Beautiful and dramatic sky in Vermont this evening. I snapped these with my eye phone. You can see the tiny white moon in the first photo, a little over half-way up on the left-hand side and a closer version below.
Good Fortune
It's been a week of good fortune -- first, the article on my memoir class appeared in The Valley News and then today I was notified that one of my digital photo collages, Reflective Stroll, was chosen to be included in the AVA Gallery and Art Center's Twentieth Annual Juried Summer Exhibition art show. This year AVA received a total of 310 works by 173 artists from 81 communities throughout Vermont and New Hampshire. This is my second year entering and although none of mine were accepted last year I was told that one came pretty close. This year, however, I submitted two of my digital collages and one was accepted. Of the 310 works submitted, 83 by 73 artists were accepted. The reception for the show is this Friday, June 21, from 5 to 7 p.m.
Just in case all this good fortune were to go to my head, I snapped this humbling photo on the way into the AVA Gallery to pick up the piece that did not make the cut. While the AVA Gallery is a prestigious art center, here in the Upper Valley we don't take ourselves too seriously. The artists had to follow a trail of signs around the back of the gallery to pick up their work. This was one such sign, hopefully not indicative of the artwork to be shown.
In the News
Received some good press in The Valley News yesterday. They ran a story on memoir writing and featured the class I teach at Lebanon College in it. They also included excerpts of some of my student's work. It was interesting to be the one interviewed instead of doing the interviewing and I will write more about this experience later, for now I just wanted to share the news.
Dexter's Darlin'
If I had any doubts my sister-in-law Leah missed my brother Paul, who is away at bootcamp, they disappeared a couple of weeks ago when we attended a showing of the movie Hangover 3 and she became teary-eyed in the first few minutes. If any of you are unfamiliar with this movie trilogy, suffice it to say they are comedies that began with a stag party in Vegas – not the stuff of tears. “Paul wanted to see this so bad,” she offered as way of explanation.
In the weeks he has been gone, he’s written and called as much as he is able and he is doing well, excelling at his marksmanship and even serving as platoon leader. Leah has been busy with her work as a personal trainer and holding down the home front. She has also indulged in a secret pleasure. Before Paul left for bootcamp the two began watching the television series Dexter, about a serial killer working as a blood spatter pattern analyst for the Miami Metro Police Department. She has now worked her way up to the current season. Doesn’t sound like the healthiest of habits? Before you judge her I can vouch that this series quickly becomes addictive. Besides, there’s a slight twist, Dexter’s father was a police officer, who realizing where his son was headed, taught him to only kill the bad guys. So Dexter gathers the evidence and once he is sure a person is bad (typically serial killers themselves) he does his work. Somehow the series has a soul, if a twisted one. So, home alone, her husband away at bootcamp, kids tucked into bed, my sister-in-law has been watching Dexter.
A few weeks ago, she took her stepson, Christian and her other two kids shopping at Newbury Comics, a music and novelty store and there she spied it – a Dexter apron complete with fake blood splatter. That may have been the end of it, but Christian encouraged her. “You know you want it,” he said. “Buy it! Just buy it!” And, so she did and that’s where I entered the picture. Well, shortly thereafter. First, there came the request from Paul to send him some photos of the family. Leah asked me to snap some and as we brainstormed possibilities it came to me. “Let’s take some of you in your Dexter apron and high heels! We’ll hang a plastic sheet and grab a drill (Dexter uses a drill). We fell short of the coveted machete. I hit the hardware store to pick up the supplies and you should have seen the cashier’s face when I reminded my father, who was behind me in line to leave his drill and knife along with the plastic sheet in the back of the car.
“Oh, don’t worry, we’re not planning a murder,” I winked at her.
The actual photoshoot was a family affair. Leah invited my mother and I to a wonderful home-cooked meal, which she prepared while I decided where to set up the sheet and tripod. My niece Catherine helped arrange the room and we even all went outside to shoot a few traditional mom-and-daughters shots of the two walking the winding dirt road by the covered bridge before turning to the main event. Realizing the good light might fade, I finally had Leah don her apron and heels and shot away.
We haven’t heard if my brother received the pictures yet or what his reaction might be. And, while I know Leah is still missing him, it may not quite so bad. My brother isn’t home until the end of July, but the new and final season of Dexter starts on June 30th. I hate to think of her when that show ends; she’ll probably collapse in sobs!
Test 2
Sorry for the test messages and some repeat photos. I had to change my facebook password because I was having some spamming issues and now I'm having trouble getting my blog posts to broadcast correctly. Just troubleshooting. Please bear with me and try to enjoy the repeat photos. Thanks!
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Duck Puppies
Do you want to see duck puppies? I ask, scooping my niece up in my arms and jogging down the drive with her bouncing and giggling. I take her to the pond below her house. Unfortunately, the "duck puppies" are hiding amidst the cattails, but I spy them later when I return on my own. It is the season for avian births, I guess, because I have stumbled upon two happy families this week. First, when I visited a local pond to show my nephew a good fishing spot and then today at my niece Ellie's.
I have returned three times to watch the Canadian geese and their clan of seven goslings. The parents stand watch over them so diligently, the babies sticking close to the mama. One gets brave and waddles down to the shore and Mama eventually goes in after him, the other six in tow. She gathers them back on shore, but when they become weary of watching me, the parents finally move them, forming a single-file line across the water.
The duck's behavior is similar, but there is no papa around. Mama is a single lady in this scenario, but she keeps her brood just as close. I spy them again as I stand at the water's edge photographing flowers. Suddenly there is a splash beneath me and the bank flutters threatening to toss me in the water. Instead, I catch my balance just in time to raise my camera and capture a picture of the moving huddle of ducks, which had been camped out in the weeds beneath me. Mama transplants them to a safer venue and soon they are a brown blotch against the weeds.
Families can be complicated, relations strained as children grow older and seek independence. These happy tribes have not reached that point yet; nature will take its course in due time. Right now they are true units, working as one. I visit and soak in their happy energy. Whether it be ducks. humans or puppies, I am drawn to the notion of tribes, the allure of babies and the magic inherent in those first steps of discovery. I wish I could bottle it all. I wish I could claim it for my own.
Writing Prompt: Me and My Gals
Busy weekend. Finished an article for Rutland Magazine in the wee hours and rose to visit with a friend and go on a shopping spree to Burlington. I've been enjoying sharing, reading and viewing the art, writing and photographs of a number of creative people on two new Facebook groups. Jon Katz's Open Group for Bedlam Farm and Maria Wulf's Fellow Artists. Both are growing and thriving and finding a life of their own. I think they are showing the desire for people to connect, encourage and learn from each other. That's nothing new, but as interconnected as the Internet makes us, it also has a reputation for cutting us off, keeping us isolated in a cyber world. In some ways, this is probably true, but in a broader sense these groups are demonstrating that the more things change the more they stay the same -- we humans, whatever our faults always seem to find a way to reach out, connect and keep sharing our stories whether it be across campfires and cave paintings, telephone wires or the world wide web, our tales reach out untethered to find a friend to listen to confirm that we are part of a greater whole.
Writing Prompt: In many ways our blog posts, tweets and Facebook updates are like ancient paintings on a cave's walls. They tell the stories of our times. If you were to leave a short and simple tale behind what would it be -- one post, one tweet, one status update. Write them now.
Photo by Sue Damitz
Puppy Dog Tales
I received a Facebook message from my friend, Sue, the other day. She and her husband Charlie are "pug" friends, meaning I got to know them through a mutual connection to Joan. Ten years ago they came to Joan's looking for a pug puppy and I helped them pick out Connie Crump, a.k.a. Jerry. Since then the family connection has only grown as Jerry, along with the Damitz's other pug, Ben, sired Chunky Monkey (yes, they are named in honor of Ben & Jerry's icecream), who in turn sired Joan's pug Lumpi. Then, when the Damitz's wanted a little black female they came looking for Truffels, my own pug Waffles' sister and last year they took in one of Joan's black male puppies, Waltham's Little Trump, now renamed Goofy. Phew, that's one convoluted family tree and it's not finished yet, because Truffels and Goofy gave birth to these three sweet females a month ago. My friends are calling them Rosey, Lily and Ivy. Just like Waffles and her sisters Truffels and Griffles, there are two big fat girls in the litter and one tiny runt with silvery fawn trace hairs. That would be Rosey and she reminds me of Waffles in so many ways. My friends are hoping to find homes for all three girls, but I think all of us wish we could keep them all.
Clothed
I hate going to the gynecologist. No surprise there, right? Who doesn't? Going to the gynecologist ranks right up there with getting a tooth pulled, having a colonoscopy and getting stuck in an elevator with a bunch of sweaty strangers, right? The thing is to me going to the gynecologist is more than an unpleasant activity. It is the equivalent of walking through a field of deadly land mines with every unpleasant moment rife with potential emotional dangers.
First, there is the whole body image thing. When you are sitting naked with your feet up in stirrups, it’s pretty hard not to acknowledge that your mind and soul are definitely attached to flesh, a fact I often try to ignore. I’ve written about it before, but like many women, learning to like, let alone love my body, has been a lifelong battle. It’s hard enough to feel good about my figure fully clothed, but I bet even Gisele feels self-conscious laid bare under the harsh fluorescent lights of a gynecologist’s office. There is nowhere to hide, no way to suck in your stomach, no way to ignore your imperfections. It may not help that among my history of unhappy gynecological experiences, I had a doctor who loved to comment that I was as fat as she was – that went a long way toward making me feel both relaxed and confident, thank you!
Which, second, brings me to that whole relaxation thing. When a doctor puts a stethoscope to my chest and tells me to breathe normally, I often find myself holding my breath beneath clenched jaws. My body’s interpretation of relax is much like a deer caught in headlights – freeze, sit rigidly, don’t move and maybe it will all go away. I don’t intend to be difficult I try to tell the doctors. This is my version of relaxed. In the past, on more than one occasion, this has led more than one gynecologist to quietly slip me the name of a psychologist at the end of my appointment. Oh yes, one more way to help me feel “normal” and good about myself.
Third, and this is the one that brings tears, every trip to the gynecologist reminds me of what’s missing – the children I haven’t had. Bad enough in your twenties and thirties, but in your forties? Now, even the most optimistic physician acknowledges that ship has likely sailed. I know there are still ways to be a mother, but let’s face it, being at the gynecologist’s office getting an ultrasound for a fetus-sized fibroid instead of a baby, is a literal punch to the gut. I remember the first time I learned I had fibroid tumors. At that ultrasound, my mother was there looking at the screen as the nurse read out the size of the benign tumor and I realized that other mothers and daughters had the joy of seeing a baby there. We did not.
Most days I press on, keep my dreams alive, console myself with nieces, nephews and pugs, lose myself in a busy life. Sometimes in the right clothes, on a good hair day, I pass the reflection in the mirror and really like what I see. I remind myself that my life is full, it, and the body in which I dwell, deserves grace and thanks, and to be fed with faith and gratitude, but there is something about the gynecologist’s office that lays too much bare – fear and shame reveal themselves, fully exposed. My dignity, hopes and dreams sit piled up in the corner with my respectable shirt and jeans; they seem to mock me.
Such is usually the case and so I began my appointment teary-eyed, worried more about the feelings this exam would produce than the actual exam itself. And, then suddenly something switched. My inner journalist came out and I found myself asking the doctor about her life, what had possessed her to choose such a career. As she talked and I listened, I forgot that I was naked, my hopes exposed, it was just me talking, conducting an interview like I do everyday. And, to be honest, I have had some really bad interviews; ones that made me panic way more than the gynecologist’s speculum. Nothing that happened in that room could really change the feelings I had about my life. Sure, it was unpleasant and the medical tests could have some worrisome repercussions – that’s the way things go – but suddenly, I didn’t feel like such a freak. My blue jeans and black shirt might have remained folded up on the doctor’s table, but my dignity, hopes and dreams had crossed the room and folded themselves back into my body.
None of us is solely flesh nor solely spirit – we are mind, body, and soul and regardless of the baggage handed to us, we get to decide what we’re going to carry or at the very least how we’re going to carry it. I walked out of the gynecologist’s office, clothed in that knowledge, to a day that had turned unexpectedly temperate.
