Why You Should Pay Attention At Girl Scout Meetings

In third grade, I signed-up for Girl Scouts. I admit that I was more attracted to the cute Brownie Uniform and the popularity of being a Scout than the whole 'character building' aspect. I didn't really care about the badges or the activities, I just wanted the uniform and to say 'I'm a Brownie' to all my friends. Shallow? Yes, but I challenge you to find a thoughtful, profound, deep thinking 8 year old- it's hard.

I wore my Brownie Uniform with pride each time we had a meeting after school- I didn't pay ATTENTION at the meetings, but that's beside the point. An entire year passed where being a Girl Scout was a big deal. And then it came time to sell cookies. I distinctly remember NOT paying attention at the meeting where parents and Scouts talked about the process of selling and delivering the Girl Scout Cookies. I figured 'how hard can it be?' and decided to give my snack plate my full, undivided attention while everyone else took notes and listened to the Scout Leader.

I remember getting my colorful cookie-selling sheet and feeling the excitement of getting to ask grownups if they'd like to buy from me. "Miss Judd, wanna buy cookies?...Mr. Grim, wanna buy cookies from me?" Although I didn't pay attention at the meeting, selling cookies came naturally for me and I filled my sheet with orders for Thin Mints, Samoas, and Tagalongs. Before long, I had no more spots to fill and I cheerfully handed my order to the Scout Master. Once the Master was in possession of my sheet, I went skipping away and silently congratulated myself on being the best Brownie ever!
Weeks passed and it came time to have our next Girl Scout meeting. I wore my uniform with pride, showed up at the meeting and then didn't pay an ounce of attention to what was being discussed. You can imagine my surprise when a parent volunteer said "Vivian, come here." I snapped out of my daydreaming and followed her. She took me to the corner of our meeting room and pointed to a Mount Everest sized stack of cardboard boxes.
"These are yours" she said.
My eyes widened. "Mine?!"
"Yeah, yours."

I gazed around the room and saw all the other girls with their mountains of boxes. Each box contained smaller containers of cookies and, as you probably know, it was our job to deliver each box to its rightful owner. Unfortunately for me, I didn't pay attention in the meeting so I didn't really know what I was supposed to do with all the cookies and I did not understand how to go about delivering them. I had dozens of boxes of Samoas, Thin Mints, and Tagalongs, and I didn't know what to do. I stared at my delivery list. Feeling overwhelmed, confused, and a little embarrassed that I didn't know what to do, I packed my boxes and headed home.

For days, I took boxes of cookies to the school and tried to figure out how to deliver them, when to deliver them, what to say, how to collect the money, and all those small details I purposefully (and pridefully) ignored at the meetings. Each day I took boxes to school to deliver and I returned home with those same containers. After about a week of this, I decided something needed to be done.

Before we go on, one thing you need to realize is that I was not the run of the mill kind of kid. Just read the blog about me trying to convince everyone that my name was 'Pepsi', and you will realize just how... um...unique I was. So, when a child has dozens of Girl Scout Cookies to deliver and they don't know what to do, most of them would say "Mom, Dad, I need help, I am confused. Can you help me?" Instead, I took a look at the stack of undelivered cookies in my room and did something very different; I panicked.

Afraid to admit that I didn't know what to do, and too prideful to ask for help, I looked at the mountain of undelivered cookies and decided right then and there to get rid of the evidence of my failure; I ate them. All of them.

It took time and serious effort to eat every single peanutbuttery Tagalong and every chewy Samoa, but I did it. I seriously do not know how I didn't gain an obscene amount of weight and end up featured on an Oprah special titled "Gluttonous Children with No Conscience".

My career as a Brownie ended as soon as I finished my last box of 'evidence'. After doing something so disgraceful, I couldn't even think about attending another Girl Scout meeting. I didn't want the parents or the Scout Master to realize what I had done. Positive that parents and fellow scouts would crucify me for all my mistakes, I decided it'd be best for me to hang up my Brownie sash and call it quits.

Throwing in the proverbial towel with Girl Scouts marked my first ever 'quitting'. I had never belonged to a group before that. I never had the responsibility of attending meetings and following certain rules prior to my year as a Brownie. Although it was my first voluntary quit of something I had originally been enthusiastic about, this quitting wasn't my last.

This morning while journaling, I sat thinking about all the activities, organizations, teams, and hobbies I have quit. I don't even like to say that word "q-u-i-t" and I never considered myself one of those whiny-baby quitters that can't finish what they started... but, I hate to admit, that I kind of am one. Or, rather, I used to be one.

In my journal, I wrote a list of things I've enthusiastically signed-up for and then abandoned or quit.
Here's my list:
Brownies
Piano (twice)
Irish Dance Lessons
Singing Lessons
College Track
Modeling
4-H
Mission Trip to India

I'm sure there's more. With each one I listed, I started to feel depressed and really disappointed in myself. What if I had stuck with these? What if I had finished what I started? I mentally slapped myself across the face for being such a whiny-baby quitter. After my initial bout of self-loathing, I started to ask myself "Why did I quit these?" It didn't take long to see that there was a pattern with each one.

After thinking about each commitment I had copped-out on, I realized that every single one of them ended when I was afraid to admit that I didn't know what to do and I was too prideful to ask for help. They all ended when I became frustrated, confused, or when it looked like I wasn't going to succeed.

Selling cookies, showing my pony at the local fair, learning to play the piano- each one required that I admit I didn't know what I was doing and I needed someone elses' help. Every time I refused to do these things, I ended up quitting. And, just like eating the cookies, I'd try to sweep the evidence of each so-called failure under the rug before others would see my shortcomings.

I quit the mission trip because I didn't know how to get a visa, I quit singing lessons because I didn't know how to hit certain notes, I quit Irish dance because I didn't know what to wear to a competition. All of these are silly reasons to abandon a commitment, and each one could have been solved if I had some humility and asked for help.

As I look a this pattern of enthusiastically starting something, panicking, and quitting, I see a trend that I would very much like to change now before I quit something else.

This past week, in Iceland, I have been frustrated with my surroundings. I have tried and tried to paint mountains and have been discouraged with the results. I am running low on canvas and the package of canvas Mom sent me three weeks ago still hasn't shown up. I have a whole long list of things here that I am either confused with or frustrated by and, knowing my history, this would be a time that quitting starts to sound really nice.

Fortunately, after looking at my long list of abandoned activities, I know that this time- right now- is a time in which I need to admit that I don't know what I am doing and to ask for help. I admit I am out of artistic inspiration here. I admit that I miss home. I admit that I don't know where or how or when I am going to get more canvas. I admit that I don't know how I am going to be able to afford living in Europe for the next four months. With each one of these statements, I begin to think of people I need to seek help from. It is with admittance and a refreshing dose of humility that I sit here in Iceland and say "I DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM DOING RIGHT NOW BUT QUITTING IS NOT AN OPTION!"

If I had done this with the Girl Scout debacle, maybe Miss Judd and Mr. Grim would have been able to enjoy their box of goodies and maybe I wouldn't have set myself up for a pattern that I continue to struggle with. Now, the burning question is, 'Do I get a badge for this?'

The Art of Teaching

A Farewell Note from My Students in June

How did August 17th get here so fast? I cannot believe how quickly this month has flown by. If I were back home, I would be sitting in my classroom and trying to figure out how to transform that white room into an educaitonal wonderland. (Posters help, lamps do wonders and a well-placed lucky bamboo is a sure winner). But this year I am not at home, I am not in my classroom and I am not preparing for the annual onslaught of pre-teens to come barging through my door in two weeks. This year marks the first since I was a puny kindergartner that I will NOT be in a school as either a student OR as a teacher. I thought about all this while making my morning cup of coffee- I started to feel whistful and began to long for my clutch of kiddos and all my teacher colleagues. My mind imagined the excitement and joy of a classroom success, and then my mind remembered the challenges and trials that come along with the profession. It was at that exact moment that I realized something: 'Teaching' and 'Art' are a lot alike.

Aside from the obvious- that both words contain a 't' and an 'a' in them, the actual teaching and artistic professions have a lot in common.

First of all, both teaching and art-ing are messy. Neither teacher nor artist come home at the end of a day of work with spotless clothes- there will always be marker, pen, ink, or clay stains somewhere. I cannot even begin to tell you how many articles of clothing have been ruined either by Expo Marker residue from the classroom or from Cadmium Yellow Light oil paint in the studio. I'm pretty sure that, with the exception from a fancy cocktail dress, all of my clothes are stained from some project at school or the art studio. Teaching and art-making are messy, that's for sure. There's no way around it. You get liquids splashed in your face (in the classroom, it's usually snot from a sneezing student), there're stains on your pants, you have to wash your hands a thousand times, and you ALWAYS have some sort of colorful mess on your face when you look in the mirror.

Another reason they're alike is because both professions require creativity. An artist can stare at a blank canvas and be stuck- with no idea of what to do next. "Landscape? Nope. Already did that". A teacher can blaze through a lesson, be a half-hour ahead of schedule, and stare at a sea of students- stuck- with no idea of what to do next. "Hangman? Nope. Politically incorrect." Both teachers and artists need the ability to think on their feet and to switch plans with ease. A boring artist is one that settles into a mindless little rut of predictability. A boring teacher is one that settles into a mindless little rut of predictability. A boring blog writer is one that settles into a midless rut of predictability. A boring-- you get the idea.

In addition to creativity and mess, teachers and artists have something else in common. Teachers and artists experience an intense feeling of satisfaction when a child (or artistic masterpiece) has a moment of brilliance. When a child finishes their first chapter book, or when the painted tree actually LOOKS kind of like a tree- there is a sense of excitment- and pride. Artists and teacher feel excited when there is something to be excited about, they are passionate and fired-up.

On the flipside, however, when something tragic or disappointing happens, no one feels it more than a teacher or an artist.

Scenario: Mr. Smitzheimer has been working with little Devon on the importance of being honest. For weeks, they practice telling the truth and being honorable in the face of adversity. And then, one day Devon gets accused of stealing a toy car from Joey. Mr. Smitzheimer asks "Devon, did you take Joey's car?" "NOOOOOO! Joey stole it from me!!!!" Then Mr. Smitzheimer sees the toy car wedged in the back pocket of Devon's jeans and also notices that Devon is wearing a gold necklace that the neighboring teacher lost two days ago.

I am willing to bet that Mr. Smitzheimer is going to feel pretty frustrated, discouraged, and even a little peeved that Devon lied and stole at school. In fact, I am willing to bet that, after the kids have gone out for recess, Mr. Smitzheimer wonders "Why am I doing this for a living?" and then wishes he had enough time to head to the local saloon and knock back a few before the kids come back from recess.

Scenario II: Phil McPainter has been working on a painting for days- he's starting to see the shapes, colors, values come to a point where he can see progress. He's excited, thinking "This is good. I am good. Things are working out!". Phil paints while imagining a giant blue ribbon hanging from the frame of his masterpiece- a winner, it's a winner! Visions of fame and success flash into Phil's mind as he gently coaxes his painting from a rough sketch to a resolved masterpiece. Then, after completing the last stroke, Phil puts his paintbrush downs and takes a step back from the easel. There he can see his beautiful painting from a few feet away and... oh no... he didn't realize it, but his scenic landscape painting actually looks like something else. He can't figure it out at first, and then it hits him: the mountains in the background look exactly like a pair of naked-buns.

I am willing to bet that Phil McPainter is feeling frustrated, discouraged, and even a little peeved that what he thought was a masterpiece now looks like a piece of tasteless trash. There's no way the judges at the Oil Painters of America National Art Show are going to let that one in the exhibition.

I also bet that Phil McPainter thinks "Why do I even bother!?!?" and then heads to the local saloon to wash a few worries down the drain.

See? Teachers and artists: two peas in a small little pod.

There are plenty of similarities between these two professions, and there are definitely too many for me to mention. But the last one I will discuss today is the fact that both teaching and art-making makes you a target for criticism and critique.

Teachers are almost always under attack from select parents, local business owners, and hoitey-toitey politicians. Parents complain that their child isn't getitng enough attention in class, business owners complain that teachers aren't teaching the skills necessary for highschool graduates to be good employees, and politicians run around saying that the Chinese kids are reading The Iliad while our kids aren't can't even read the back of a cereal box! Well, that might be true. But I would like to see those people try to manage a room of 20 hormonal pre-teens, get them to sit down, mind their manners, and listen long enough to even BEGIN teaching a lesson. Getting them to say 'May I...." versus "Can I..." can take a whole semester, and convincing a second grader to wash their hands after they go Number Two can take a whole year. Teachers face criticism- and if it weren't for their unending love of children, they would have gone to work somewhere else a loooooong time ago.

Artists face criticism too- especially in the United States where 'artist'='no good bum' in a lot of people's minds. Artists get about as much respect as teachers do... actually, probably less. It takes guts to teach and it takes guts as an artist to hang out artwork out for others to see- and to face their comments and, often, cutting remarks.
"I don't like that."
"What is it?"
"My kid could draw that"
"That doesn't LOOK like a tree".
"Why is it so expensive?"

These things hurt. As an artist, you bare a part of your soul when you show other people your artwork. And as a teacher, you bare part of your soul when you share your wisdom and knowledge with children. And, I believe, not many people take time to realize this before they cast out a thoughtless remark.

The nice thing about being a teacher is that one person's positive comment can go a long way. A single person's kind word can turn a teacher's rotten day into a beautiful one. The same goes for art. Genuine compliments from people have carried me through some of my darkest artistic moments. Teachers and artists live off of the positive feedback they receive from others.

As you begin trading swimsuits for backpacks, take a moment to thank a teacher for the time and effort they put into the education of children. While you're at it, stop by a gallery or art exhibit and- before you make a remark- find something to appreciate about what you see. In the meantime, I will be here being creative, messy, and putting myself out there to face both criticism and praise, just like all the teachers back home.

Personal Note:
Here's to all the staff at Curlew. I love and miss you guys.

Joe Artist

'Hate' is a Strong Word

Warning: this blog contains the word 'hate' several times. I agree that 'hate' is a strong word and that is exactly why I am using it today.

I hate flies. I hate them. If I could write a decree banning them from the face of the Earth, I would sign that decree with a super-fancy quill pen and then do the dance of joy.
I hate flies- all of them: fruit flies, gnats, those gross, slow, blimp-like flies, horseflies, dra- wait, I can't hate a dragonfly, but you get the idea. I hate all flies except for the cute blue and green ones that land on your finger and smile at you (like the dragonfly)- everything else, in my mind, can just go straight to fly hell where they're surrounded by no poop to feed on and no warmblooded animals to bite, and definitely no people to constantly bother.

My distaste for these bugs came about twelve years ago when Dad, my brother Hunter, and I headed into the heart of the Idaho National Forest for our annual August 'Death March'- the most grueling, difficult, foot blistering, PrayYouMakeItOutAlive, camping trip known to man.

We Abells have been voluntarily signing up for our own version of Survivor since I was about two years old. Each year that passed, I would be given more responsibility. When I was five, it was my job to carry the marshmallows and a water bottle. When I was seven, I got my very own official external frame backpack and graduated to 'I can carry all my stuff now' mode.

When we pack for this trip, we make sure that our backpacks are extremely heavy so we can brag about how much we carried. Dad always wins though- at 71 years old, he packed 70+ pounds last year. There's no way that anyone will top Dad's studly back-packing abilities, but we all try. That's how sick it gets.

If you think this all sounds insane, it's because it is insane. Who else backpacks with entire cans of evaporated milk (for coffee), a heavy jar of real peanut butter, several POUNDS of bacon, and a large skillet? We do. Forget about bringing in dehydrated food- that stuff has no place in our camping trip- besides, with all our other stuff, I'm pretty sure that a pack of Mountain House Lasagna isn't going to ease the staggering weight of our packs.

There's no room for sissies on our trip- it's 'only the strong survive' all the way. I usually start mentally preparing for this annual August trip somewhere in April and give myself the pep-talk of the century:

"You can do this. You are tough. Stick with it. No one wants a baby around. Viv, you are the youngest one, you can at least keep up with Dad..."

With each month bringing me closer to our Idaho trip, my pep talk gets more fevered: "If someone dies on this trip, Viv- you are going to have to pack THEM out too, so you'd better get in shape..."
With no room for wimps and since we look forward to the torture of our grueling trip each year- you can imagine that 'bugs' usually don't even come close to making it on the "Top 100 Abell Hiking Factors that Make You Want to Cry and Run Home to Mommy" list.

Well, one year the bugs DID make it on the list- and, in my mind, they were #1. As I was saying earlier, it was about 12 years ago. I turned 16 two months earlier in June. For my Sweet 16 , Dad gave me a brand new pair of hiking boots- a pair of boots that would, later that summer, help hike me and my heavy pack into our family's secret camping spot.

August arrived and we packed out truck with all the gear, food, rations, guns, knives, fishing poles, and bacon we'd need for the next 8 days. After the 12 hour car ride, we put on our packs, loaded our weapons, and staggered down the trail- ready to make new memories and hopefully live to remember them. What we didn't know was that this year would be one of the most challenging trips...ever.

Hours after we began our hike, we arrived at our camping spot with evening quickly approaching. We used whatever daylight was left to pitch our tent, light a fire, and cook a few hot dogs before crawling into sleeping bags and resting our blistered feet.

Dad is always the first one up in the mornings. He gets up around 6:30 and the sound of him unzipping the tent door usually wakes me too. Each year, the mornings begin the same: Dad gets up, I get up, we light a fire, and Hunter sleeps like a lazy punk until the coffee or cocoa is ready.

This particular morning did not unfold quite like it had years previous, however. As the morning sun rose and our campsite warmed with orangey rays of sunshine, we found ourselves surrounded by small black flies (FLIES!!!). The size of a BB, black as night, and walking around like they were drunk- the flies gave the impression that they were small, clumsy, court jesters and more of a bother than anything else.

Then they started biting.

Each fly that landed on me would stagger around until it found a spot along my hairline or behind my ear to bite- leaving spot of blood and an unbearable itchy welt. Countless bites appeared- even on my cheeks and forehead. We spent our entire camping trip swatting at flies, scratching bug bites, and watching each other turn from a recognizable family member to a giant blob of bites and dried bloody spots. Gross.

The flies were unbearable- even by Abell standards.

At the end of our stay, we gladly packed our bags and hiked to the truck. None of us would tell the other person how sickly they looked with so many welts and spots on their faces. Upon arriving at the truck, I took a look in one of the side mirrors and saw for myself the damage the flies had caused. I saw a swollen face of bites and wounds that left only my eyes and nostrils recognizable.

I believe that my hatred for flies began that week in August- and my distaste for them still continues. It took weeks for my face to return back to normal, but my attitude toward certain flying insects was forever tainted.

Since my arrival in Iceland, I've battled swarms of flies- they are both inside the house and outside. They crawl on me as I try to paint outside, they land on my coffee cup while I try to blog, they even have the audacity to land in my food when I am trying to eat. I swat at them, whack them with whatever item is closest, and even do a comical Jean-Claude Van Damme routine as I try to kick, punch, and swat each one in the house.

Yesterday, my distaste for flies reached an all new level. I spent all morning trying to muster up the energy, entusiasm, and inspiration to go out and begin painting the mountains outside. Finaly, I took my sketch book and backpack out to a spot here at the residency and began sketching a scene. Listening to my iPod and drawing, I took in the beautiful vistas surrounding me and the artistic inspiration started flowing. I happily sat and soaked in the scenery- the mountains, the beautiful lake, the river flowing through the pasture, the puffy clouds, I soaked it all in... and then a fly flew like a Stealth Bomber into my left eyeball. I immediately dropped my sketchbook and attempted to get the small fly out of my eye...but to no avail. It somehow managed to get under my eyelid and that sucker stayed there.

Have you ever tried to draw with an insect lodged in your eye? Well, I did and it wasn't pretty. My eye watered and salty tears dripped down my left cheek as I tried to finish my drawing. I gave up, tossed all artistic inspiration to the wayside, packed my things, and angrily stomped back to the farmhouse where I washed out my eye and gave up drawing for the day.

My trip to Iceland offers memorable experiences and allows me to see some of the most incredible landscapes on Earth- but Iceland comes at a price. There are flies here, lots of them- big ones, small ones, blimpy-slow ones, and all of them are annoying- especially the Stealth Bomber eye-diving ones. I hate them, all of them-except dragonflies.

Change and All

There's nothing like watermelon gum to make me feel like I'm seven years old again. It gives me that refreshed, youthful feeling- the same one I get when I eat cotton candy or stick my hand out the passenger window a moving car. The other day, I went to the local gas station and purchased an over priced pack of Extra 'Sweet Watermelon' gum just to taste the familiar sweet tang of its artificial flavoring. Some things in life never change for me- like the watermelon/ seven year old feeling, the steady support of my loving parents, and the fact that I still love to swing on a swing set. And then, there are plenty of changes in life that happen- whether I ready for them or not.

A major disturbance in my (then) constant, mostly uneventful life happened two summers ago when my marriage crumbled. Like a Saltine smashed under an angry fist, my relationship with Matt shattered into a million little shards. Almost exactly two years ago, on one late August afternoon, I moved out of our little yellow house and faced my first real dose of shocking change.

Struggling to cling to stability, I reached out for something familiar. I cringe as I think back at that time two years ago when I desperately pursued people and habits in a last-ditch effort to super-glue my broken insides back together. Such acts resulted in marring my reputation and demonstrating to everyone around me that my happy life of constants wasn't so constant or happy anymore.

A lot changed that year. I moved five times, gained and lost several close friendships, and let go of the dreams a girl has when she gets married- dreams of children, houses, and growing old together. I remember sitting on the floor of my apartment living room, hugging my dog and sobbing as I realized the life I had spent four years maintaining had irreversibly changed forever and she was the only one from my married life that still wanted to be in the same room with me.

Some good changes happened that year too. With the help of weekly counseling sessions, and by the grace of God, my heart slowly come back together in a new, better way. Like a house being renovated, I could feel my insides turning, twisting, and growing in a way that made me into a better human being, a better friend, a better daughter, and a better potential future spouse.

Two years ago in August, I moved out and left my marriage. One year ago in August, the divorce was finalized. This year in August, I begin changing my last name. I am slowly, deliberately beginning the long task of changing my last name back to the way it was before I got married. I do not do this lightly, I do it with a sense of respect for my ex in-laws who no longer see me as part of their family and as respect for my ex-husband's new girlfriend. I know that there is only a limited amount of room for Byrds here and my time as one is over.

My decision to take back 'Abell' is just another necessary step in the healing process. As I reclaim my old last name and practice saying it aloud, I experience that same youthful feeling that the taste of watermelon gum gives me. I'm refreshed and ready for whatever is next- change and all.

JOE

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