Learning to Walk Again

An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.
                                                  --Henry David Thoreau

I don't remember learning to walk as a toddler. It is just one of those predictable stages of development we all learn to do. But I can remember each of my children's first steps, and the excitement for them to have a vertical perspective on the world. Walking is an ordinary, common thing we do every day... until you can't take any steps anymore.

This summer on a a carefree, blissful day of fly fishing (on my husband's birthday, no less), I slipped on a gravel incline. I was not paying attention, you know multi-tasking--talking to my daughter on the phone about her upcoming wedding. The thoughtless fall turned into an injury that reverted me back to seeing the world in a horizontal position. Yep, sitting in a chair, with an elevated leg for a month. I broke my ankle, had a steel plate and nine screws put into my leg, and saw the summer pass, looking out the window. I kept telling my impatient self to take the long view: read some books that had been on my list for awhile, write, work on my parent's life histories, play the guitar and serenade anyone roaming around "my chair." I lovingly welcomed any visitors who wanted to come to me (because I was going nowhere to see anyone). I also begin to knit again.

Lots of sitting this summer in the "throne chair." It was more bearable with loved ones coming to knit, play games, laugh, and sing with me.

One of my friends said that "Mending bones=knitting them together again." I took her insight literally, and sat there in my chair, imagining my bones healing. Clicking the knitting needles together made me literally take my predicament in my own hands. If I could knit a long scarf, lengthening the latticed stitches, then maybe the fractured bones would simultaneously link together too. From my courtly chair, I even taught some of my nieces and nephews to knit. We all all sat in the room, clicking the needles, talking, laughing. The audible sounds of the needles coming together gave me hope that my bones would heal--that they would not stay indefinitely unravelled.

As I sat there with occasional throbbing pain, I promised God I would be a better person if I could just walk again. I would walk the walk, not just talk the talk. I would climb higher peaks, and view more expansive views. I would walk forward, step by step, on better, more productive paths. Suddenly, my range of motion and mobility meant everything to me--something I had always just taken for granted since I was a toddler. But no more.

Signing the cast was fun--a walking around souvenir of my injury.

Walking takes us places to where we need to go physically, but also in our heads. As Thoreau said, "I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees." I have been reminded, sitting in the horizontal position for so long, that not only my body craves a walk, but my mind needs those steps too. I feel like a person who has been blind for two months, and then can see the light and colors again. 

I vow to walk in terrains and paths that I previously thought were inconvenient or didn't think I had the time to go. Maybe even some roads I was fearful to tread. I will try to even step up the pace or gait of where I know I need to walk--turn the corners more willfully. I will notice the seasons,  the trees and sky more, not just pay attention to my watch. As Soren Kierkegaard said, " I have walked myself into my best thoughts." So this right foot (and ankle) will go to more and better places. No more delays on route. 

And yes, two months later, I did dance the night away at my daughter's wedding with a very stylish big black boot from my orthopedic doctor. Believe me, I was so grateful to be on the dance floor!

Enjoying (on my boot) watching my daughter and husband dance at her wedding.

Lessons from learning how to walk again:

1) One of the best parts of being on the injured list is that people come to you. I almost felt like I was in a Jane Austen book because people would often come to visit or "call." Every visit cheered me up a little more, encouraged me. It reminded me how the simple tradition of visiting can lift someone when they are ill or injured. I vowed to visit more in the future and have more compassion--when friends and family are home bound. 

Kayleen, my friend who came to visit, who I had not seen in several decades.

  

Visiting my friend on my scooter who has been sick. I could not get there fast enough to see her, knowing that she had been very ill this summer. We both laughed because I had to literally crawl up her front porch steps to see her, and then pushed the knee scooter up. Ha! But again, I will do everything I can to go see people who are sick now.

2) Don't spiral into discouragement. Receive the service you are kindly given. It is definitely humbling to be helpless and dependent, but take the time to let your body heal.

3) Get your body strong again. Be grateful for every person who wants to help you--advise not easily followed! Exercise those muscles that have been languishing, while letting the bones heal. Listen to your physical therapist, and do your exercises!

4) Bones and stitches can heal on their own if we are patient; our bodies are miraculous. But a broken heart requires others to succor so it can heal. Grief and sadness requires a real friend to mend a broken heart. I want to be more aware of the invisible "broken," struggling souls around me who need care and encouragement, despite no outward appearance of injury. I used a wheel chair, a knee scooter, and crutches, and was even able to use a handicap parking space. But my broken ankle reminded me there are people who have injuries that are not obvious to anyone else. I could only hope to be a little more perceptive and aware of the hidden needs of those around me. 

100th Anniversary of National Parks: May our Paradise Never Be Lost....

"This something we call America lives not so much in political institutions as in its rocks and skies and seas."                                                               --Paul Strand, American photographer

A year ago, on a short flight from Boston to Washington D.C., my daughter struck up a conversation with a man sitting next to her on the plane. After some minutes of conversation about our National Parks (since he was wearing the seal on his jacket), she asked him if he was a ranger. "No," he answered, "I am the director of the National Park Service. My name is Jonathan Jarvis. But yes, I started out as a park ranger in 1976." Since she descends from a family who crisscrossed the country in a rumbling family van to visit national parks, battlefields, and other historical sights from her infancy, he could see her passion for the land he loved too. She said he spoke of the immense treasure we have inherited in America, and how we must be advocates for all countries to protect their cultural and historical heritage. Our national parks do more than inspire. The mountains and seashores, gifts from a benevolent God, give us fuel to be better humans--better caretakers of not only our earth, but future generations. They have been lovingly bequeathed to us, and we must in turn, love and protect them.

This week marks the 100th anniversary of our national parks, iconic landmarks in our country's Treasury that belong to each of us, whether we are rich or poor.  Each is a place of pilgrimage for the soul. Many think a remotely known artist named George Caitlin was the initial spark for the national park idea. In 1832 he wrote after visiting some Indian territories in the West, "By some great political policy of government... in a magnificent park, containing man and beast, in all the wildness and freshness of their nature's beauty." Perhaps Caitlin envisioned only one park, but his idea has blossomed into 450 national historical, recreational and cultural areas. The National Park Service comprises not only parks, but monuments, memorials, military parks, historical sights, parkways, seashores, and river ways. Indeed, we are a rich people of immense fortune.

With an artist's love for the world and its beauty, Caitlin began an American dream that has been fostered now for almost two hundred years. With various trappers, writers, artists, naturalists, and entrepreneurs visiting the West in the mid-19the century, Yellowstone was signed as a National Park in 1872 by Ulysses S. Grant. In 1906 President Roosevelt signed the Antiquities Act to protect monuments, caves, and other natural treasures, the first one being Chimney Rock in Wyoming. One decade later, President Woodrow Wilson would sign on August 25, 1916 the beginning of the National Park Service.

One of my favorite presidents is Teddy Roosevelt, known as the Conservation President. But exactly what were the pathways that forged the man that said, "I have always said I would not be president had it not been for my experience in North Dakota (or later known as Badlands National Park)." When Teddy's young 22 year old wife died two days later after their first child was born and his mother died the same day, he teetered between despair and hopelessness. On the day Alice died, Theodore made a large X on the page, and wrote only, "The light has gone out of my life." When he wrote her obituary, he wrote, "And when my hearts's dearest died, the light went out from my life forever." Badlands rescued, changed him. When he went out West to North Dakota to summon his spirit again, the vast openness gave back his life. The boundless prairie, with mostly prairie dogs, instead of people, and the wide, open skies, revived him. The meadowlarks and owls that called from lone trees in the wilderness changed his melancholy despair to happiness again. Later Teddy Roosevelt's grief would be eclipsed, and he would say, "Life is a great adventure. Accept it with such a spirit."

As we enter now a new chapter of protecting our earth from climate change and pollution, we must remember the precious inheritance we have been given. Our earth gives us a sense of place and beauty. But it does more. Mountains are pinnacles and cathedrals in the sky. Rivers and seas wash grief and confusion away. A canopy of bright stars awakens us to new levels of awareness and reverie. Canyons can chisel our fears, shaping us into a new person. A gentle wind can blow new life and enthusiasm into our soul. The routes our souls have taken in the topography of our lives gives us boundless blessings--enriching not only our own souls, but our relationships. Landscapes can shift our fears and misgivings to joy.

Whether we know it or not, the land, revitalizes our spirits. It is God-given, and more necessary than we would ever know. A rippling wind on a grove of quaking aspen trees in Grand Teton National Park allows me to enter a portal of heaven on earth, a place I would never know if it had not been sequestered, protected. May we bring heaven too to all those who follow us by protecting the earth we we born on. It is our duty when we have been cradled in uncommon beauty for so very long.

Happy Birthday to every national park and monument! Thank you for transporting me to the miraculous, the soul-saving--every time I meet one of you. I have been to many of your Treasury, and I will roam and climb until I have seen each one of you....

This summer in my favorite National Park--Grand Teton National Park. Here is a blog from last summer why I love the Tetons so much: Teton Tales 

My daughter and I in Canyonlands National Parks a few years ago. The Southern Utah National Parks have filled me with wonder and awe since I was a child. For one month I knew their topography when I roamed for one month as a teenager there in a BYU survival program.

My daughters in Zion National Park--on a trip with their father.

My husband climbing in Yosemite with my son. Peter was only 10, maybe 11, but he has always spoke of the bonding that happened with his dad on the spires of Yosemite

The three Tetons, an endless fascination for our family with the land. My husband's grandpa helped to conserve the Grand Teton National Park in his jobs with the Department of Interior.

My children joyfully hiking with their dad in the Tetons....

A few years ago hiking The Narrows in Zion National Park. I wrote a blog called Chasing the Light

Family Time in the Dining Room

When you have lived in a beloved home for almost twenty years and have left its cradling walls, sometimes your mind returns on what happened there. What exactly were the daily lessons we all learned from one another as we raised our children (and ourselves)? As I look back to the rooms of that wonderful home, I have to say the dining room is where most of the mentoring was done. Blogpost about our home called: RIP Bridge Haven, our old home I don't think I realized it at the time, until now a few years later, but our ideas had more purposes than I knew.

When I was much younger, I read the quote by J. R. R. Tolkien that describes a hobbit house. I secretly wished to make it into a home like Bilbo Baggins, "It was a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep or storytelling or singing or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all. Merely to be there was a cure for weariness, fear, and sadness...." When we lived in our first apartment in New York City, I decided to initially tackle the furniture. I wasn't sure how furniture would transform it into a house that drew storytellers and singers. But I opted to try...

The first piece of furniture we bought in our marriage was no other than a dining room table. We both decided we wanted to entertain as much as we could--even with our meager budget. Since we both came from large families, the notion to regularly invite others to our table sounded satisfying, cozy. We found a 1910 long oak table in New York City where we lived, the kind you lengthen by pulling out each end. Often we would stretch both our budget and our table to fit 14 or more people at the extended table. Sometimes people would bring dishes too, presenting many treasured memories in those early years of our marriage. That table brought lively, peppered conversations, developing bonds of relationships that still reverberate today. I thought then our worthy endeavor to entertain and invite had been realized.

The experimental round table in our dining room.

Since the long, corridor kind of table was pleasant and inviting to me, I was surprised when my husband came home about ten years later with a loftier idea: to make a round table. His devised plan? To cut two semi-circles out of plywood, join them together, and give it a lavish stain and varnish. The table would be about eight feet across, fitting 12 people comfortably. He thought we could just put the new round plywood circle over our old trusty rectangle table, providing a way to increase lingering conversations with our tween children. Eventually, we had six children, plus his father who lived with us for almost seven years. His round table brainchild was just one more experiment in how to raise kids. I decided to go along with his design of the table. What could we lose? Hadn't King Arthur and The Round Algonquin Table in NYC benefited from a round table?

Here is a picture at Christmas with the Boxing Day crowns on, one tradition during the holidays. On this particular holiday, from Thanksgiving to Christmas, I draped a canvas painting tarp over the table. During that entire holiday, everyone wrote down their blessings on the canvas fabric. We used it as a tablecloth for awhile, reminding us of that particular holiday. Later it became an expansive picnic tablecloth...

For a while, after my husband set up the round table, he quietly measured how much time the kids would linger after meals. He would smile contentedly to himself at how long people stayed at the table--not wanting to rush away to leave the conversation. No words were said, but I think even he was a little surprised how well his undertaking had succeeded. When we invited guests to dinner, the same result happened; people more naturally conversed, laughed, joined in on jokes. There was a natural magnanimity to the round table, with no hierarchal placement. Everyone faced one another, with equanimity. My husband was right: his experiment with the shape of a circle for our dining room table worked marvelously. I can even say that plywood wooden table changed the dynamics of our family. 

After a few years, I made this large "lazy susan" that twirled around in the middle of the round table. I wood burned some of our favorite family sayings, watercolored the wood, and then glazed it. Again, there were not a lot of words or reminding, but these simple family quotes reminded my kids that our family could do hard things, like their grandpa always said, "Do the difficult" or their great-grandma said, "Cherish your dreams." The quotes were always there in the middle of the table to encourage, maybe even instruct. Every night we would light some candles during dinner. I think the dripping of wax on the candles signified that while we were all together, it was a sacred time. When we blew out the candles and went our separate ways, then our time had elapsed. But while we were there, with the flickering lights at our table, that time was all ours. 

The symbol of a circle means completeness, with no gaps or breaks. To know that you will ultimately gather every day, looking across and rubbing elbows with those people that share your walls, gives an increased desire to connect. Maybe even reaching out to make any wrongs be made right since the last time the circle gathered. That table was where children were quizzed for an upcoming test, played games, and sat with their grandfather. I remember many significant family discussions at that table too, one being when we thought of moving to another city. I don't remember the vote, but my son told me the ballot box came out and we voted on a possible move. Again, the round table brought consensus, unity, and understanding--if there were ever any breaks in the circle. 

Another piece in the dining room was a little more discreet, perhaps even silent most of the time, but it was our "Family Mission Statement." It hung above the round table, a document that was edited for three years before it ever made it to the wall. Each of us, with unanimous consensus, signed that agreement (I won't publish it here because your family can hash out and revise their own if they wish). But oftentimes, I would look at the wall above the round table, remembering what we all had agreed to do--to love one another, no matter what. To have fun, support, and encourage one another. 

A few years later, I peeled off some pictures that were hanging on one wall and decided to paint my own version of a family tree. My friend and I painted the tree one afternoon. I love storytelling, especially the family history variety, and well, with the ancestor names on my dining room wall, wouldn't their stories beg to be told? 

Here is the tree, in all it's glory that spanned our dining room wall for many years. You can see it was not painted with a true artist's eye, but the names (the branches had my kids' names on it), with the trunk filled with ancestor's names. I liked the idea that the roots had the ancestors' names on it, signifying where we all came from. The fact that tree bark can be several inches thick signifies that it protects the tree from fire and disease. I always felt that tree, with all the ancestors' names on it, shaded us, protected us.  

I liked to think that both my husband and our Icelandic, French, Swedish, and English ancestors enjoyed the notion that their names were on our dining room wall--sometimes several hundreds of years after they had died. If anything, the tree provided a canopy of wisdom and goodness, with some of their stories.

Within the boundaries we live in our homes, they are the bridge to our inner and outer worlds. Undoubtedly, the rooms and walls that we live in distill memories and wisdoms that linger with us forever. They prepare us to journey on, to find courage, to learn how to meditate, and more than anything to love without borders and divisions. I would say in unlikely places, such as tables, chairs, and with a candle's glimmering brightness, people are grown--the old and the young, the small and the tall. The special rooms of our lives will always open to us wherever we rove, reminding us of things that were taught to us within its walls. Memories of home cushion and fuel us to do hard things, just as Bilbo learned: "The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the road has gone, and I must follow if I can."                             


         

The Poetry of Barns

In front of one of my favorite barns, a place that has taught me woodworking. It is a place of immense creativity and camaraderie.

Here are some iconic barns, a part of Mormon Row, in front of the Tetons in Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming. In the 1890's a group of 27 homesteaders clustered in these pastures in front of the majestic Tetons. Now visitors come from all over the world to view the much photographed barns, remnants of an earlier frontier history in the Jackson Hole Valley. The area is called Antelope Flats.

All of my life I have had a fascination with barns. I love every variety--the tilting roofs with bare scaffolding that show every patch of weathered vein in the wood. You know the one that looks like it is slumping, crumbling, begging for a new friend--the kind I crawled around as a child. The spacious, light-filled beams in other barns can resemble a nave in a cathedral, giving awe-struck, even reverent moments and revelations. Sometimes, if we listen long enough, a barn can unravel long-held secrets. Like people, they have personal traits and characteristics in their spaces that are unique to them. No barn is the same. They each have a purpose to their story--whatever their anatomy.

Barns are a symbol of someone's heritage, their life choices, opportunities, and what they reaped. They are a reservoir to store precious livelihoods, keeping animals that allowed them to retrieve their harvest. Both mammoth and small barns were made with keen design and skill, and attention to every joint and nail. As my boys dismantled an old barn this summer to retrieve the beautiful reusable wood, my son commented, "I was amazed at the arduous work that I could see someone had done eighty or so years earlier. As we pulled out the long, rusty nails, I could see the care someone had taken to build their barn. I wanted to preserve as much as the wood that we could for the next chapter in the barn's life--to make an art barn." Indeed, they knew they were in a special territory, where some unknown people had sacrificed and toiled. It only seemed right to gather as much as they could to use again.

My son, Elias, who has been helping to make an art barn this summer.

Part of the work team to dismantle "the old barn" that will now have a different purpose: to fuel a desire to create with art. The windows, some that will have access to a loft, will have views that inspire painting, writing, and sculpting.

Dismantling the old barn

Gabriel Deerman, an art instructor who changed our lives with his attentive interest in my son's art work (Elias, my son,  has autism). We all became kindred spirits when I heard of his dream to renovate two barns on his property between Toronto and Montreal, Canada. He is building art studios for he and his wife, and will offer art workshops in the Tamworth, Canada area. Here are two posts I wrote about him and his future art studio and classrooms: Fostering Creative Collaborations and I want our house to smell like art  Here is more information about Gabriel's barns turned studio/classrooms: Salmon River Studios

Here is another famous barn in Heber Valley, Utah, called the Tate Barn. It is located just below Soldier Hollow, where there was the cross country runs for the 2002 Olympics.

Barns are typically rooted in seasons of harvest, tending animals, and family celebrations. But they are also monuments to strong people who were resilient in long ago storms. Like the joints of wood that solidly bind barns together, they connect us to other times and tales. Barns can attach us to groves of trees, meadows, fields, and rivers that are hallmarks in our hearts. With their soft moans and howls on icy nights, barns shelter us. On summer days with the sun glistening through the shadows, they make us feel safe, and at home within their walls. Barns allow the smells, sounds, and close proximity to nature that most homes cannot give. They are a link to the land, that all of us crave, whether we know it or not.

Several years ago we thought we might relocate to upstate New York, and I began to search for a new home. The reason that I fell in love with a property outside of Rochester was not the 1820 house, but you guessed: it was the beautiful barn on the land. As I roamed through that renovated barn, I could envision lively Halloween and Christmas parties, with plays and music with friends and family. The empty stalls seemed perfect hiding places for frolicking children. But it was not to be. We did not move to upstate New York. But other barns have kindly compensated--to inspire me with beauty, friendship, and creativity. My circle of relationships have been widened, as I remember and am linked to the people who toiled within the barns that I love. 

An old weathered barn, one who has known many seasons, invites you to enter his past. And as you come in, an old barn can whisper true tales--not only evoking former days, but infusing a deeper sense of history, a desire to create, a love of community.  I believe everyone should have at least a few memories in a barn. Never underestimate the power of a barn.

A barn dance, with people of all ages, enjoying a square dance.

A wonderful friend and artist, working in a barn. He is describing to some young people the correlation between clay and The Potter in Isaiah 64:8. The scripture reads, "But now, O Lord, thou art our father, we are the clay, and thou our potter, and we all our the work of thy hand."

A barn can be a place of immense creativity. The paintings of nature on the wall, the woodworking, and in another corner is where artists can create pottery.

It's satisfying to get out and work in the fields--to get away from 21st century distractions.

A pumpkin farm in upstate NY.  Barns just naturally go with autumn.

Being part of a barn dance this summer. These young women spontaneously put together a barn dance, providing the music for the gathering. It was a night we will all always remember, maybe because it was in a barn?

A horseman friend walking from the barn, preparing to saddle his horses. The scene reminds me of a poem that invites us to a more simple life:

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clean, I may
I shan't be gone long--You come too.

I'm going o.ut to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It' so young
It totters when she licks it with her tongue,
I shan't' be gone long--You come too.
-- Robert Frost

London: Long Live the Queen

Just celebrating with the queen....

London was awash with parties, picnics, and parades over the weekend--that spilled around England (literally since it was one of the rainiest weeks of June in years). Queen Elizabeth's 90's birthday was being celebrated. Despite the upcoming referendum vote or "Brexit" to stay or exit the European Union, England was in a festive, jubilant mood to show their respect and love for their queen. Throngs of people meandered around London, being drawn for her auspicious birthday. It was time to lay aside political controversies and to purposefully unite. Who can estimate the power of a birthday party?

Some merrymaking photos on the street that day:

A father around Westminster with his three daughters. He told me he had two sets of twin girls, but one was missing. I thought they were irresistible--all decked out for the queen.

Lots of panache and gallantry on the streets that day....

In front of Buckingham Palace after spotting the queen on the balcony with the royal family.

The Royal Air Force over Buckingham Palace 

Some ladies in waiting with another merrymaker

Most everyone dressed up "to the nine's" on the streets of London to celebrate the queen's birthday.

When we planned our trip here, we had no idea about London's birthday gala party for Queen Elizabeth II, the grandmotherly face that is ubiquitous around the world. After all, she is the longest ruling monarch in English history, surpassing her great-great grandmother, Queen Victoria in 2007. Her reign, beginning in 1952, has spanned over six decades--two London Olympics, wars, and 12 countries that have become independent since her accession. The royal family's popularity has taken a few dives at times in the last few decades, but Queen Elizabeth always seems to launch back on top.

As an American unknowingly stumbling into the festivities, we enjoyed observing all the "pomp and circumstance"--many people "dressed to the nine's" and traveling from far corners of England to join in on the party. Weaving through the crowds and parades did not inconvenience us as tourists; it all seemed completely worthwhile--especially when we caught a profile of Queen Elizabeth. One British woman remarked, "We Brits have to be careful because if we do something once, we want to make it into a tradition"--conveying the thought of Shakespeare in Henry V when he said, "Nice customs curtsy to nice kings."

For some Americans, all the pomp would be excessive or overdone. But we enjoyed the spectacle. It meant people were remembering the past, and honoring the future. Indeed, traditions, ceremonies, and rituals are sacrosanct in Britain. The predictability of traditions are reassuring somehow--giving you a sense that all is well in the kingdom. As we observed the crowds, the traditions and celebrations connect people, bring them together. It was a time to put away differences--reveling in tradition.

Pictured are Joyce and Albert Goodman of Birmingham, England. They celebrate their 60th anniversary next year, and are very excited to receive their letter of congratulations from the queen on their special day. Joyce, 78, said that Albert, 88, "robbed the cradle when they married" after WWII. Albert was eager to tell me as a teenager how he hid in many shelters to keep away from the bombs. He said, "Everyone was in it together."

Not far from where we glimpsed the queen stood the Winston Churchill War Rooms that provided shelter for Churchill and Allied leaders during WWII--in a time of great divisions. If you look hard enough, you can even find signs on houses that read "shelter." In war time England, people gathered in dark shadows under homes and train stations to be saved from the the Blitz or showering bombs. As I watched the stage of pageantry around me this weekend, I silently hoped that the gathering and unity will continue to coalesce, just as it did in WWII times.

This past weekend in London, England, it did not matter the diversity of opinions. Pandora's box of reality would be open soon enough--with looming economic and political issues to settle. For an American, the pomp showed an undeniable outpouring of a desire to remember traditions, and most of all, honor a 90 year old woman who has unquestionably taken her job very, very seriously for 64 years. May she reign in peace....  And again quoting the Bard, "Our peace shall stand as long as rocky mountains." Long live the Queen!

I must say it was "jolly good fun" to crash the party!

Fostering Creative Connections

This is a picture of Gabriel Deerman, my son's art instructor here in Qatar. Elias has autism, but Mr. Deerman still saw immense potential in him, rather than limitations. Peter, his brother, who has helped him with art projects at home.

What happens when people gather or team up to create? I believe there are wondrous transformations that burst open when we support one another's creativity. Words, inspirations, like fireflies ricocheting around on a dark night, give flickers of not only encouragement, but more conceptions to shape and define. Sometimes new ideas can even become lightening bolts that shift us in new directions. Yes, bonding in creativity can be that powerful.

Video of Mr Gabriel's Art Studio with Artist Elias Shumway
By Megan J. Hansen at meganjhansen.blogspot.com

Certainly, the lone writer shack or art studio is a place where ideas can only emerge in solitude. Yet, undoubtedly part of the creative process in any artist, whether it be in an art studio, kitchen, laboratory, or concert hall, is connected with a community--a band of people who spark new fires of creativity. What would have occurred within the burgeoning Impressionist movement if Monet, Renoir, Cezanne, Pizzaro, and others would not have gathered to meet in a Paris cafe for several years? With their collaboration of creativity in the early days of their careers, they fielded off their own self depreciating judgements and critics of the day. Those connections and friendships made all the difference to what would become the artistic movement of Impressionism.

This last year has been one of increased creative collaboration in our home, as we welcomed two teenage girls who asked to live with us so they could further their own beginning careers. And with them, others came too. We have been a group of musicians, artists, videographers, and writers. The result has been remarkable in the shaping of all of us--not only the enhancement of our own creativity, but how others can go to new levels around us. I have noticed, with new awareness, how my own words and encouragement can dramatically affect those at my elbow. Others lift my own sense of what I can do or be. There is no hint of competition, all the debris of the world roll away. The genuine desire to see other's creativity awaken is just as important as your own progress.

Although I could be a mother to all of them, we have worked together to form a creative community from India, Ukraine, the US, and France. All of us have not only tried to heighten our own creative paths, but to ignite support for one another's ideas. Also, each of them has helped me to navigate with my son who has autism, and launch him in new artistic directions. Although creative endeavors obviously require the rigor of solo work, I believe creativity also needs the humanistic glaze, so to speak, to finish it off. Others enliven our work. They elevate us to places we could not rise to without them.

Creative bonding is infectious and exhilarating. To see people who want to bring others along who are straggling, maybe even languishing, such as my son with autism, has moved me deeply. With that sense of enthusiasm for all things creative, you begin to see the potential of others' gifts too--people with seeming limitations. As we all teamed up to talk and brainstorm about my son's art work, ideas flooded the room on how to help him improve and develop as an artist. As a mom, I felt that I was not the lone voice to advocate for him, but there were others to lean on. We all became excited to launch him and his efforts. Now we have been asked to help create a special art barn this summer where we can celebrate creativity. The ideas just keep flowing....

A year ago when Elias had his artwork exhibited here in Doha at the Arab Museum of Modern Art.
Blogpost of Our Picasso's Art Exhibition

One of my favorite books that I used with my own children when they were growing up was Doing Art Together: Discovering the joys of appreciating and creating art as taught at The Metropolitan Museum of Art's famous parent-child workshop.  Storfer and Jones, the authors, catch these ideas that I cherish: "We come together as a group of strangers, and through working together, we become a family of friends. I have seen how people from very diverse backgrounds come to identify with a common pursuit, no matter what their differences are." The bonding of family relationships with creative pursuits is real, as our connectedness is increased. Our soul are more linked, and we see hidden possibilities to excavate together.

Creativity, whether it be individually or in a group, requires forgoing some time off the screen or away from other concerns. But it also means entering into another place of nirvana and epiphanies where ideas are shaped--on the canvas, in a musical composition, or in a poem. In our fast paced, multi-tasked society, creative pursuits are often times neglected or postponed. There is room for all of us to cultivate our creative souls a little more. And with some collaboration of others, the joy can be unimaginable. It can change a life, even a young man with autism.

The ripples of our efforts to create and help others will only cause swelling waves--in the big ocean we all live in.                                                                                                                                                                                                    

D-Day: Normandy, France

My son, Peter, last year at age 18, remembering his grandfather and the others who helped to liberate the village of Le Tronquay in Normandy, France.

The plaque that Peter laid the flowers on in Le Tronquay, France. Blog of a French Village Celebration

On June 5, 2015 at Utah Beach, Peter sending a lantern off in memory of his grandpa. Blog about Omaha Beach, 2015   Blog about Utah Beach

On June 6 the Normandy coast in France will be awash with ceremonies, 1940 dances with jitterbug and swing music, banquets, hikes, and paratroopers falling from the sky to remember D-Day. It is a time reserved and set apart to honor the Allied forces that came to liberate the villages and towns that were under German occupation for five years. Nobody is sunbathing on the beaches that week. Thousands will gather to celebrate those soldiers who stepped on the shores or fell from the skies on those fateful days 72 years ago. Not many of the veterans are still alive, but there will be a few being pushed in wheel chairs or even a few walking slowing around the cemeteries and towns. For a week in Normandy, strangers become instantaneous friends. Tears flow freely, and there is a still reverence as you walk on the beaches or cliffs that needs no exchange of words to explain. Whether you are speaking with Germans, French, British, Americans, or Canadians, solidarity and unity exists. Peace reigns. Here is the schedule for the 72nd anniversary of D-Day for 2016

My father-in-law, H. Smith Shumway, at age 22, landed on Omaha Beach on that decisive day with over 5,000 ships, 11,000 airplanes, and 150,000 servicemen. He was blinded six weeks later in the march to Paris. Blog of "I might not have sight, but I have insight" He lived the remaining 67 years in darkness, living with the scars of a war, but never succumbing to defeat and despair. As a family, we have trekked across the Atlantic Ocean  several times to Normandy to honor him and his comrades. Last year was the first time he was not there with us. However, we felt him as the waves crashed on the shores and the wind blew on the cliffs. As I looked into the people's faces who are descendants of the two villages he liberated, the reverberations of his actions live on in this village. I knew as my son placed the flowers on the plaque that bears his grandfather's name that he could not be too far away.

In the famous U.S. Civil War love letter that is written by Sullivan Bullou at the beginning of the Bull Run Battle, he expresses his love for his wife, perhaps feeling inspired that he would not live to see her again. "But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night--amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours--always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath' or the cool fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again." Normandy, France is that kind of place--holy grounds where young men, both German, French, American, Canadian, and British were laid to rest.

This year we will bring another son, now 22, the same age that his grandpa was when he was blinded and landed on D-Day. Last night as we talked about it, Jonathan was silent for a few moments, taking pause to think about the weight of his grandfather's suffering at his same age 72 years ago. As his mother, I don't know how I could send my handsome, intelligent son off to war. But my husband's grandmother bade farewell--and many millions of others did too. My husband's grandfather did also, even with the memories of World War I and Flanders heavy on his mind. Smith Shumway promised his parents that he would come back from war, "swinging both his legs and arms"--never anticipating the loss of his sight. How could he? But he refused to bend and crumble. Within his darkness, he radiated a light that was undeniable the rest of his life--showing thousands of people that he would live victorious--even with his battle scar. He lived by his own quote, "I might not have sight, but I have insight."

Peter, my son last year in La Vacquerie, one of the two towns Grandpa is remembered for liberating. In the middle is Mitch Quiles, who made the video below, and Bernard Marie, who was 13 years old when the Allies came to Normandy. Mitch made this video to also show the efforts of several people (instigated by my brother-in-law, John Bennion) who have tried to find the body of a man who has been missing for 72 years now named Harry Brown. Their efforts show that there is no cost that is enough to bring back people or bodies from war.

Here is a video by Mitch Quiles that has been in one of the museums in Normandy. It shows my father-in--law being remembered at the cemeteries and village ceremonies. Each time I go to Normandy, there is a major take away: that war is senseless and horrendous, but there is a choice afterwards to make the past bring peace or endless misery. It is through remembering, and teaching each succeeding generation the horror of war.

Normandy, France has chosen to create the first week of June that is sobering, but yet celebratory, humbling, but yet healing. The French people have transformed a scar of history that has assuaged much pain and suffering: through remembering those who gave their lives, the ultimate cost. We must not only remember, but we must strive for peace at all costs--reflecting on the young men, many who had not reached the age of 20, whose dreams were cut short. And for the parents and loved ones, who unlike myself, gave up the aspirations of their son, husband, brother, or friend.

In one German cemetery, La Cambe, in Normandy, there is a poignant reminder to all who enter on a monument that reads: "Gott has das wort" (God has the last word). As I quietly walked around the cemeteries in France, these words were the resounding lesson: "Got has das wort" or "God has the last word." In those four simple words, the German monument begs reflection. There is no judgment or blame, but only reconciliation with the past and hope for the future. As the monument states, God only knows, and He has the last word for all--whether they were our allis or enemies in this life.