A Tip for Sneaking Bliss

Posted on August 31, 2012 by MaryALivingston

A long holiday weekend is upon us. Here is a little tip for sneaking bliss.

The kids were tired, the day was hot and we were all sticking to the car’s seat. The AC was out. Again. One more stop. One more store then we could call it a day and go home.
Unbuckling, we all peeled ourselves off the hot seats and crossed the parking lot, picking up a little gum on our shoes along the way. It appeared that everyone in the store was having the same kind of day. Frowns everywhere. Tired, hot, sweaty, frowns.

“Mom, nobody is smiling,” the worried little voice broke through the grim silence of the grocery shoppers.

Without thinking, I blurted my automated reply, “Smile anyway.”

“Mom! She smiled back, that lady smiled back. That one there, with her hair up and the sunglasses.”

Everyone in earshot stared. Then… they all smiled.

Our little family game was born. From this day forward it was our tradition, how many smiles could we get when in a store.

It does not sound like much. But try it. Smile. Count how many you get in return. And don’t worry about the ones who do not reciprocate, they need your smiles the most.

Not only will you sneak a little bliss, but you will share a little as well.

Our grandkids love to color. Using predesigned frames, I inserted line drawings of each of their family members, from siblings, to great grand-parents. The smiles make them great. Our smiles, whether shy or bold, are remembered by our grandchildren.
Sneak a little bliss, smile.

Odd Duck

Posted on August 25, 2012 by MaryALivingston

One of the boys grabbed the snake from her cage, she bit him. He dropped her and she quickly hid behind textbook boxes. The kids all stepped back. When I reached into the six-foot boa’s hiding place, she calmly slid into my hand. We became friends. It was the first week of school, I turned 11 that week. I liked drawing pictures, racing bikes, climbing trees, snakes, and math. I was an odd duck.

In all fairness, I understand her perspective. The program instructor from Seed Planted 4. When the program instructor told me that I was not good at art, that I should focus on math and science. I was crushed. She did not do this to be mean, she was trying to help me. The circumstances were such:
I lived in a poor community.
I was from a poor family.
I did not have a good home life.
I had a high math and science aptitude.

The instructor viewed math and science as my way out of cultural poverty. This was back in the days, those unenlightened days, of girls don’t like math. I was an odd duck. I liked math and was good at it. The numbers just made sense. So when she announced that I had a class where I could learn anything, I said, “I want to learn to draw,” my request did not sit well with her plan for my future.

Truth be told, I don’t think she relayed the message from the expert who looked at my art. I did not receive direct feedback. It came from the instructor, not the source, and the instructor had an agenda.

The saving grace for growing up. My favorite teacher. My grandparents.

Art finds a way in, no matter the path we take.
When the front doors are closed, we may just find a back door left ajar and have a chance to sneak bliss on the naysayer’s watch.

Seed Planted 4

Posted on August 21, 2012 by MaryALivingston

Learn about anything I want? Really?
Okay, I want to learn to draw. What 10-year-old little girl wouldn’t?

The next week the special program instructor arrived with an art book. I was ecstatic. I poured myself into the lessons. I shared every step with my favorite teacher. She told me the parts she liked the best. She arranged for the program instructor to take me to an art museum. At the encouragement of my teacher, samples of my artwork were given to the curator. The next week the special program instructor returned to my school with her interpretation of what the art expert thought of my work. I was so excited, Grandpa would be so proud.

The program instructor began slowly, without a smile, “You should focus on math and science. You are good at math and science. There is no future for you in art.”
As she began to list deficiencies in my drawings, my face grew hot, the room turned gray as all color left my view. I could no longer hear. When I was alone and no one was looking, I cried.

I never told Grandpa.

Seed planted.

Seed Planted 3

Posted on August 20, 2012 by MaryALivingston

It was hard to breath. I was so cold. The nurses sponged my arms and legs with ice water to bring the fever down. My flesh hurt all the way to the bone. Their smiles and tenderness made it easier to cope.

When my fever broke the head nurse brought me a gift. A pad of paper and a kid set of watercolors. What a treat. I didn’t have anything like this. I had crayons, pencils and stray sheets of paper. My own paper pad and real paints, I forgot all about the needles and hospital smells.

My first painting with these watercolors was a puppy. A warm brown puppy with floppy ears and a wet nose. The puppy sat beneath a bouquet of pink, red and orange roses. The painted strokes were not translucent showing the brilliance of watercolor, but rather thick opaque pudding globs like tempera school paints.

Didn’t matter to me. I painted a puppy.

I gave this painting to the nurse who gave me the paints and paper. Then I painted another puppy beneath roses. Again and again. I gave versions of the same puppy and roses to all the nurses until my paint set was used up.

Seed planted.

Seed Planted 2

Posted on August 19, 2012 by MaryALivingston

Grandpa’s lap was warm and safe. We watched the moon landing together. He was wary of these complicated things, but he knew how to draw. He drew pictures of horses and cowboys. Occasionally, just for me, he drew a little cowgirl with dark eyes and curls. We made up stories to go with the pictures. Sometimes we made up pictures to go with stories.

Seed planted.

Seed Planted

Posted on August 18, 2012 by MaryALivingston

I sat in the grass with the older students waiting for the surprise our teacher promised. Soon the upper-grade kids arrived. They carried books, homemade books.

One by one they read stories and showed us pictures. Stories they wrote and pictures they drew. Handwritten words with illustrations held together by a variety of report covers. They made books. I was captivated. They made books.

Seed planted.