It’s cold and rainy here today, so I thought it would be a good day for dreaming. And it was, although it seems like this list is a bit more coupled than the previous one, i.e. two points having to do with travel, two points having to do with writing, with the kids, etc. It’s interesting how this stuff comes to me. I’m writing in the library today, so my first thoughts had everything to do with books and writing. But eventually spread out to my two favorite dream topics – travel and food. It’s been a trying day, so this was a good exercise in letting it all go in favor of focusing on the happy, the jubilant, the everything there is to look forward to.
26. Read at least one “classic” book every three months
27. Go on a girl’s getaway retreat every year
28. Have cats
29. Have the time to go through every part of The Louvre without rushing
30. Have house plants
31. Figure out how to grow a huge herb garden inside so I always have fresh herbs
32. Become fluent in German again
33. Learn Brazilian Portuguese
33. Always have fresh cut flowers in the house
34. Go to SouthxSouthwest
35. Make my children laugh every single day
36. Go on a driving tour of the Pacific Northwest for our 10 year wedding anniversary
37. Figure out how to paint my own toenails whilst pregnant
38. Adopt a baby
39. Have a dedicated space to write that is chock full of all my favorite things
40. Find the perfect BBQ
41. Learn how to make the best fried chicken
42. Write a story about dragons
43. Go into space
44. Find a way to finance a trip to document the origins and best comfort food in the world for a book
45. Go back to Nebraska every year to visit family
46. Cook with the children as much as possible
47. Go on a trip entirely of my husband’s design
48. Start a children’s museum
49. Find a fly fishing mentor for The Boy after his Papa is gone
50. Own a car with flames painted on the sides
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
3/26/10
2/4/10
Whack Job Status
Well, I spent all day working on this week’s story for 52 in 52 and I’m fairly sure that this will seal the deal with my readers thinking I’m a complete whack job. Believe me when I say that I truly had no idea I was going to be drawn to writing these kinds of stories. I really thought I’d be writing these in-depth stories about the human condition, hell, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I started writing sappy love stories and romances. Those would make more sense than the crazy thrillers I’ve been writing the past several weeks.
12/26/09
12/23/09 - Wraptastic
Here is the only thing I really dislike about Christmas: wrapping presents. I’m not very good at it, it takes forever and you spend all of this time with the paper and bows and tissue paper and ribbon and what not and then in about 7 and a half minutes, it all winds up in a big black garbage back heading for the dumpster.
12/20/09
Christmas Madness
Let the Christmas madness begin!! Now that The Boy is here, we can start all of the Christmas crafts and cookie making. The Girl has been waiting patiently(ish) for him to arrive so that they could get their crafts for the grandparents done as well as our normal dousing of all horizontal surfaces with paint and glitter. And we are making yards and yards of paper chains in festive colors this year to hang over the windows as well as painting wooden ornaments to adorn the little fake Christmas tree we’re putting up. They had a blast today jumping head first into the creative fray and even got their dada to paint a bit before he had to leave us just after lunch. It’s always so much fun to be able to see how their artistic abilities and color preferences shift from year to year.
10/4/09
Paint Payback
When I was in elementary school, my parents decided to have the basement in our house finished. It was a long process, but when it was done, my mom had a great space to do yoga and I had a great play space (which would eventually become my room when I hit high school). I had a big wooden easel that my dad had made me down there all set up and ready for me to paint whenever I wanted. Until one day when there was a major paint accident involving red paint that the carpet would never recover from. That stain was still there when my parents sold the house when I graduated from college.
I thought that my karma had been repaid for that carpet defilement when The Girl found some blue acrylic paint and proceeded to crawl across the floor with it leaving a bright, blue trail behind her like a trail of bread crumbs for Muppets.
Apparently, not so much.
Because my husband woke up this morning to our children painting. The couch. They had decided to continue with the project he had started with them the previous day painting sun catchers and then decided that the couch needed some sprucing up. So they spread black, red and yellow paint all over the cushions and one pillow of our beige couch (yes I’m aware that a case could be made that we were asking for it by having a light colored couch with two children). Needless to say they spent the morning in their respective rooms while my husband and I were watching football (and I was watching my fantasy team have a truly sucky day when they were supposed to have a day in which they all shined and put up many points to carry me to a winning record).
And we were not able to get all the paint out. So there it will sit, on our couch cushions as a marker of our children’s’ creativity and our mistake of leaving them to their own devices when they get up entirely too early. But at the end of the day, I guess we can always just flip the cushions.
I thought that my karma had been repaid for that carpet defilement when The Girl found some blue acrylic paint and proceeded to crawl across the floor with it leaving a bright, blue trail behind her like a trail of bread crumbs for Muppets.
Apparently, not so much.
Because my husband woke up this morning to our children painting. The couch. They had decided to continue with the project he had started with them the previous day painting sun catchers and then decided that the couch needed some sprucing up. So they spread black, red and yellow paint all over the cushions and one pillow of our beige couch (yes I’m aware that a case could be made that we were asking for it by having a light colored couch with two children). Needless to say they spent the morning in their respective rooms while my husband and I were watching football (and I was watching my fantasy team have a truly sucky day when they were supposed to have a day in which they all shined and put up many points to carry me to a winning record).
And we were not able to get all the paint out. So there it will sit, on our couch cushions as a marker of our children’s’ creativity and our mistake of leaving them to their own devices when they get up entirely too early. But at the end of the day, I guess we can always just flip the cushions.
6/20/09
Fairytale Childhood
I’m sitting here trying to figure out what to write about as my mind swirls with sweet memories of the people we’re travelling to see today. Part of the problem is that so many of their names start with J so I’m finding my fool proof system for keeping anonymous those I love foiled. The other part is that so many of my memories are comprised more of feelings, responses and emotions than actions.
Walking down a country road picking wild flowers to go see Sweet Lady J’s chestnut horse or chasing her golden retriever through the meadows. Watching her throw pots and create Father Christmas; an amazing, huge pot with a lovely face always smiling out at exactly my height.
Chasing and playing and dreaming with Brother J until way past both of our bedtimes. Everything from board games to elaborately constructed journeys into some other world created by nothing but our imaginations and wonder. Him being four years older and having such unending patience with me as I lured him away from the grownups talk back into some previously imagined escapade.
Listening to Uncle J tell the most amazing stories. Stories that brought so much more color and encouragement to dream up fairytales of my own. Giving me permission to create an extraordinary life; to connect the dots between my imagination and the “real” world. Almost demanding that I color outside the lines and carve my own path through the daily convention.
It’s so easy for me to slip back into those feelings of being so completely safe that I could do anything. Living room plays. Stories of my own. Dreams of meatball downpours and skipping stones across elven rivers.
And Brother J is now a father and I a mother. I hope that we create the same kind of safe and gorgeous world for our children to grow up in. I hope that regardless of the number of siblings our children have, that they can find the trust and love that we found in this extended family. I hope they can cultivate the same vibrancy of growth that we were gifted.
Weaving an unbreakable foundation for a future of brilliance and beauty.
Walking down a country road picking wild flowers to go see Sweet Lady J’s chestnut horse or chasing her golden retriever through the meadows. Watching her throw pots and create Father Christmas; an amazing, huge pot with a lovely face always smiling out at exactly my height.
Chasing and playing and dreaming with Brother J until way past both of our bedtimes. Everything from board games to elaborately constructed journeys into some other world created by nothing but our imaginations and wonder. Him being four years older and having such unending patience with me as I lured him away from the grownups talk back into some previously imagined escapade.
Listening to Uncle J tell the most amazing stories. Stories that brought so much more color and encouragement to dream up fairytales of my own. Giving me permission to create an extraordinary life; to connect the dots between my imagination and the “real” world. Almost demanding that I color outside the lines and carve my own path through the daily convention.
It’s so easy for me to slip back into those feelings of being so completely safe that I could do anything. Living room plays. Stories of my own. Dreams of meatball downpours and skipping stones across elven rivers.
And Brother J is now a father and I a mother. I hope that we create the same kind of safe and gorgeous world for our children to grow up in. I hope that regardless of the number of siblings our children have, that they can find the trust and love that we found in this extended family. I hope they can cultivate the same vibrancy of growth that we were gifted.
Weaving an unbreakable foundation for a future of brilliance and beauty.
3/5/09
Boy Superhero
“The Girl and I made a deal, Mom. When it is my birthday she is going to get me a baby parrot. And when it’s her birthday I’m going to get her a baby sheep. We made a deal.” – The Boy
This is what I woke up to today. And despite the gigantic crink in my neck and the impending headache, I awoke giggling. I gotta tell you, that’s a lovely way to wake up.
I think that one of my most favorite things about the age that The Boy is moving into now is watching his imagination unfold. He concocts huge involved stories with Captain Rex and Batman in the center, mixing and mashing genres like nobody’s business. He defeats Lex Luthor with his light saber and pays homage to Darth Vader by waging vast battles against the Rebels. These grand dramas are usually peppered with dinosaurs and a smidgeon of other various superheroes. Ben 10 usually makes an appearance somewhere in there just in time to toggle between his many alien shapes and save the day.
And man alive does this boy love babies. Of all shapes, sizes and species. As is evidenced by his heartfelt request for a baby parrot for his birthday. Not to mention the fact that he’s been after me for a little brother for months now. I mean he does play baby with The Girl at times (he love to put her down for a nap) and he chases our puppy like nobody’s business trying to give her a bottle or change her diaper. But if there is a baby anywhere on his radar he makes a bee line to it cooing like a pro.
I don’t know if I’ve ever met a boy his age who can so easily move back and forth between such creative rough housing to complete nurturing and kindness. It amazes me actually. And it’s something that I hope he never lets go of. I hope he always has the ability to conquer the world in a single bound while also gently cradling those who are smaller and perhaps weaker than himself. That alone would qualify him as a superhero in my book.
This is what I woke up to today. And despite the gigantic crink in my neck and the impending headache, I awoke giggling. I gotta tell you, that’s a lovely way to wake up.
I think that one of my most favorite things about the age that The Boy is moving into now is watching his imagination unfold. He concocts huge involved stories with Captain Rex and Batman in the center, mixing and mashing genres like nobody’s business. He defeats Lex Luthor with his light saber and pays homage to Darth Vader by waging vast battles against the Rebels. These grand dramas are usually peppered with dinosaurs and a smidgeon of other various superheroes. Ben 10 usually makes an appearance somewhere in there just in time to toggle between his many alien shapes and save the day.
And man alive does this boy love babies. Of all shapes, sizes and species. As is evidenced by his heartfelt request for a baby parrot for his birthday. Not to mention the fact that he’s been after me for a little brother for months now. I mean he does play baby with The Girl at times (he love to put her down for a nap) and he chases our puppy like nobody’s business trying to give her a bottle or change her diaper. But if there is a baby anywhere on his radar he makes a bee line to it cooing like a pro.
I don’t know if I’ve ever met a boy his age who can so easily move back and forth between such creative rough housing to complete nurturing and kindness. It amazes me actually. And it’s something that I hope he never lets go of. I hope he always has the ability to conquer the world in a single bound while also gently cradling those who are smaller and perhaps weaker than himself. That alone would qualify him as a superhero in my book.
1/3/09
One Word Progression
Long ago, one of my oldest and dearest friends and I would use one word progression, taking turns one word at a time, to create something together that we’d probably never come near alone. So today, we tripped down memory lane and came up with this:
Open no possible doorways lock fast as light grounded.
Feral words fly from joyful cages while fed.
Divine questions worship themselves.
Pasty flat lines shudder clear rising dreams.
Felted shadows creep beneath velvet sacrifice.
Triumphant evening whispers and flutters around distant regrets as determined dawn decides to yet again break.
Sheer trust folds along fault lines.
The golden mean sun casts unabashed courses of discipline.
You, me and God.
Matter, energy revolve simply.
Foundations above the highest failure forget silhouettes created by darkness.
Eloquent gestures bemoan silent but untouchable strategies.
Insulate your dreams against your wishes to cast away.
Daydreams at night show convoluted blankets.
Encapsulate astronauts within your orbit.
Lame circumstances demand gaudy distractions.
Beautiful missives allow small curves like comets and shooting smiles.
Growth is vital to the death of death.
Philosophies of love rings turn deeper and stain the surfaces of our destiny, but words prefer to be spoken aloud.
Birth again portrays birth.
Sketches in truth decline with the passing fancies as they long to fly again.
Blisters form when love denies nothing.
Fame was awesome.
When you puzzle over pieces of life, the best way to put it together is through sorting green days from black.
The next phase in passion is lust with your illegal neighbor.
Alas and unfortunately, there are no sure ways to heal tomorrow.
Shivers’ warm touch is glorified through skeptics of travelling home.
Why doesn’t the girl sing from hymns written with the blood of Christ, Jesus.
Soft projectiles zoom sloppily towards their fortress of thatched platitudes.
Theatrical baskets shroud holy lands named for the prophets of guile and irony.
Right actions describe their motives as unwitting colleagues in crime and legend, but are wrong about most recollections.
My pansy told stories from the sleepy olden couch full of memories and trollops.
Unformed ideas can become yet truly believed and depended upon.
In the end, we sum it up.
Open no possible doorways lock fast as light grounded.
Feral words fly from joyful cages while fed.
Divine questions worship themselves.
Pasty flat lines shudder clear rising dreams.
Felted shadows creep beneath velvet sacrifice.
Triumphant evening whispers and flutters around distant regrets as determined dawn decides to yet again break.
Sheer trust folds along fault lines.
The golden mean sun casts unabashed courses of discipline.
You, me and God.
Matter, energy revolve simply.
Foundations above the highest failure forget silhouettes created by darkness.
Eloquent gestures bemoan silent but untouchable strategies.
Insulate your dreams against your wishes to cast away.
Daydreams at night show convoluted blankets.
Encapsulate astronauts within your orbit.
Lame circumstances demand gaudy distractions.
Beautiful missives allow small curves like comets and shooting smiles.
Growth is vital to the death of death.
Philosophies of love rings turn deeper and stain the surfaces of our destiny, but words prefer to be spoken aloud.
Birth again portrays birth.
Sketches in truth decline with the passing fancies as they long to fly again.
Blisters form when love denies nothing.
Fame was awesome.
When you puzzle over pieces of life, the best way to put it together is through sorting green days from black.
The next phase in passion is lust with your illegal neighbor.
Alas and unfortunately, there are no sure ways to heal tomorrow.
Shivers’ warm touch is glorified through skeptics of travelling home.
Why doesn’t the girl sing from hymns written with the blood of Christ, Jesus.
Soft projectiles zoom sloppily towards their fortress of thatched platitudes.
Theatrical baskets shroud holy lands named for the prophets of guile and irony.
Right actions describe their motives as unwitting colleagues in crime and legend, but are wrong about most recollections.
My pansy told stories from the sleepy olden couch full of memories and trollops.
Unformed ideas can become yet truly believed and depended upon.
In the end, we sum it up.