an opportunity to look around and be amazed? 
            It was at that moment that I, with eyes wide, looked at her, trying to interpret the expression on her face, hoping she would find enjoyment in the bus ride like I did. I gazed curiously and she returned the gaze. It took me a split-second to realize that the look she gave me was not friendly but rather one of bitterness and disgust.  Her eyes narrowed and her lips let out a low growl as she spoke.
            “Stare hard, retard.”
            I don’t remember much about the rest of that day.

______________________________________________________

Side note: Most people in Inchelium are a lot friendlier than this girl ever was. Her cutting words, however, left a scar that has remained ever since- reminding me that the tongue is a dangerous weapon. This fact alone is one of the most important things I've learned. If we look at it that way, this girl played taught me my very first lesson on my first day of kindergarten, and for that I am grateful. Maybe I'll send her a postcard.

Joe Artist

My computer absolutely refuses to upload any Joe Artist pictures this week. I am not sure why. Until I can figure it out, there will be no Joe Artist cartoons on this blog site. Sorry!

I am spending tomorrow painting in a near by village that has castle remains from the 12th century... I'm sure that I can find SOMETHING to paint there. =)

Gotta go to bed.

When to Walk Away

After spending two full days in a sort of dream-like state, the time came for me to paint. Yesterday, I got out my easel, mixed my paints, put in my headphones, and started a small 8"x10" landscape. All went well for about 75% of the painting and then I ruined the entire painting with too much 'noodling'- just adding details, taking away details, getting nit-picky, etc. I ruined it or, as Sally said "you over-cooked it".

I usually have the sense to stop myself from getting too obsessive with my paintings- I usually reach a point where I put down my paintbrushes and say "I am happy with this one!" and walk away satisfied with the finished product. Yesterday, however, I just couldn't stop. There was so much to see, so much to put into the painting, so many details I wanted to include- so I crowded my painting and ended up with a muddy, confusing, quite hideous picture.

All artists struggle with knowing when to stop. Painters fight the temptation to add just one more flower, or one more leaf, or one more tile on the rooftop. Writers have to walk away from their stories and stop adding adjectives and juicy adverbs. Sculptors resist putting another finger print impression or dimple in their projects, and interior decorators have to stop scooting furturniture around. But WHEN to stop is the question.

Leonardo Da Vinci said "Art is never finished, only abandoned." My students back home have heard me preach this over and over again- and yet I still have trouble 'abandoning' at the right time. People often look at me funny when I say 'abandoned' like my paintings are somehow orphaned or uncared for. But the truth is, I think 'abandoned' means leaving a work of art to stand on its own strength- that a painting reaches a point where it can effectively represent what the artist is trying to communicate and adding unnecessary extras is like over-watering a plant: you think you're doing it a favor but your actions end up slowly killing it instead

I 'overwatered' my painting yesterday by adding details that didn't belong. Doing so, however, reminded me to practice a little artistic self-control. Today, my goal is to work until I can step back from my painting and say "it's ready to stand on its own". Then, I will put my brushes down, take my apron off, and go eat a croissant.

This is it.

The sun shone through an arched doorway- spreading sunlight across the courtyard. I could hear pigeons making their pigeon-ey sounds behind me. And then the centuries-old church bells rang that 7pm had arrived on time- signaling that my first full day in a midevil village was drawing to a close.
Sally entered the graveled courtyard with plates, utensils, and wine glasses.
"I'm afraid that dinner will be about ten minutes late. Would you like a glass of wine while you wait?"

The moment will forever be cemented in my memory as the moment in which I was pretty sure I'd died and gone to Heaven.

As you can probably tell from my description above that I am basically the luckiest person alive. When I applied to stay at this residency, I had no idea that it would be so incredible. Yesterday, after a long day of travel, Sally- the residency director- and I pulled in to the drive of a home straight out of a travel magazine and when she said "This is the house", I instantly burst into tears of gratitude. All this? For me?

After unloading my bags, Sally showed me my beautiful room and then the studio- my reaction to seeing all this was stunned silence and a heart full of appreciation. I kept telling myself to get a grip as I fought back more tears- but when Sally led me to the terrace to sit and watch a brilliant display of lightning that flashed from cloud to cloud across the valley, I lost it.
"Mom would love this.... She'd have a cow!!" I said as I wiped tears away from my cheeks.

For the first time in the two months I've been away, I felt embarassed that I have it so good. In my head, I know that I worked hard to plan and pay for this adventure, but I had no clue that it would be like this- you can't plan this, you can't pay for it. It is like...like a bottle of the most brilliant blessings has been opened and poured over my head. All I can do is sit in a sort of daze and realize that this, THIS is it.

The only thing that could make this better is if my friends, my family, my blog readers, all my encouraging loved ones were right here with me to enjoy it too.
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Before I post pictures, here's a summary of my travels yesterday:
3am: alarm went off
3:30am: I finally got out of bed
4:00- out of hostel and drug luggage down the bumpy Reykjavik streets
4:30- stood in rain until shuttle to airport arrived
5:20: arrived at airport
7:50: boarded plane to Paris
7:51: realized my seat reservation was in Business Select Class
7:51-8:00: repeated "leg room! leg room! leg room! leather seats! leather seats!" over and over again
8:00-1:30(Paris time): asleep-including drooling and twitching
1:35: chose to follow a large group of people getting off my plane.
1:36- realized that the large group of people had led me to baggage claim.
1:36:10- realized that since I was at baggage claim, it would mean that I would have to go out and around and back in to the airport and go through security and customs all over again.
1:37- hated life for a brief moment.
2:15: made it through security (again) and found my gate. Deliberately did NOT follow any crowd of people.
3:55- plane to Toulouse scheduled to leave
4:20- plane still hadn't left
4:35: plane took off- I silently panicked because our late departure would mean that I might miss my train to Cahors.
5:00: Chinese man next to me spilled orange juice all over his friend's lap.
5:50: touch down, baggage claim.
6:10: sprint to bus
6:38: Sprint to train
6:38-6:55: looked like an idiot trying to communicate in a language I do not speak or understand...attempted to tell the conductor that I needed to buy a ticket and didn't know what to do. All she said was "You're American, right?"
6:58-8:30- Train ride to Cahors- conversed with two friendly gals.
8:30-9:00: Car ride to residency
9:00: lightning show and Viv cried.
9:05: called Mom.
10:00 shower, photos with Juanita.
10:10: sound asleep.

I got up this morning to the sound of the 7am church bells. Sally brought coffee and breakfast to my little apartment, and I spent the rest of the day sketching and trying to wrap my mind around the fact that someone brought me coffee and breakfast. This is it.

Here are some pictures:

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 4am

I called him "Bongo and Baguette Dude"

I had just found out that I was in Business Select Class

When you fly 'Business Select' you can ask for two drinks... and they automatically give you two creams and sugars.
Chapter 3 begins
Tired after a long day of traveling.
My breakfast this morning.
Before.
During.
After.

My room.

The studio.

A few of my favorite supplies.

A view into the courtyard.

My first attempt at sketching here.

My second sketch for the day.