Mindful Art

Jackson Pollock at MOMA

Walking down the sidewalk as a child often tweaked my imagination. One time I saw a bullet holes all across the front a house. I ran home and told my parents that somebody had been shot (The tales of Bonnie and Clyde were rampant in my childhood.) To my dismay that was not the truth. The truth, as my mother pointed out to me when we stood in front of house, was that those places that looked like holes were nothing more than dirt and mud splashed on the house probably by some ornery boys.  How disappointing for me.  In my mind, I had created another picture. When I see a Jackson Pollock canvas I am reminded of those mud splats on the white framed house.

As I matured my eyes still saw things that others might have missed, and I began to think of these pieces as art. When I was a single parent my daughter and I put thousands of miles on our little green Toyota driving from Western Kansas to anywhere. We chased a rainbow one day for miles and miles, just to see where it ended. We drove by an old brick factory in SE Kansas. I pulled off the side of the road and drew the smokestacks, some still tall and stately while others stood broken with bricks askew in nearly every scene.  My plan was to create a macramé hanging of those geometric structures. 

Playfully, I turned the pictures of trees and various structures, upside down to create my macramé hangings and sold them in craft shows. Now, I'm grateful to use my cell phone to take photographs, but I still believe that my most vivid memories will be those that I keep in my mind.

Traveling offers so many unique opportunities to see and imagine art in various forms. While walking the streets of Santa Fe last winter, I discovered many painted doors, and my mind gleefully recalled a trip to Marblehead, Mass that once opened my mind to beauty of brightly painted front doors. Originally, or so the lore of the ocean tells me, when ships wrecked at sea the people living near  the shore would take what items washed onto the beaches, and put them to use in their homes. Whether the story is true or not it not important. What's important is that the people found a way to bring art into their homes, no matter their situation. 

Social Media offers a place for us to share our imaginative adventures.  Susan Dragoo takes professional photos of her hikes and travels, and shares them on Instagram. With her permission I'm posting one of her photos. Looking at the shapes, colors, and textures of her photograph all help to create a story in my imagination and stimulate the "I wonder?" and the "what if?"  Playing with these 

questions creates a colorful playground in my mind. It’s inspiring to me to see the photos and places that other people share.  Without ever leaving my home I’ve hiked with Sherpas, imagined ocean waves lapping at my feet, seen art in hidden places, walked the swampy bayous, visited ice castles, and hiked the hills of Oklahoma.

As I sit here watching leaves fall, listening to Pachelbel, I'm reminded to be quiet in my thoughts, and be Mindful of Art for it will enlighten the day. 

Where the Sidewalk Ends....

Early this morning, Lucy and I took off to walk to the other side of the Hidden Hill, and once again I caught myself, eyes glued to the sidewalks, wishing I could see the horizon; wishing there not endless hot steamy streets, sidewalks, and concrete curbs wherever my eyes searched.

I passed a favorite yard that always seems to have something in bloom. I stopped and collected my thoughts. 

Noticing the trees bending and swaying; birds fluttering and chirping; flowers blooming is one reason I walk, so why, I asked myself, am I so miserable and disgruntled with my concrete surroundings? 

The lanky daisies brushed my leg like a gentle fairy's touch, and my mood improved immediately. I smiled and decided to walk a new path to the other side of the hill where I could view the horizon.  The weight of wishes that bore me down lifted the faster I walked toward the horizon. 

When I came to the place where the sidewalk ended, I laughed. I stopped to give Lucy a drink of water. My eyes scanned the surroundings and I wondered how Shel Silverstein could possibly have written such delightful poems while surrounded by a concrete city (poem). The more I mused on the subject, the more I realized that it's not the concrete that binds me, but my own selfish wishes.  



Suddenly, I relished in relief...a new perspective opened my mind's eyes. 

The nearly hidden window on a home built on a busy
corner intrigued me. As if the home wished to be elsewhere in time and place, I felt myself drawn to whisperings of the ivy covered lot. I listened.



Lucy had no patience for the secrets of the home. With some effort she led me away down a hill, on a sidewalk where I could cast my eyes out across the horizon. 

Slowing my breath, and with the help of my imagination I could see past the homes, visualize the horse farms in the distance, and feel the freedom of space.  At last I understood: ignoring the rooftops, the streets, the pavement allowed me to relax.  

Thanks to Lucy and Shel Silverstein, I found the place "Where the Sidewalk Ends," and my
imagination begins.

Fun, Fear, Fascination

How is it, that fun, fear, and fascination are so closely linked? As a child growing up two movies left nightmarish imprints on my gut:  The Rains of Ranchipur and The Devil at 4 O'Clock. While watching The Rains of Ranchipur with my mother and little sister, I felt the grounds shake as the volcano erupted; witnessed the earth opening up and bodies of hundreds of innocent people falling to a cavernous death; screamed as rains washed away villages and ripped concrete bridges to shreds.

Boulders in Texas Canyon, AZ

Now I walk through boulders that once exploded from the earth's surface, but still fear the ground opening up and sucking me downwards.


Sometime after that mother tried to calm my imaginative mind by telling me that the reason she and my father left California after I was born was because an earthquake knocked me off the bed, and I banged my head on the floor! We'd be

safe back in Oklahoma or Kansas, she explained. I can only laugh now, as Oklahoma ranks as the state with the most earthquakes per year. To date I've only felt one of them.  

As for The Devil at 4 O'Clock, Spencer Tracy tried so hard to save lives that I cried for him, but still I shook at the thought of a volcano erupting and lava grabbing my ankle and burning me alive. "It is hard for a man to be brave when he knows he is going to meet the devil at four o'clock," is the proverb from which the title came.  When Mt. St. Helen's erupted I was transfixed to the television shots, but couldn't understand why those watching weren't afraid. Fearless or just curious, what led them to stand, to take pictures, to think that they could stand up to nature? 

Why do we stand outside and study the clouds for tornadoes? I think there is just a tinge of fear, but the fascination overrides our senses. 

Mojave Desert

Fascination with nature resides deep in my soul, along with the fun and adventure of traveling. My first touching recollection of rocks, deserts, mountains, and volcanic eruptions came on trips to Arizona and California in the 1950's. I kicked a dead tree at the Petrified Forest, not believing it was rock; we walked on the hot sands and rocks probably wondering too close to the

Petrified Wood

cactus; picnicked on Route 66 near Flagstaff and smelled the mountain pine trees as the cold winds drifted down the hillside. My dad assured me that we were safe from the now extinct volcanoes that created so many of the mountain ranges.  I didn't believe him. Still it never stopped me from walking near the edges, peering over the precipice, or touching the rocks, trees, and the prickly cactus. 

We drove our children through the National Parks of the western states, and felt with them the eagerness

Sequoia Trees Katy, Letty, Matt 1985

to explore, but then I began to observe nature from a different aspect, that of a teacher and parent.  Facts were fascinating, but stories and experience were longer lasting.

Now my husband and I take the time to explore the

White Sands National Park

lands, the formations, the uniqueness of each area we travel through.  Time and good health are giving us the opportunity to explore this diverse continent, for which I'm most thankful.

Ironically, what began as a story about the Sky Islands of Arizona, led me to read about their unique history and from there my mind began to unravel. The information took me around another corner of my mind. I remembered author Byrd Baylor, and her literally connections to the desert Southwest. But those will be other stories. My mind, instead, settled on a childhood fear that I faced and rather enjoyed getting to know.  

Now, I hope that when we take our Alaskan cruise that the Pacific tectonic plates won't buckle and cause an earthquake and tsunami that will roll our ship. Ah, another fear is shivering inside of me, I imagine having to hold my breath underwater as long as Shirley Winters did in The Poseidon Adventure.

**On another note I'm writing a series of stories on the Imagination for Oklahoma Women Bloggers  in the month of April.  I hope you will click on the link and go read one of those stories. 

A Story Within a Story

A story a story, let it come, let to go...so begins my storytelling shows at schools and with adult groups.  A few weeks ago I had the privilege of sharing my stories with students at Lincoln and Faris Elementary in Hutchinson, KS.  It had been nearly two years since I'd "been on stage" telling stories and I was honestly quite nervous.  Since I'm no longer teaching full time I discovered the pleasure of practicing my stories without the pressure of still teaching.  My mind was clear to visualize the stories, to practice voice, to pretend, to pace, to play with dialogue, and of course, to pull out my frisky puppets and listen for their input.  

Once I began the journey back to storytelling my heart and soul were fluttering with excitement.  Over the last four decades I've learned and forgotten many many folktales, short stories, poems, and humorous dialogue with my puppets.  Now I could truly concentrate on a few stories that would be ideal for children in grades K-2, 3-4, and 5-6.  Somewhere in the timeline after my parents died in 1989 my stories began to develop a more personal approach, my mind would simply, on its on, float back to a childhood memory and a story just flowed  from my inner self.  I smiled and learned to let the stories come as they chose.  

Once upon a time...

Now my stories may include folktales from the Americas to Africa, from Japan around the globe to Russia, or from my own imagination and experience.  We once lived in a home on A st.S.E. in Miami, Oklahoma that had been in a giant flood.  Oh, in my child's mind I could see the flood line and imagine what creatures still lurked in the walls.  My imagination was fueled by "a raw and bloody bones" painting in my attic closest, by the hobos who jumped from the nearby train tracks and begged at our kitchen door for food, and by a lady next door, who had died by hanging herself over the basement!  For one little second grader this was a gold mine of future stories.  Before long we moved to H st. N.E. and new elements entered my life--a bully, and a neighborhood that encompassed blocks upon blocks of kids all nearly the same age, all playing outside in the evenings on those hot muggy summer nights.  We kicked that can, chased that ghost, and forced ourselves through strangle holds in Red Rover Red Rover.   I still have the scars on my knees and arms from falling hard on the asphalt streets, concrete, and gravel driveways!  Tar creek and spring floods also lurked in our lives along with the darkness of tornadoes.  The next thing I knew I was a grown up with a husband named Jack (right out of folktale, I tell you), children, travels, pets, and new memories.  Now they are all a part of everything I do in life.

Future writer and storyteller Jose Saul Torres.

It was some of those stories I shared with the children that day at Lincoln school.  As I peered out to the audience of 5th and 6th graders I took sheer delight in their facial responses to my stories that caused them to jump, scream, laugh, and groan.  Their attention was gift enough for me, but a few days later, I received a truly greater gift.  I was visiting Lincoln to sub for a friend, when another teacher explained that one of his students had something for me.  A sixth grader named, Jose Saul Torres j.r., presented me with a story that he had written.  He said it was gift and thank you for my storytelling.  I was speechless and humbled that a young boy thought enough of the art of storytelling to share his personal story with me.    His story begins, "This is me Jack and my dog named Major...we played tag, soccer, football, anything together...until Major got lost...days later a muddy scratched up dog found his way home...I gave him a nice bath.  He didn't like it because he was bleeding.  After a couple of days he'll be up in no time."  I must go back to Lincoln and have Jose Saul Torres autograph his story and take a picture of us.  I may have met a future Jack London, and all because of stories.  

A story a story, let it come, let it go, take some with you, bring some back.