Pine-needle Chains

It’s like one of those clown cars – except its big and yellow.  We spew out the folding doors, tumble down the steps, and begin our trodding trek towards home.  Rain or snow causes a deluge of kids upon whatever poor parent’s car sits in wait.  But on sunny days – and even on some not-so-sunny days – I’d rather use my own feet and my own time.  It’s a little over a mile from the bus stop to my house – the first half is uphill and the second half is downhill.  Most of time, I love walking by myself.  I get to think a lot.  Sometimes I hate walking by myself – I think a lot.  Thinking is like Shakespeare: “To be or not to be,” “Out, damned spot,” “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go,” “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” and of course - “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend my your ears.”  Or in the case of a blog – your eyes!

One would think that sitting on a pad of pine-needles would be a bit prickly, but it’s not.  It’s soft and comforting, and my little cove beneath the trees is always dry.  Of course it rests near the foot of my driveway – I’m almost home, but I always climb in anyway.  It is a place to be me – whoever that is.  A place where I don’t have to pretend.  I don’t have to act.  I don’t have to perform.  Or I guess, more accurately, I can choose not to do all those things.  Which kind of makes it scary too – because I’m left here with my thoughts, trying to make them come together into one sensible package that resembles me.  “To be or not to be.”

I wonder if other kids wonder as much as me.  I wonder if other kids wish as much as me.  Wish I was prettier – like Lisa with her long beautiful dark hair and huge liquid-brown eyes.  Wish I was quieter – like Gaye.  She always seems to say the right things.  She’s always so profound – like she has this wise guru guy whispering only within her hearing.  I always seem to say whatever my tongue blurts through my teeth – sometimes it’s right, sometimes it’s a tsunami!  Wish my body did what I told it to do – like Angie.  She can do anything related to sports or people!  It’s like she has this sixth sense as to where her hands are supposed to be at that exact moment.  And then the rest of her body follows.  She’s just as good as spiking the winning point just barely clearing the net as she is at cuddling a toddler during the quiet parts at church.  Wish my family was as amazing as Lorrie’s.  They are always laughing and loving.  And we are each in our own separate parts of the house – working things through in our own separate ways.  Wishing I wasn’t so very different than everybody else – or actually wishing that everybody else didn’t think I was so very different from them.  “Out, damned spot!”

“If wishes were dishes they would all lay broken on the floor.”  My neighbor would always say that – I would turn my head so she didn’t see me roll my eyes.  Sometimes adults can be so dumb!  What did that mean anyway?  I have good wishes, why should they all be so broken?  I wish I could be better.  Isn’t it good to want to be better?  Isn’t that what all these thousands of hours in school and church are all about?

I start making a pine needle chain – like always.  You have to really pay attention and that means that my wild and crazy thoughts have to chill.  *Carefully pull off a two needle bunch.  Even more carefully pull one needle out – making sure the top stays on.  Discard the needle you pulled out – thus the soft comfy pine-needle cushion!  Bend the needle you have left around and insert the pointed end into the top – making a loop.  Repeat from * hooking the needle through the last loop each time.  Hang the chain beautifully in your pine-needle cove.

Wishes are like discarded pine-needles that cushion the floor of your comfy pine-needle cove.  Sometimes you need to throw something out to make something beautiful.  Sometimes the parts that you throw out are the foundation on which the beautiful parts can be seen.  “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.”

My wild blond braids dance in the sunshine.  My words often bring thoughtfulness and joy.  Paintbrushes, crayons, sand, clay, and hugs are at home in my hands.  Quiet moments spent one on one, making icing flowers and bleeding the Toyota brakes – full silence of tiny actions belong to my parents and me.  I am not my wishes.  The beauty of pine-needle chains is made one link at a time.  I am the beauty of my tiny actions – one link at a time.  I will be the results of my dreams.  “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.”

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  I get to choose the action!  Rays of sunshine greet me as I climb from my thought-full pine-needle cove and head up the driveway to my home – the foundation of me!  “To be or not to be.”

A Horse Called . . .

Once upon a time (as all good stories began) and ever so long ago I was a tiny little girl.  From what I’ve been told my stubbornness, mischievousness, and love for words has only become stronger over the years.  As all tiny little girls should, I had a rocking horse.  I loved riding back and forth and back and forth.  My horse and I traveled over the rainbow to cloudland, through a deep and scary forest – making friends with an ogre or two along the way, and across the burning Sahara – assisting Aladin and his many, many friends.  We were best buds – my horse and I!  Quite often my horse found his way across my room during the dark hours of the night and Daddy would find me asleep in the morning – exhausted from the excursions through dreamland – with my hand resting upon the mane of my trusty stead.  Our adventures were many and I knew my friend well.

“Your horse might sleep better in his stall rather than leaning against your bedrails,” Daddy reported to the tiny little girl.

“Cow,” she returned mischievously.

“Horse.” Daddy played the game well.

“Cow.”

“Horse.”

“Cow.”  Horse snickered at my silliness.  We had just returned from a thunderous night capturing a band of cattle rustlers.  Singlehandedly, we had saved the herd!

“Pig.”  Daddy grinned.

“Pig . . .” the tiny little girl agreed, wondering where Daddy’s new story was going to lead.

“Horse,” Daddy grinned.  The tiny little girl had agreed!

I heard the beautiful pink curtain rustle in the breeze.

I rolled out from underneath my rose-covered comforter, climbed onto Daddy’s pajamaed lap, wrapped my tiny little arms around his neck, cuddled into his chin stubble, and whispered into his ear . . .

“Cow.”

. . . and they lived happily ever after!

Happy Birthday Daddy!

Sending you my love forever!

Paint-spattered Being

What’s the right thing to say when something really horrible happens to a friend?  I mean really horrible, awful, life-changing stuff?  My first gut-instinct-thing was to say “No way – you’re kidding.”  Luckily I caught myself because that would have been really, really, really bad!   I wanted to make it better and say “It’ll be okay.”  But it won’t – so not only would saying that not make it better, it would make it worse.  I wanted to say “That sucks,” but we’re not supposed to say that at school.  Anyway, we say it all the time about everything.  And this was way bigger than everyday stuff, so saying that would have made it smaller somehow – which it wasn’t.

All of this went through my brain in about .04 seconds and left me with nothing.  Zilch.  Nada.  I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.  I’m surprised I didn’t start to drool.  ‘Penny has left the building-ing-ng-g.’

“Wow.”  That’s what my tongue did.   Slow, astounding, brain-not-functioning – “Wow.”  We sat down on the sidewalk and leaned against the brick under the classroom windows.  We just sat there – legs stretched out in front of us, sun soaking through our jeans.  My purple shoe-laces sparkled.  Brandi caught the ball and nailed Julie’s square – right in the corner.  Kyle and his crew yelled as the basketball clanged against the metal net.  Julie’s hair flung out as she spun around the bar – dead man’s drop.  The globe didn’t stop on its axis.  The ground stayed solid and unmoving.  But that earth-shattering news covered us like a paint-spattered drop-cloth – making all that everyday stuff so far away.  There were little drops of what I knew: fire-engine red from career day, sky-blue from the nature mural, bright yellow from Macy’s birthday banner.  But just like now – sitting in the presence of the crushing news, they had no connection, no meaning. 

And I didn’t know the right thing to say.

So we just sat – side by side – in the sun.

We watched the little kids play tag.  We watched our friends goof around.  We watched the teachers watching everybody.  We watched and waited.

It didn’t get better, but it changed.

Maybe friends don’t have to say anything.  Maybe we just have to sit together and wait until the paint-spatters become something else.  Maybe just being willing to let the really horrible, awful, life-changing stuff be really horrible, awful, life-changing stuff and not making it into something else is okay.  Maybe words are over-rated.  Maybe sometimes just being instead of doing is what’s right.

#1 ATC Swap-Op

This morning I traded my first Artist Trading Cards!  I am now a real artist and art collector!  You are in the presence of awesomeness!

Anyone can make ATC’s!  There are only a few rules.

1. They have to be 2 ½ by 3 ½ inches.

2. They have to be flat enough to fit into the plastic storage sheets.

3. They can’t be sold – only traded.

Those are the only rules!  I love it – free reign to be really creative!  And way in my budget!

Think sports trading cards but art instead.

I could hear the Swap-Op before I even got up the stairs.  So many voices talking and laughing – I think the Art Center was in shock – usually it’s really quiet; withered people looking over their half-moon glasses with folded arms wrapped in gray sweaters with elegantly patched elbows studying some canvas or statue or something.  We peek in the windows and laugh – real art is where the action is!  I took the stairs two at a time and just stood in the door – soaking it all in . . . these are my people – huge T-shirts covered with a cacophony of color, little bits of paper and ribbons decorating the floor and hair, heads and toes bopping to the auditory creativity while the visual blasts.   Scissors, paint, crayons, colored pencils, glue, magazines, and creative ideas all buzz with action.  This must be heaven!

We started with one clear plastic trading storage sheet, our choice of nine backgrounds, and our clean-up color sticker.  I picked two paint drizzled, one paint spattered, two background scenes from a magazine, one variegated blue one, and one plain green one.  They were already cut to 2 ½ by 3 ½ inches so we didn’t have to worry about getting the dimensions goofy.  And then my brain box just took over.  We had two hours to complete nine ATC’s.  I brought two from home so I had more time.  Some kids came in later with all nine already done – some made all of their ATC’s this morning.  It really didn’t matter as long as everyone had nine original ATC’s at 10:45.

That left us with 15 minutes to clean up.  It’s really important that artists take care of their tools.  That means: paint brushes washed; glue closed; crayons, pens, and pencils in their cubbies; scissors hung on the grid; tables wiped; and floor swept.  Actually cleaning up used to be a real pain in art classes because nobody knew what to do and it took forever.  Some kids were standing around doing nothing while some kids – Ahem, yours truly! – did all the work.  We are much more organized at the Art Center!  Everybody learns from the beginning what each clean-up color does – red is paint brush washing, green is sweeping and trash, etc.  We all stick a random color sticker on our shoulders at the beginning and then forget about it until it’s time to clean-up.  We all work together – it’s great!

Four, three, two, one – we counted down just like at New Years – The Swap part of the Swap-Op had finally begun!  Everyone’s nine incredible originals were displayed with their name and we all walked around and decided which ones we liked.  Then we got to talk with everybody else about how they made their mini-masterpieces.  I use a lot of collage, but I really like some of them that had been done on the computer.  I also loved one that was a black and white photograph colored with special pens that seep through the emulsion.  It looked like one of those antique hand-painted photographs.  I got so many great ideas for the next Swap-Op!  We settled into our groups of nine kids.  Each one of us got one of our own ATC’s and one of each of the other artist’s ATCs.  Now I have my first full sheet of ATC’s! 

I am an incredible artist!

I am a knowledgeable art collector!

I might need to get a gray sweater with elbow patches.

I might need to invite them up the stairs to join our little piece of heaven. 

I might even need to practice folding my arms and really looking (instead of laughing).

There is a great guide to making ATC's at Art In Your Pocket!  Check it out!  There are lots of other sites - start with these!  ATCs For All has all sorts of online swaps - for adults and kids!  National Gallery of Art Kids has amazing online art stuff including ATC possibilities! 

What Counts?

There are 57 glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling; 82 books on my bookshelf; 17 thumbtacks that are holding nothing on my bulletin board; four pages of unfinished math homework waiting on my desk; 34 gel pens in my rainbow drawing pack; five colored pencils and three pens in the Susie the ballerina cup.  There are zero sheep.  Zero.  I am wide awake; my window is full of dark, dark sky and bright, bright stars; and counting is not helping.

Star Window by Aris

Jagged remnants of nightmare disturb my night.  The same one – over and over – since I was really little.  Daddy would curl me in his arms when I woke up scared and shaking.  And then, the soft words of his made-up story would tumble over one another – melting into a soft cool comforting lake.  I don’t remember his stories told in the dark of the night.  I wonder if he told the same one over and over or if he just let his words tumble down the path, finding their own way.  I do remember the sound – soft and deep, rising and falling with the beginning and ending of sentences – meandering music melting my fears away.

Crickets chirp.

Pine needles swish with the chipmunks midnight play.

A coyote howls at the moon.

The aspen quake with the breeze.

Bright pink curtains brush the sill.

Toby’s paws wiggle chasing a dream rabbit.

TM purrs, curled on my blanket.

Daddy’s story lingers.

Stars shimmer and whisper.

A little girl breathes deeply.

And Daddy sighs softly.

The calm after my nightmare storm comforted me when I was really little.  It’s funny, in that warm fuzzy way, that the memory of each sound touching the next comforts me now that I’m not so little.  The words didn’t matter.  I did.  I do.

Tomorrow morning isn’t that far away.  Comfort comes counting what counts.

Bummer Brain

School was a bummer today.  I just couldn’t get anything right.  We had to read out loud and my brain and eyes and tongue just couldn’t get it right.  I kept goofing up and Kyle and the guys were laughing at me.  Ms. Baskette was firing the “shut up” looks at them over her dweeby glasses but they just kept right up.  At recess they staged “Penny Theatre.”  They stammered and stuttered and made me look really stupid.  I yelled at them to stop which just gave them more to make fun of. 

I hate those stupid boys for making fun of me when it isn’t funny.

I hate it that all the words get mixed up and I just can’t get them out. 

I hate my stupid brain that can’t make the words lie down and hold still.

No one else seems to have that problem.  Everybody else’s words just stick to the page and behave.  Same books.  I even traded books with my friend Lisa last year when we were in the same class.  Same thing – the letters and words behaved for her but the just jumbled up for me.  It’s not fair.  Everybody thinks I’m nuts or something because I made the mistake of asking why the letters did that.  Nobody else’s words turn around and dance.

At lunch I just took my tray and sat by myself.  Tuna casserole.  Ick.  I flicked the tuna out and ate the crunchy top.  Ada, the chef, knows I hate tuna – but she also knows I like the crunchy stuff on top.  She makes sure I have lots of crunchy stuff.  The school is trying to make lunches better so they hired this really great lady – a real chef.  Ada comes out and talks to all of us about what we like and don’t like.  She kind of makes it so that what we say matters.  Which is cool.  She winked at me when she put extra crunchy stuff on my tray.  It’s good that she knows I matter.  I scooped up the tuna and put it back in with the crunchy stuff.  Maybe it’s okay to have icky stuff if I matter and I’m important.

In art we started to plan our book.  We’re making a real book that will be in the library and everything!  Ms. Baskette, Ms. Edwards – the art teacher, and Mr. Mitchel – the media specialist all worked with the class to come up with a story.  We’re each going to write and illustrate a chapter!  I have so many fantastic ideas.  Even Kyle liked some of them.  Ms. Baskette suggested that I be the idea keeper and the entire class agreed.  I get to keep all the ideas and remind the class of them at each meeting.  It’s important that I get all the ideas down; they come really fast because we are really creative, so Ms. Baskette said that I would need to create my own special way to record it all.  I can write or draw or whatever is needed.  It’s really important and I can do it even with my stupid brain. 

So maybe I don’t really hate Kyle.

And maybe I don’t really hate my stupid brain.

And maybe my brain isn’t so stupid after all. 

Maybe it’s just different.

And maybe different isn’t such a bummer.

Maybe.

It's all in the name!

Penny is such a dumb name.  I don’t know what my mother was thinking!  Stupid boys have always made fun of me saying that I’m as worthless as a penny.  Everybody hates pennies.  People don’t even pick them up when they see them lying in the street.

Okay – don’t tell anybody, but I do know what my mom was thinking.  And that’s kind of a cool story.  (But Penny is still a dumb name.)  Our last name is Havan.  It’s supposed to be pronounced like the beginning of Havana – as in Cuba, but nobody, including us for lots of generations, pronounces it right.  Now we all just say Havan like raven – the bird.  But the real way sort of sounds like heaven and my mom says that I’m all sorts of tiny gifts each and every day which adds up to a real fortune.  So really that’s what Penny Havan (that’s me) is – a fortune.  (Okay, maybe it’s not such a dumb name.)

I’ve been thinking about what I could do to make my name cooler.  I could spell it weird – like my friend Su.  Penne . . . no, then the guys would say I was a limp noodle.

Maybe I could have my name say something about me.  I could be a writer or artist and be Pen.  Or maybe I could be a doctor – Penicillin.

Or maybe I should just be me – Penny Havan.  Kind of tomboyish – I like to climb rocks and trees and hike, sail, and snowshoe and I build a mean campfire.  Kind of girly – I like to wear aqua and fuchsia nail polish, dangly earrings, and french braid my hair.  Kind of artisty – I play guitar and organ and love theatre.  And I draw, paint, and make really cool hippos out of clay.  Kind of sportsy – I love ice-skating and swimming.  Kind of nerdy – I love reading mysteries and scifi and Eleanor Roosevelt is my hero.  Let’s face it – she was kind of nerdy too.  But she sure did love people and swimming and hotdogs.  So we’re sort of the same.  (Okay, so maybe Penny is a really cool name that really does fit me – lots of wonderful little things – a fortune!)