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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66396765233790573642016-06-29T11:08:28.244-07:00Linda_HensleyLinda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-41074480197354152782016-06-26T08:16:00.000-07:002016-06-26T08:16:48.764-07:00"Vintage"

I bet nobody outside Ohio knows that there are quite a few wineries in Ohio. For many of us in the state, we pucker at the memory of drinking native vintage, but our wine has gotten remarkably better and even wins some big awards. Some people enjoy winery tours around here, and you know, the more wine you sample, the less picky you get about it anyway.

We have the right climate for it -- to which I can personally attest since I was trying to tug grape vines out of my yard this week. I landed on my butt and gave up. I also gave up the battle with thorny raspberry vines. I've achieved the usual mid-summer defeat in the battle between landscaping and nature.

I lack motivation to do much this week. Sometimes I look at all the stuff everyone else is doing and feel like I've got to do more too. Mostly I think that I need a real vacation and excitement, but that would all take motivation which I've already said I lack right now. I want to curl up with a book and ignore the world.

I know a lot of this has to do with some major reorganizing they're doing at work right now. I'm in limbo, waiting for a new person to start in a couple of weeks. Everything may work out great, but the limbo of waiting to find out if it will be is wearing on me and sapping my energy.

I think we all go through phases like this? Sometimes I think it would be better for everybody if we talked more about the times when we aren't winning awards and going full-tilt because the down times are the fertilizer for the later successes. Or maybe I should say that these kinds of times are part of my life, and necessary to build up energy and ideas for later efforts.

Maybe I used up all my emotional energy earlier this week when the Cavaliers won the NBA championship? GO CAVS!!! Bzillions of people turned out for celebrations. I went out for margaritas with some older ladies and we watched the parade on tv. These grandmothers wanted our team to put on their shirts, quit getting tattoos, and "get a haircut!" LeBron James is everyone's son, neighbor, friend this week since he's a local boy who's done good.

Maybe I should put in the disclaimer that I usually don't watch sports and mostly don't care, but the energy of everyone was electric this week. I even watched the second half of the last basketball game. GO TEAM!!!

But the joys of early week have faded and I'm lazy today. I have some good wine that was made by an Italian with California grapes, but the wine was made in Ohio. I wonder if that still counts as local vintage? I'm thinking of putting my feet up and drinking some of it on this lazy summer day. Cheers!
Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-51465497264318677732016-06-18T04:40:00.000-07:002016-06-18T04:40:11.765-07:00"Yarn"

I poked around in Grandma's stuff once and found a bunch of bobbins. In the classic "what, why, how, show me!" way of children, I pestered her until she showed me how it all worked -- reluctantly, miserably, and demonstrating the definition of antipathy, she made some lace at my bequest on the special lap pillow with a project started and long discarded in the closet. Grandma moved the bobbins around and pinned threads back while twisting and knotting things until my outspoken sister stated the obvious, "This is SO boring!"

We gave it up and made a pie instead which made everyone happy.

Tatting shuttle & lace

I inherited Grandma's dislike for such hobbies and love of pie. Both of us preferred to crochet if we got out yarn. Yet, I have her tatting shuttles and my heart feels warm that she humored me that day. (Lace making by tatting is a bit more like crocheting.)

Not Grandma's hands, but this shows how lace is made

Lace was a way of showing status a long time ago. Anybody who had the leisure time to make it wasn't worried about how to pay the rent. Anyone who could buy it had extra money to spend. Lace collars were popular, lace on pillowcases, lace on the arms of chairs... they put lace on everything. And sadly, a lot of it ended up at the garage sale for a quarter, or "go ahead and fill a bag for a dollar!"

Tatted doily on my table

I've gotten a lot of doilies and lace from old ladies at garage sales. I have exactly one on display on a table under a glass. The others are boxed up and waiting for someone to love them in a different generation. Having seen Grandma demonstrate the hideously tedious process, I feel for the women who made these things. I'm supposing that some of these ladies might've enjoyed it, the same way some crazy women like to knit, but I just appreciate the amount of labor they put into making the beautiful lace designs.

The lynx on scratchboard took a year of my life to create. About 2/3 of the way through, I started really resenting it. I didn't feel like I could start a new project until I finished it, and the amount of work to finish it seemed insurmountable. I finally said "screw it!" and just completed it, but I wasn't so perfect anymore. I had it done within a week or two, and I don't think anyone can tell which parts I did fast and which I bled over. In fact, I think the less labored parts are better. That's a lesson I've carried with me.

The lynx hangs in my house. I described to a friend the pain of creating it, and he called it "wampum", which is highly valued beadwork Native Americans made from shell. The true value of it was in the labor it took to create. Indians had to find the shells, sand them into beads, drill holes (without metal drills, and having to make the drills they used), and then they stitched them together for the final product. It took many hands many hours.

Ever after that conversation with my friend, I see the wampum in certain things. Hand-made lace is one of those things. Painstaking art is another. I think the world would be better if more value was placed on the wampum ideal. In the meantime, I'll keep rescuing lace.
Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-56175951709010985292016-06-11T09:25:00.002-07:002016-06-11T09:25:53.315-07:00"Tornado"

I have a tornado story, but I don't really feel like talking about it. Is it relevant? The tornado that I spend quite a bit of time thinking about is the upcoming Republican convention which will be hosted in Cleveland next month.

Clevelanders are both hopeful for Republican convention chaos and fearful things will happen to embarrasses our reputation. We're still suffering from the Cuyahoga River catching fire in the 1970s when we became the butt of jokes for decades. Our dream come true would be for the Republicans to be the only idiots in play against the backdrop of our historic city, bucolic suburbs, thriving businesses, and beautiful parks.

Cleveland will vote Democrat in November. Greater Cleveland which is the surrounding suburban counties, will be hotly contested. That's why the Republicans are coming. There are people I know and love who enthusiastically support Trump. (?!) Can I remind them that Cleveland was called "The Mistake by the Lake" because unbridled greed killed our ecosystem? Cleveland is the reason the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) exists.

We have racial demonstrations and conflicts without conventions. Something unpleasant will probably happen in July despite the regular reassurances on the nightly news that the police have everything in hand. I don't think I'm the only one who's cringing at the coming storm.

I don't know anyone who will be in Cleveland during the convention. I'm almost certain no one I know will be interviewed for "man/woman on the street" interviews and that whatever tv shows you about my home will be skewed in significant ways. All I'm asking is that you blame the tornado on the visitors instead of the natives.

As for the real weather tornado, I was happily playing on my grandparents' living room floor when Grandpa came in and hurried my sisters and I to the basement while Grandma threw windows open in a rush so the glass wouldn't break in the tornado.<o:p></o:p>

We waited and waited in the basement… and then we started hearing a strange noise.  It got louder.  It really did sound like a train was going to run over Grandma's house. There was a wild few moments when things that didn't normally flutter fluttered around, and then the train moved off and the sun came back and we went back upstairs.<o:p></o:p>

The next day, Grandpa walked us around the neighborhood.  There were mangled trees and houses, and a street sign had flown sideways several inches into a large tree's trunk.  I started to understand Dorothy getting blown to Oz.<o:p></o:p>

I used to watch water spouts on Lake Erie, but water-bound tornados don't really do anything other than suck up fish.  The first one I saw got me all rattled and perturbed though.  I was driving along the lake with my little brothers and the water spout was enormous and close to land. I ran into the building with the boys and told the security guard about it. He just laughed at me.  No big deal to old-timers.<o:p></o:p>

Maybe the convention will just be a water spout?Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-8957988535335856212016-06-05T07:49:00.000-07:002016-06-05T13:36:11.203-07:00"Nose"

I buried my face in a magenta peony, inhaled, and exhaled disappointment. It had less scent than paper. I almost didn't bother with the white peonies, but I paused to dip my nose to a flower and sniffed. Heaven! I buried my whole face in the blossom, silky petals caressing my face. Time stopped as long as I was with the peonies. They take me back to childhood with one whiff and the sound of a bumblebee.

Sometimes I think it's impossible to explain why the Glen where I grew up was a different kind of place. There was a luxury of living by extremely wealthy people while Mom yelled about not having enough money to give Kool-Aid to the neighbors. I've written about being lonely in the woods, but maybe not much about walking alongside a billionaire's golf cart as we inspected his peonies?

Since I didn't have kids to play with, I hung out with old people. I drank tea and ate cookies with widows. I decided early on that extreme wealth is a lonely business and I didn't want that much money, or I'd never tell anyone if I got it. (The older I get, the more I'm leaning toward the latter.)

The old people got me as I came, which was generally a bit muddy. Yet, they let me sit on their Louis the something chairs and draped dainty lace napkins on my lap. I never ate more than 2 cookies because I learned that more than 2 was gauche. Pretending to be wealthy-compatible demanded a lot of restraint.

I'd go home, catch dinner, clean fish, weed the garden, wash dishes, etc., etc., etc. and feel somewhat glad that I grew up more regular than the widows who probably never wiggled their toes in river mud. The old man with the golf cart talked about "his" peonies, and how he had planned his garden, but admitted that he'd never planted anything himself. He had a "man" who took care of the dirty work. That man rolled his eyes behind the millionaire's back.

This week I read Cleveland in the Gilded Age. I learned the Rockefellers had a summer estate at the end of my current street. From the mid 1800s through the mid 1900s, Cleveland had more millionaires than anywhere else. It shows in beautiful old buildings, a world-renowned orchestra, art museum, Cleveland Clinic, and thousands of other ways. Where I grew up was right by their summer estates.

I feel fortunate to enjoy the beauty the millionaires created -- and often feel more fortunate than them for being able to actually live in the world with regular people where people either like me or not based on who I am instead of what they might get out of me. A billionaire once sniffed about his best friend who always had his hand out. "But he's a millionaire!" I said. "Yeah, but not very many millions, and he always expects me to pay" he answered. This same billionaire was proud of his pre-nup that basically bought his young wife's commitment for his lifetime. That's a lonely life.

I smelled the peonies and felt happy. I read the book, and felt glad to be me instead of them. I think about current events and wonder about our m/billionaire politicians and can only hope for the best while remembering that those kinds of people can't even respect their friends so how can they respect the rest of us?
Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-17440459502825872162016-05-29T07:44:00.000-07:002016-05-29T07:44:21.709-07:00"Tribal"

I think I'll claim artists as my tribe. Good and bad, sane or not, whatever the medium, we're kin. We might be kissing cousins to some other types, but artists are my people. We may enjoy kissing even more types than that for that matter, but you know, we can be friendly people :) Or completely antisocial too. We are what we are, and the world should be glad that we're in it because I think we make things more interesting.

Except I don't feel all that interesting lately. I've been intent on cleaning, painting, rearranging my home. This is clearly important to me, but I doubt it's very interesting to anyone else. Let's just all rejoice that my computer is finally back in the computer room!

I'm feeling very pleased with the results. The room is lighter and simpler than it used to be. Things match, I've got a better chair, life is good. Now all I have to do is quit staring out the window and watching my new neighbor landscape her yard and clean up all the messes I made in the other rooms.

The living room is messed up because I've been matting, framing, and spreading out paintings to consider what I feel like hanging up. In the midst of all this clutter is a painting I started before tackling the computer room. It's big and red, so it draws my attention, but I think it would catch my attention anyway. I certainly think about it a lot when I collapse on the couch after all my nesting.

Behind the red painting you can see part of the green friends painting I made last year. On it, I journaled all of the friends I've had in my life and grateful things I think about them. It was a heart-opening experience for me to paint and I wanted to re-explore that idea, but to tackle the difficult people in my life. This is far less pleasant, and maybe there's a bit of avoidance in my decision to redo the computer room?

The goal is to wade through the unpleasantness and get to the happy part where I can look at the villains in my life with gratitude too. After all, they created "opportunities to grow" by making my life challenging. I'm not there yet. I want to erase them.

I find myself wanting to edit what I write because somebody will see this painting, perhaps someone I'm writing about? I don't want to deal with the backlash of a moment like that. It's not like when my friend Leanne came over and was pleased to see her name on my friends painting. But, I think facing that dread is something I need to do, and beyond that, helps me keep the door closed to people who hurt me.

I wonder if I really want to hang a painting of negativity, but the negativity happened. I carry it around with me all the time. I'm trying to offload it onto canvas instead. I'd like to see the finished painting as growth and success, which would be something I'd want to see on the wall, and would reinforce things I've learned.

Most of what you see here is the underpainting. I've got plans for what goes on top of this. If all goes well, I'll show you how it turns out. I'm hoping for beautiful.
Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-13225730296370658922016-05-21T06:32:00.001-07:002016-05-21T06:33:27.682-07:00"Wheels"

Last week I wrote, "I finished painting my computer room this weekend. It was a lot of work for such a small room, and my stuff is still scattered around the rest of the house. I'm tired and sore." This is all still true, except I'm still painting that room. <o:p></o:p>

I had painted three walls light gray and the fourth lavender. It looked pretty good, but I just couldn't bring myself to love the lavender wall. I bought fabric to make curtains, but couldn't love the idea of curtains either. I kept handling the fabric and decided I wanted pull down shades instead, but I don't know how to get my fabric to be a pull down shade (and washable). I noticed that lavender wall again and decided what I really wanted was to paint the pattern on the wall.<o:p></o:p>

Still painting leaves.
Planning to cover the whole wall.

Sometimes my ideas are a bother. I hate painting walls -- though for those of you who like doing it, there's always someone who wants a mural and will pay for it. I became a "professional" artist in high school painting walls and window signs.<o:p></o:p>

My dislike of wall painting hasn't stopped me. I'm using the gray paint to paint the leaf pattern on the lavender and loving the results. Hopefully at some point I'll stop fussing around in that room and actually put the computer back in the computer room.<o:p></o:p>

The jeep is another piece I did for the Mensa magazine. I only intended to do one illustration for them, but the art editor kept getting me to do "just one more". I was enjoying myself so I let her talk me into it. The article was about action in Vietnam and I conferred with a vet pal because the art editor made a point of saying I had to get the right model year.<o:p></o:p>

My pal and I talked on the phone and Googled photos together. Reference is so much easier now than when I started out In the olden days I might've had to go to the library, use the card catalog and everything. (Which I know only makes sense to people over 50.) <o:p></o:p>

I had to make a "morgue" for one of my teachers when I was in school, photos I painstakingly cut out of magazines and filed for future reference. It's in the pile of stuff that I'm debating about whether or not to return to my computer room. I also have folders of ideas and inspiration, folders of artists I like, "how to" instructions, etc., etc., etc. I almost never use any of this stuff and probably don't need it. The idea of throwing it away feels like ripping my security blanket away though. What if I need to make an origami alligator sometime?!<o:p></o:p>

The more I think about this, the more I'm thinking that it's time to let some of this go -- or revive it. Sometimes we come across a great picture online. Sure, we could come back to it -- if we remember where we saw it in the first place. We may not need that picture now, but some day we may want a face that's lit in just that way or a spotted toad or whatever.<o:p></o:p>

Let me say that "reference" is a tool to help us, but isn't something we should copy faithfully. We should do something new with the inspiration because the original already exists. I don't remember the exact copyright law, but it's something like changing 60% or more from the original. Copying can be a good tool when we're starting out and learning, but the result isn't something you can sell.<o:p></o:p>

I also keep things I call "art starts". These are painted backgrounds, textures, objects, whatever that I can use again. I still use these a lot. Why should I paint a graduated blue watercolor background again when I've already painted that once and can PhotoShop it into a new piece? I have lots of patterns that I can drop in when I need them and a deadline looms.<o:p></o:p>

These are things I learned from old guys when I started out. I miss being in a studio with them teaching me things and laughing. I wish newer artists got the benefit of their wisdom. I'm grateful I got to live the experience.<o:p></o:p>
Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-75701023897373830372016-05-15T06:15:00.001-07:002016-05-15T06:15:41.583-07:00"Nostalgia"

I finished painting my computer room this weekend. It was a lot of work for such a small room, and my stuff is still scattered around the rest of the house. I'm tired and sore.

This project has me both nostalgic and completely not. Cobwebs behind the bookcase had to go, and I've felt the same way about a lot of other things that I had stored in that room, like bitchy correspondence I had with certain people that I kept "in case", but those times are long gone and never to return. At some point I kept these things to remind myself never again. Now it just seems like reminders of crappy people to whom I don't want to give another second of my life.

My goal is to only return things to the room that have actual value to me. Maybe this room is even more important because it's the spirituality sector of my house according to feng shui. I know this because I used to do freelance for a feng shui instructor/counselor. I don't need that file either. The pile of recyclables keeps stacking up.

I went through a stack of old phone bills last night. Almost all of my long-distance calls involved my love life, and that makes me nostalgic and not too. There have been some kisses worth remembering, but the relationships went sour. Cleaning this room has made my thoughts swing back and forth, and I remind myself that the purpose of the room is work stuff, not kisses -- but art is love, so it all goes together.

The phone bills went into the discard pile too, but I wrote down the numbers and gave myself a time line. I was a little torn about the sign manual I created for Lake Metroparks. I was pretty pleased to come up with all these standards and procedures, but I know I'm never going to actually need this document. My hoarding/purging qualities are at war. Keeping the sign manual.

Ultimately, maybe all of this is telling me what I value most? I'll spend quite a bit of money for long distance phone calls and eventual kisses. I'm unwilling to let go of good work I did, and the things I learned while doing it. I enjoyed working at the parks. Loved the people I worked with. That's the nostalgia worth keeping.

This illustration is another I did for Mensa. I'll admit I gave more of myself to the colored illustrations I did for them, but I suppose this goes into the keeping pile too.
Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-78349936465578346382016-05-08T07:37:00.001-07:002016-05-08T07:37:47.235-07:00"Tattoo"

I suppose we should all be happy that so many people have tattoos. They're supporting art. Unfortunately a lot of it's bad art and can interfere with getting an x-ray, but the trend lets more people suffer for their art and since I sometimes suffer making art, I like feeling understood. If you've got a tattoo and you're happy, then I'm happy for you.

Onto other things. I'm going to paint my computer room, the room where I store the bulk of my art supplies, reams of paper, rocks, etc., etc. I've spent my weekend moving most of it into other rooms for the duration. Moving some of this stuff brought up emotions, memories, dust, and dog hair. I swear I'll move out of the house before painting this room again! Today, I'm moving onto spackling water damage from a previously faulty gutter. I watched a nice Australian man's video about how to do it. I wish he were here to do it for me.

What I really want to do is show another piece that got printed in Mensa's 50th anniversary magazine. The article is about word play, including "peppering Saracens". I showed the magazine to the ladies who work in my department. I got my atta girls and considered my bragging done. Another woman came in so I showed her too. She was excited and asked to show it around the building. I let her do my bragging for me.

Maybe you get lots of positive reinforcement. Betty showing off my work made me face that I've gotten a lot of negatives. Art can be a competitive, brutal business. You often get lots of criticism and revisions, and "good job!" is seldom in the vocabulary.

I spend my days with data at work. The ladies in my dept know I've worked as an illustrator, but the other people didn't. I liked it that way, maybe because I've spent so much of my life identifying myself first and foremost as an artist. It was/is so much of how I think of myself, it's nice to be known for other traits -- or maybe I just didn't want to deal with more criticism and suggestions?

I went home that day feeling mighty pleased with myself. People stopped me in the hall to say they were impressed. I've been waiting a long time to be able to show this magazine and it felt good to be praised for it. I felt a flicker of life and hope inside. They especially liked the parts that I spent stupid amounts of time doing. (They loved my forks!) Joy, joy, joy and I started to remember I really like getting this kind of feedback. It motivated me to go into art for a living.

I've often been told to be demure. Don't be so full of yourself. Fact is, I think most of us beat ourselves up instead of bragging, and abuse isn't a good motivator. If you want to get anywhere, sometimes you have to sing your own praises. People who have my best interests at heart will sing them with me and share in the happiness I feel in my accomplishments.

Lots of people want to break into the art field. Go for it. I wish you happiness and success. Don't let my artistic PTSD stop you. I'm enjoying having a paycheck doing other things and exploring art as a pleasure again. I'm happy for doing art I wanted to do for this magazine and pleased to cash the check!Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-64383610785344989422016-04-29T14:08:00.000-07:002016-04-29T14:08:55.034-07:00"Smoke"

I have a small bundle of sage that was given to me by an Indian shaman.  Sometimes I burn it and inhale the fragrant smoke. Mostly I leave it in the china cupboard to remind me of meeting him. I first posted this art in 2010. You can read about my first experience with a sweat lodge here. It's not the only time I've had shamanic experiences either. You can read about my childhood experience rescuing a deer here.

Everybody and their sister told me not to go to California.  I had struck up a conversation with the shaman online and found out he'd been in prison and liked musicals.  Okay, I knew more than that.  We talked a lot one year.  I came to care for him quite a bit and I valued the spiritual insights I gained from his different upbringing and experiences.<o:p></o:p>

He didn't invite me to California.  I informed him I was coming.  Maybe this is something other people do, but I don't.  I'm usually far more sensible and polite.  I combined the trip by meeting a close friend.<o:p></o:p>

My girlfriend and her bf drove me about 1 ½ hrs in insane traffic to meet the shaman. First impressions weren't good, which just goes to show people deceive each other online.  My friend clearly didn't want to leave me in his care and asked repeatedly if I was sure about it.  Yes, I was.  I can't even tell you why either.  All common sense told me I'd cart my friend out of there if the shoe was on the other foot.<o:p></o:p>

He took me to an affordable, clean hotel and left.  This was within walking distance to the ocean, and every day I walked miles along the water.  Every morning he called to find out where I was and picked me up.  We spent the days and evenings together, but not the nights – though one day he slept at the hotel while I babysat his nephew.  He was a gentleman throughout.<o:p></o:p>

I tagged after him as he did his usual things, most of which involved trying to scrounge up money and jobs.  I met friends and relatives.  I shared ceremonial smoke and meals. We threw food to seagulls and took long, scenic drives, and talked, talked, talked.<o:p></o:p>

I can't explain the ether of the whole experience.  I felt compelled to go.  I think I helped him?  He was worn from too many ministerial demands without compensation.  I reminded him his flock should feed him and make his life easier.  A dead shaman can't help anyone.  He couldn't keep a regular job and stay constantly available for his people.<o:p></o:p>

Every bit of common sense told me not to talk with him in the first place, and I'm not encouraging anyone to take risks as I did – but, it was a profound experience for me.  He is kind and self-sacrificing, sincere in his spirituality, and loved by those who know him.  We shared so much I can't touch it here.   I'm lucky for the experience and the things he taught me.<o:p></o:p>

In my day job I remind people that if you want clergy, please support them.  I'm not sure what my employers would think of my shamanic experiences, so maybe it's stupid to post this online, but I think the absolute rightness I felt about going to California meant it wasright. In the end, I guess what I'd suggest to everyone is to listen to that voice inside. It's wiser than we are.Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-83913450788553063932016-04-23T07:04:00.001-07:002016-04-23T07:07:24.541-07:00"Prince"

I watched a Prince retrospective on tv and dreamt his songs all night. I didn't even know I knew that many Prince songs. I never paid that much attention to him, or at least that's what I thought when I heard he died this week. I sent a condolence email to a friend of mine who looooved him and thought that's that, but the retrospective reminded me Prince was a changing factor in the world.

I'd forgotten about how he wrote "slave" on his cheek when he was mad at his record company. He took control of his music, dressed like he wanted, wrote what he wanted, didn't talk to the media very much, and overall, I respected him. He was role model to my friend, and I'm realizing he played that for me too in subtler ways. His was a life well lived. RIP and thank you.

I know, lots of people think they can't succeed for one reason or another. Prince was an abused 5' 2" epileptic, effeminate black man. That would be enough to stop most people from trying. There are lots of incredibly talented people who never make it. I suspect the biggest reason is because they don't believe they can so they never really try.

Many times I've been told to have "realistic" expectations. Dream lower. Don't be so full of myself to think I have what it takes to compete. The people who've told me these things didn't want me to succeed. People can be like a nest of hungry birds. If a sibling gets a coughed up worm, that's one more worm the others didn't get. They try to keep you weak so you can't lift your head. Fighting in the nest takes so much work you can't fight for yourself in the greater world.

I don't want to get on stage like Prince. I just want the best successes for the talents I have. I finally received the Mensa 50th Anniversary Bulletin magazine for which I did 5 illustrations. I love it when I see my work in print! This full-page piece is for an article a father wrote about his elevator-loving, autistic son. It was the first piece I've done like this in a long time, and I pushed myself and fought my inner critic to do it. (Pat, pat myself on the head.) Alright, I'm still fighting my inner critic because Isee things I'd like to fix, but enough. I did it! I feel a bit like the happy boy in the illustration.

The first step in doing it was deciding to try. I wrote the art editor, attached samples, and expressed desire. I got a response and had to maintain that desire. It didn't help that I hated the first article she sent me. When I rejected it, I felt like I'd shot myself in the foot, but she came back with this article and I was happy again. I then went about the illustration in all the wrong ways and had to keep myself motivated to succeed.

My fights were entirely within myself. The art editor gave me more articles. Each got easier to accomplish as I went along. I rejected a cover article because it just wasn't me, and that felt good too.

Prince set an example. The autistic boy is another. There are regurgitated worms for all of us if we dream, follow through, learn, and succeed.Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-52478319619221561342016-04-16T16:59:00.000-07:002016-04-16T16:59:15.211-07:00"Wood"

Last week I told you about fixing a door in my house. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. I don't think anyone will notice that it was ever mutilated by Dalmatian toes. It took a lot of effort to prime and paint the door. I leaned back and admired my efforts... and noticed that the ceiling looked awfully dingy next to my stark white door.

I hemmed and hawed most of the week about not wanting to get into more projects because I have a new canvas I really want to paint... but that dingy ceiling interfered with my happiness. Plus, this is the room where I painted the floor last summer and I might have been a bit too enthusiastic and splashed colors on the walls. I'd just repaint the walls, but if I were to do that, I'd have to do the ceiling first...

My house is a currently a mess again. I had it clean for about a day, but now stuff is spread all over again. My goal is to get it all finished this weekend and have a normal house again by Monday, but the weather is finally wonderful and the grass needs cut, there's a concert in Cleveland...

And yet, the woodwork in my nearly 100 yr. old house has been dinged through the years, and fixing the woodwork feels connected to my internal being. It feels essential.

I've done a lot a lot a lot of thinking in the last year. That was my intention when I decided to paint the floor. I wanted a long, involved project that would encourage thoughts and meditation. I've done a lot of reading, studying, and reviewing my life and relationships. I came to understand that I put up with too much from some people and situations, and putting up with dinged woodwork has become symbolic. It's time my outer environment matches my enhanced inner world.

Very little of the damage to the woodwork was my fault. People moved in and out, and none were careful enough in the process. They didn't care about my house or feelings. When I see a chunk gouged out of a door frame I think "You selfish bastard! You didn't deserve my love, care, shelter _____ (fill in the blank). Or, "I deserve better!"

I could continue ignoring these things like I have for a long time, but every so often I'll notice damage and feel something between irritation, depression, and anger. It's a constant reminder of negatives. When the woodwork is repaired to the best of my ability it will be a reminder that I control my life, and the next phase will be better. I've learned things to make that happen.

I often write messages that we control our lives and can improve our lives. It takes effort. The effort is worth it.

My dad took a humanities class at a community college when I was a kid. He carved this sculpture for an assignment to represent his "inner self". I wish I'd asked what he was thinking when he did it. He smiled with satisfaction and an inner conversation when he looked at it. Maybe that is the ultimate goal for everything in our lives?

I thought you'd rather look at his artistry this week instead of wood mouldings and flat green walls :)
Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-27511086811271488242016-04-09T16:31:00.000-07:002016-04-09T16:31:28.520-07:00"Tool"

I tagged after Dad when he fixed things. I was great at handing over tools. Crescent wrench, Philips screwdriver... I precisely handed them over like a surgical nurse in a MASH unit... until muttering and swearing started. Then it suddenly seemed like a great idea to go to the river instead. Dad could do carpentry, but the car brought out the "Jee-ee-SUS Christ!!" That was the sign to flee.

I was a teenager when Dad died, and I became aware that he hadn't taught any of my siblings how to fix anything -- and yet stuff still needed fixed. I also came to realize that I didn't really know how to fix a lot of things. I knew my tools and had an idea of what they did, but my fixing lessons had often ended at the swearing, and I didn't see how things were completed.

Part of the Dad lessons had involved sitting in the shade with iced tea and contemplating our next project. He encouraged me to think innovatively and considered my ideas, so I understood the theory of fixing stuff, if not the real experience. When he was gone, I had to try on my own. I quickly came to understand that swearing is an actual part of the process. I got creative with that too, but left out the blasphemy.

I started feeling pretty good about myself for my home repair skills. I may not have known what I was doing, but found ways to make the plumbing work and repair things Bro1 broke. Just because I know how to replace a broken window doesn't mean I will.

When I bought an old house after college, Bros3&4 were old enough to get into trouble or help with projects when they came over for the weekends. I reinstituted shady iced tea contemplations, and me and 2 little boys managed electricity, construction, wallpaper, and moved large objects. I didn't actually need to do all this, but it was a good way for us to spend time together. We went to the hardware store and talked to old guys who knew how to do things the right ways. These are happy memories for all of us.

This week, I really looked at a door my Dalmatians scratched up about 20 or so yrs ago. It's a nice door, with lots of panes of windows and decorative mullions between. Looking at the deep scratches was depressing, and I was tempted to ignore it like I have for so long, but this time I decided to try fixing it with wood putty.

I did a pretty decent job of it. I spent the entire day today painting it -- even though Ohio weather has gone back to winter and the whole project was lousy to do on a day when the daffodils shiver. Not to mention I'm noticing all the other woodwork that could use wood putty and new paint. I wish Bros3&4 were coming over for their weekend project.

Not knowing how to do something isn't a good reason not to try. Nobody is born knowing how to fix anything, create something. Encouraging children to think instead of merely existing and obeying is a gift that stays with them throughout their lives. Thanks Dad!

I'm pooped from painting the door, so office tools are good enough for today.
Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-81598017824476412932016-04-02T06:50:00.001-07:002016-04-02T06:50:33.937-07:00"Sparkle"

I had a pajama party with a friend from high school. When I mentioned the word for the week is "Sparkle" she brought out sparkly markers and mandala coloring books. Coloring and talking was a pleasant way to spend the evening together.

She enjoys her coloring books, and I hear this has gotten pretty popular. It's a way for non-artists to get the right side of their brains into the same zen happiness that artists get into when they're working.

I started to write this when my guest is still sleeping on my couch, but she woke up and now we'll get breakfast, go antique shopping, or maybe get spring water, or whatever it is she'd like to do for the day. Maybe we'll go to the river and watch the sun sparkle on the water. It wasn't too hard for me to abandon my plans to clean house and do yard work this weekend when I heard she was in town for a funeral.

I hope everyone has a sparkling, fun weekend!Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-52337108046446160942016-03-26T08:08:00.000-07:002016-03-26T08:08:07.603-07:00"Wisdom"

I keep the Serenity Prayer on my office bulletin board. It keeps me from strangling certain people and helps me stay centered (or advises me to get centered). It reminds me wisdom is a goal, not something I've already achieved.

I was walking on a beach by the ocean once and suddenly everything made sense in a whole new way. I was overwhelmed by the understanding and by the beauty around me. Even the squawking of seagulls seemed to affirm my new truth. The receding tide pulled the old reality away. I was totally in awe and full of joy in that moment.

Having had that experience once, I wanted it again. I tried to make more epiphanies happen, but epiphanies are unhelpful that way. You've just got to make your new reality solid by working through all the pieces of your life that need remodeled -- which can be quite a drag to tell the truth, but the end result is a better life than the old one.

Last week I talked about narcissism. I've continued to think about it, and kismet intervened by a friend's facebook post about gaslighting. I know the word because my house was repeatedly broken into and things taken or moved, but nothing so serious to be anything other than crazy making. I changed locks repeatedly and filed police reports but it was a long time before it stopped.

The article about gaslighting talked about (guess what?) narcissism. Ahhh... the universe is telling me something. I spent days reading things online, and then switched to youtube. There's more narcissists than I imagined, and I'm realizing I've had a LOT of them in my life. I started my research with one person in mind, then two, several, and OMG him too? Epiphany! Actually, it was a series of epiphanies without the benefit of ocean and seagulls.

I recommend you look things up online too, but I don't want to make this post a narcissistic tutorial when there's so much better info already online. I put some key points about them below. Where I'm going with this is "wisdom". Gaining more information leads me to see certain people in a new light, most especially myself because I am still living in response to others' behaviors. New knowledge is giving me a new way to look at things that I couldn't see before because I didn't know what questions to ask.

Studying narcissism makes me look at the Serenity Prayer again. "Accept things I cannot change." Narcissists won't change. The professional advice is don't try and run like hell. "Courage to change the things I can" -- which is my own point of view and with whom I choose to have in my life. "Wisdom to know the difference."

I don't want to sound ungrateful for guidance and kismet, but next time I get an epiphany, I want seagulls and ocean, or maybe a forest. It would be nice to have an empathetic someone with me too.

Narcissists...

Don't care about your feelings. Really. They act interested to manipulate your feelings more effectively. They use your words to twist your reality and to make you question yourself. They cripple you in every way to make themselves feel more powerful. They won't change and won't get help. Any sign of change is manipulation.

Dealing with Narcissists...

Flee. You don't have to be nice to them, you can even be rude, because they don't have regular feelings. This doesn't hurt them because they honestly don't care about you. If you can't leave because it's your boss or someone like that, make it all about them. "I need a day off so I can work more effectively for you." (Something I actually said to my last boss.) End the conversation quickly to limit abuse.

Group Dynamics
Narcissists will manipulate others into criticizing and ostracizing you, even if the others aren't narcissists. The things narcissists do seem unbelievable to others outside the group, so you won't be believed when you talk about it. It's best to have no contact with the narcissist and also the rings of people involved in the abuse.Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-12133781359130609372016-03-19T05:59:00.000-07:002016-03-19T15:28:25.616-07:00Dragon 2

I got a beau into a creek once. He stood ankle-deep in the water with a charmingly miserable expression before I relented and let him put his shoes back on to walk on the path. Maybe we were both at our most elemental in that moment? We both wanted to please the other. I wanted him to enjoy the beauty of a waterfall accessible only by sloshing downstream. He went along, but after 20 years in the Army he'd had enough of wet feet. He'd rather get a pedicure and foot rub.

We are alike in doing things we may not enjoy for the benefit of someone else's pleasure or needs. I'm thinking about this a lot after reading The Drama of the Gifted Child. I'm not really recommending the book, but I learned some things.

Dragon wall pocket

Maybe all parents are narcissists, some more than others. Parents teach their children values of "good" and "bad" based on the parents' needs. Some parents teach their kids not to cry through neglect. Some carry children obsessively. Either way, the need of the parent is more important than the child's. The infant becomes good at recognizing what the parent wants and adapts.

Whoever the child might've been is lost because satisfying the parents' needs is more important than what the child wants. As kids get older, layers of beliefs and values are plastered all over them, especially the message to please their parents.

Who or what would I have been if I'd been raised by someone else somewhere else? It's an unanswerable question, but I've been wondering about it a lot. Maybe I'm more me than other kids could be because I spent so much time alone running loose in the woods?

There were times when I looked at my parents and thought "You people are crazy!" and consciously chose to continue thinking whatever I believed in the first place. I'm sure there were many more times that I absorbed what they wanted me to absorb. Childhood is a long time ago though, and how do I know what was the original me and I'm thinking and living because of them?

Dragon by G. T. Vaughn

Somewhere I read that we spend our adult years trying to get back to our original selves, who we were before the world made us into something else. I think of my beau's wet feet and see that both of us wanting to please the other so much is a sign that we both put others' needs ahead of our own. That's sweet and nice in a way, and totally wrong in another.

I laid awake in bed this week thinking about what other people want from me and trying to figure out how to get it all done. I know they don't waste much time thinking about me. I want to find a better balance. What do I really want, not what I'm "supposed to" want?

I intend to achieve maximum happiness in this life. It seems that knowing what makes us happy is the ultimate key to the mysteries of ourselves.

Illustration Friday didn't give a word this week, so more dragons. I seem to own a number of them. The clay dragon at the top is something I made from river clay.
Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-12250361417001381442016-03-11T15:10:00.000-08:002016-03-11T15:10:58.484-08:00"Dragon"

I have a temper. Most people don't see it because I try to keep it very firmly under control. Most of the time. Of the people who have seen my temper, most become more careful about waking that dragon. Some find it entertaining to find out just what it will take to bring it out again. I think they play with fire.

Anger isn't a socially acceptable emotion, but it's a real emotion with a lot of power. I vented to a friend after a contentious board meeting about children's education. Her mother-in-law said "Oh, don't get worked up about it. You can't change anything." I lost it and loudly told the very nice old lady "Yes, we can change things! The reason things don't change is because people like you won't do anything about it!"

I continued to serve on the board, doing my best to educate the educators about the value of arts inclusion. My anger fueled my fight for the kids who were getting ripped off in their educations. We have decades of data that clearly demonstrates that the arts improve children's performance in academics, yet the arts were erased from the curriculum.

Another woman told me we shouldn't provide free lunches to poor kids. She put her kids in religious school, and other people could do the same. If parents don't work hard enough, too bad if their children starved. I exploded. How callous can a person be to let children starve?!! It's not their fault if their parents are poor, but they'll pay the price in their mental and physical health for the rest of their lives if they grow up malnourished. That selfish woman will have to support those kids in their adult years too. (I'm pretty sure I shouted something about Jesus not approving her sanctimonious attitude too.)

I suppose the core of my anger isn't always sublime. I've been hungry. I've been angry about being hungry too. My anger is personal, but I can spread it out to encompass other hungry people. I've been victimized by selfish people, therefore selfishness opens a wound in me that never heals.

I don't want to be angry, that's why I try to keep my anger under control. I'll admit that sometimes I can be afraid of my own anger because once it's loose I'm not sure what's going to happen.

At my first job out of college I was called in front of a large panel of execs who told me to quit drawing black athletes. "We're a white area. Our readers won't relate to all these black people." I remember my first sentence. "There are a lot of black people in Painesville and Euclid." I have a dim out-of-body memory of saying a whole lot more, but I have no clue what. All I know is that the owner of the newspaper told my boss that I was never to be fired and that he personally wanted to be informed if I quit. (I guess I screwed up my chance at permanent employment by quitting not long after that.)

Anger is motivating. When things are bad enough, getting angry is the way towards change. In our personal lives, or changing the world, sometimes there's a reason to wake the dragon.

"Usually when people are sad, they don't do anything. They just cry over their condition. But when they get angry, they bring about a change." ~ Malcolm X<o:p></o:p>

"It is wise to direct your anger towards problems — not people; to focus your energies on answers — not excuses." ~ William Arthur Ward<o:p></o:p>

"Anger is just anger. It isn't good. It isn't bad. It just is. What you do with it is what matters. It's like anything else. You can use it to build or to destroy. You just have to make the choice." ~ Jim Butcher, White Night<o:p></o:p>
Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-91563549539325544032016-03-05T18:23:00.001-08:002016-03-05T18:47:37.815-08:00"Childhood"

My friend and I were somewhere in the flatlands of farm country when I told her childhood is the word for the week. "You've written often enough about childhood; you can write anything you want!" Which seems like great advice since that's what I wanted to hear. Be forewarned, this is a photo heavy post.

<o:p></o:p>

We stopped in Mount Gilead, Ohio and ate in a Masonic Temple. I gotta say, the creme brulee French toast was awesome and Korki loved her breakfast scramble. The diner was filled with locals and I watched as a waitress helped an elderly woman with a bunged up shoulder out of her coat and settled her comfortably in her seat. Korki and I agreed "You don't see that very often anymore" as we smiled at the vintage manners and decor.<o:p></o:p>

Korki demonstrating good natured tolerance
while getting sleeted upon

Korki was humoring me by accompanying me on my visit to the dead ancestors. My facebook cousin Michael Miller posted pics of our ancestors' graves in Morrow County, and I thought it would be a great day trip. Let me be start by being fair and saying Michael gave me clear enough instructions. It's not his fault Korki and I drove a couple miles one way, then several miles another, to backtrack and reattempt the first failed direction before going back to the last correct thing we'd done with Michael's instructions where we immediately found Rt. 156 next to the river just like he'd said we would.<o:p></o:p>

Barn we saw when we were on the wrong road

It was a sludgy day with a flat, gray #5 sky. The entrance to the graveyard is a long, narrow drive of mud and brambles. We parked the car because we worried about getting stuck and slogged our way through the muck while getting gently sleeted on. Then the hill of stones appeared in the woods. Duntadaduuuuh!<o:p></o:p>

I'm pretty sure I'm related to just about everyone on that hill in one way or another. A lot of the stones are down or broken, but my direct ancestors' stones were up and waiting for me. Someone put stars and flags on the vets' graves which pleased me. Some of you know I'm a life-long pacifist who really wants wars to stop -- and yet I can't help but be pleased that my ancestors repeatedly fought for freedom. From the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the Mexican War, and the Civil War, my people were willing to bleed for the country's right to exist.<o:p></o:p>

Korki is a very good sport and let me tromp around taking pictures and reading illegible stones despite the inclement weather. She was an extra really good sport when I was unsuccessfully rocking my car in the mud. She got out and gave a push and we managed to get out of the muck.<o:p></o:p>

Christenia's stone is broken. It should match Jacob's.

We stopped at Grandpa'sCheese Barn on the way back home. I was the one who wanted to go there, but oh my was it busy! Between cheese, trail bologna, lime pickles, chocolate turtles, and fudge, well, I'm poorer than when we went into the place and that doesn't even give me credit for all the stuff I decided not to buy.<o:p></o:p>

It was a good day despite the muck and weather. The best part of it for me was getting time to just yackety yack in the car. Some of that actually included discussing the ancestors, and maybe here's where I'll tie this all in with "childhood". Korki pointed out that I may be interested in genealogy because I spent a lot of time on Grandma's porch while she talked about the people long gone. I sat on her lap while she rocked, and I loved listening to the cadence of her voice as she talked about the people who made me. It's a gift of childhood that I hope many people give to the children in their lives.<o:p></o:p>

No idea if this is a good idea or not, but I like limes and I like pickles?

For those of you who might be interested in how the graves are in my family tree...

Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-20888563086837561962016-02-27T07:13:00.001-08:002016-02-27T07:13:56.679-08:00"Village"

I lived in an actual "village" when I was a child.  It became a "city" in 1970, and I remember the excitement that we were going big-time, with loads of new opportunities and growth just around the corner!  It was a time full of a retro tv sitcom kind of enthusiasm, at least a decade after all the places with actual growth potential had already grown.<o:p></o:p>

Let's face it, we had a hilly, picturesque landscape that still had quite a few farms.  It came as a surprise when the most westerly corner was deemed acceptable for shopping, and apartment buildings.  There's even a McDonald's and Dunkin' Donuts now.<o:p></o:p>

I preferred being a "village".  That sounded quaint, and I liked us being quaint.  Hansel and Gretel about to be eaten by a witch in the woods was our kind of thing. We didn't have any kind of central town. My great-grandpa lived in what looked like an actual village to me: a cluster of houses, a blinking light in the middle, a few shops.<o:p></o:p>

This week I read Levi's Will by Dale Cramer. This book talks about the area where Great-grandpa lived, which is crazy since hardly anyone lives there (pop. 423 in 2010) and a lot of them that do are Amish, and Amish don't write books to the best of my knowledge. Maybe more crazy is that somehow I'm related to Dale. I've forgotten how we're related since my family is "English" (not Amish), but Great-grandma was a Cramer in the same microclimate.<o:p></o:p>

I knew we were related when I picked up the book, but I mostly forgot about that as I read. It's an interesting story with a lot of tidbits about Amishdom. Other people must've liked it too because I see Dale has more books published. I'm thinking of reading them.<o:p></o:p>

Creativity must be inheritable, or perhaps certain families foster creativity? I think about this when I have to communicate with people who simply don't think like me. Rule-bound, linear thinking is an obstacle that can't be overcome. They see no need to change their ways, which means a creative solution is required, which of course will be disregarded since they disapprove of creativity. (Yeah, it's been like that lately.)<o:p></o:p>

Sometimes I fantasize about running away to a village somewhere, or maybe to some place more isolated and buried in a forest. I could be the evil witch in the woods luring children with candy? Except I probably would worry about the kids' teeth and wonder why they didn't have adult supervision. I might invite them in for tea and come up with cool art projects while I educated them about important stuff like questioning authority. Well, maybe not that since they ran away from home in the first place, but I'm sure I could come up with other topics for their enlightenment and opposition to boxed thinking. Maybe it's a good thing I bought tea and cookies yesterday?<o:p></o:p>

On a different topic, I saw crocuses this week! I also learned a new thing. They close their flowers when it snows. I was a little undecided whether to feel happy to see flowers or grumble about the snow, but ultimately the important thing is spring is coming!!
Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-40893448663213234202016-02-20T15:47:00.000-08:002016-02-21T04:26:53.119-08:00"Shelter"

I cleaned a closet this week, making 3 piles: trash, recycle, homeless. I thought of the homeless in Cleveland's winter and found a couple pairs of mittens to add to the pile. They're really nice mittens, and I hesitated. How many mittens do I need? Don't these people need them more? Into the pile. I recently bagged up old towels and blankets for them too. They weren't great, but homeless people need these things.

I'm not Mother Theresa. It's super easy to get my stuff to the homeless because all I have to do is take it to work. The ease of it just makes me feel guilty and lazy. I doubt I'd think about homeless people if Deacon Joe didn't make his rounds to them. He recently told me that the battered women's shelter in Cleveland turns away 60 women a day. "A DAY!" I can't get this out of my mind.

I've tried a number of times to write something motivational about this subject. Let's do something! Let's make politicians accountable! The problem with what I keep writing is that I keep sinking into dark thoughts of women and children I've known that didn't make it through the violence intact, and in some cases alive. It's hard to be optimistic under the burden of these memories.

I saw a boy on tv who has a remarkable memory. He can tell you all about every day of his life. He admitted that there's a down side to that kind of memory. He remembers all the good he's experienced, but also all the bad. My memory isn't as detailed to the day like his, but I can relate to the ups and downs of remembering. Sometimes it takes a lot of force of will to push myself to think of something else.

Then I'm torn. Should I talk about sitting on a porch in the Pennsylvania mountains, sheltered from a torrential rain storm while I stayed warm and dry, laughing with friends? I can pull up other happy memories that would let us all go about our day with pleasant thoughts. Or, should I be single-minded like Deacon Joe? He never passes an opportunity to make others think about homeless people.

I can't help 60 battered women a day, but together we can make a difference. What would it take for you to help them?

Google "battered women's shelter" or "domestic violence center" and you'll find places that need your help. Give them stuff, money, or time. Here are some links for places near Cleveland...

Domestic Violence and Child Advocacy Center

Forbes House

The City Mission

Battered Women's Shelter of Summit and Medina Counties

Project Hope for the Homeless
Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-58627841207547236322016-02-13T05:40:00.000-08:002016-02-13T11:52:13.885-08:00"Hat"

Our thoughts affect our health. This is so obvious, I wonder why anyone still studies it as if it's an open question. Becky died -> I moped about her and the early deaths of my other childhood friends -> I'm sick on the couch watching daytime tv and wondering who the hell watches this stuff if they aren't moping on the couch with winter germs.

The warmest hat ever, a gift from Angel
and made from llama wool

I watched "The View" the morning after the Democratic presidential debate and the first thing one of the women said was that Hillary Clinton's jacket was "very fabulous!". OMG is it any wonder US women are still fighting for equality? Love Hillary or hate her, but please don't do it based on her wardrobe.

Winter hat lovingly knitted by Josie
with a matching scarf

Before I got sick, I had lunch with a friend. I was telling her about another conversation I'd had recently and my friend told me to quit talking about it since my face was cherry red and she didn't want me dropping dead from a heart attack. I told myself to calm down, think puppies and summer days, but I guess I didn't talk myself down enough since I got sick. Cause = effect. Obviously I didn't think enough about puppies.

Last week I pestered a another friend about singing. He has an excellent voice but doesn't sing anymore. I dusted his guitar last time I saw him, and I think it's just collected more dust since. I got him to sing a little. He didn't do it with his full ability or gusto, but he did sing. I smiled. After I hung up the phone I did some singing myself. This is what people can do for each other. It doesn't have to be remarkable -- or maybe it is remarkable that he could make me smile and sing when I felt so down.

As long as I stay in the place of being grateful for having had good people in my life, how selfish is it for me that I didn't get enough time with them? I got as much as I needed. I got enough time with them to take some of them for granted, and that might be more than some people ever get. I count myself lucky and know that the current blizzard will pass and the flowers will bloom again.

Blue heron, blue jay, sea gull feathers

Hats? Back in the olden days when I was a child, women wore hats. I loved them. Feathers bobbing in the slight breath of church prayers were a pleasant thing. I keep my hats on an antler hat rack. I found the antler in the woods. West Virginians can't see why I think that's funny. What else would you do with an antler? They admire how many points my antler has, but lose interest when I admit I didn't kill and eat the deer.

See, no matter how much we might be sick and brood, there's always something else in our brains that we can pull us up. Our luck, joy, love, success, and every other good thing is the result of choosing which we'd like most to think about.

The magazine art director gave me more illustrations to do. I'm choosing to get off the couch, play with paint, and meet the deadline. Life is good. Okay, it will be significantly more good once I feel better, but I'm choosing to feel better too. We are what we think.

This art is from a tin I did for 1800Flowers. BTW, I've been watching TED Talks on youtube. This one seems created for this week's prompt.Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-65371793288196538012016-02-06T06:49:00.000-08:002016-02-06T06:51:27.536-08:00"Mystery"

Sharon commented on my last post that I "remember every detail" of my childhood, which is ironic since I've spent a lot of this week sifting through the mystery of my brain and questioning a lot of what I've been finding in there, especially the gaps.

Becky died of cancer this week. In a tiny, secluded neighborhood with very few children, she was the girl closest to my age. I cried when I heard she'd died, and cried more as additional memories of the things we did together surfaced. Little moments shared, but they were mostly quiet moments, and too easily forgotten.

Becky was the nicest girl you could meet. I called her Becky Thatcher while I identified to Huckleberry Finn. She laughed and liked the comparison. She laughed a lot. She didn't have the slightest interest in acting out with me. She didn't understand my competitive nature with board games, and didn't want to play Tarzan by swinging on grape vines.

I couldn't get her to climb the cliff, but she went to the Great Wall of China?!

The image I have of myself as a child is as quiet and bookish, but Becky made me look like an extraverted rabble rouser. Memories of pointless urging to get her to take risks causes me to notice that I took a lot of them. "Let's climb the cliff!" "Why?" "To see if we can!" "There's nothing up there." "But it's 'there' instead of 'here'!" She shook her head and went home because she refused to witness blood spilling. She was far more sensible than me. She was nicer. Better? Maybe just different?

We waited at the bus stop for 11 years together. We rode the bus to school both ways together every single day. We breathed on the cold windows and made handprints and pictures in the condensation together. She's part of my DNA, and I feel like I took that so much for granted that now it's like examining a wash cloth for my missing skin cells.

It's been a while since we'd seen each other. The last time she was with her mom at the outdoor market and I was with mine. As the moms made polite conversation, she seemed glad to see me, friendly... and we parted ways with smiles and waves never to see each other again. It's inexplicable to me. 53 years old and no more.

My sister has told me not to keep my "death list". It's a sorry, sorry path I travel each time one of my peers in the Glen dies, and I've really got to stop it -- but I won't. Remembering Becky, Donna, Melanie, Barb, Kenny, Timmy, Andy, Earl, even Vaughn is a way to make their lives still current and fool myself that our lives matter.

The more Becky memories that I drag out of my subconscious, the sadder I am to have lost her -- with a pile of regrets that we didn't make more of an effort to keep up with each other than our occasional adult accidental meetings.

Becky, I loved you so completely that there wasn't an outside edge of it for me to notice that it even existed. It's like noticing where air stops. A part of you will always be with me. Thank you. And for everyone else who loved her, you have my deepest sympathies. We're all better for having known her.Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-39118862103091996182016-01-29T08:04:00.001-08:002016-01-29T08:04:50.428-08:00"Smart"

I have the perfect post for "smart", but I can't show it until April. Such a shame. You see, I've been doing illustrations for the magazine "Mensa Bulletin" for their 50th anniversary edition. This isn't making me rich, but I'm enjoying doing it, and I am getting paid. Well, they said I'd get paid. I haven't actually seen any money yet.

Mensa is a group for people who score in the top 2% of IQ tests. I don't like to admit it very often, but I'm a card-carrying member. I find this embarrassing, I suppose like someone in AA would feel. If you're an alcoholic around other alcoholics, it's perfectly fine to admit you're a drunk. If you're smart, it's okay to admit you're a geek to other geeks. They're my people. I love them. We have great conversations over bagels.

I learned cool stuff about mercury from a respected chemist this month, and he seemed tickled to find someone interested in learning about it. I have no plans to do anything with mercury, and he won't repair his mercury clock because filling it with mercury would be too heavy and toxic. I know, nobody else cares. That's why there's a group for people who like to learn completely useless stuff, where nobody rolls their eyes at us.

I've spent a lot of my life hiding my brains because it's so uncool. Being "too smart" can get you beat up on the playground, though luckily I never had that problem. I suppose some people feel intimidated by Mensans, but I've found most of them to be open and helpful in explaining anything and everything that anyone else wants to know. They're like Labrador retriever mutts. Stick! Cool! Let me get that for you! Do you want another stick? Squirrel? Sock? Ball!!!

My original plan in joining in my 20s was to find someone interesting to date. That accomplished, I let my membership lapse. It wasn't until a lot of years later, and the breakup of another relationship, that I decided that I just wanted to hang out with my kind. I discovered my brain was really, really rusty. I felt intimidated and didn't say much until I discovered that Mensans are just like everyone else. They've got opinions and biases. They're nice or not. The only thing you know they've got in common is that they're good at taking tests.

Many of the members are scientists and engineers, though there are a splattering of artists mixed in. I think plenty of artists would qualify if they believed they could because artists often have that same kind of interest in everything. Artists devote a lot of time to reading and studying all sorts of things. There's a young lady in my group who loves Harry Potter as much as I do. It's not all about molecular chemistry. We spent an afternoon coloring together recently.

Sometimes the young daughter of a member comes to our group. She colored with us too, and she blends as well as the grandparents in our group. Age, sex, color, etc. doesn't matter, and I really enjoy diversity.

I can't show you my illustrations until after the magazine comes out, but this hand is a teaser. It's about 1" x 1 1/2" of a full-page. The art editor likes my efforts and gave me another full page to do. Yay! I expect to fully enjoy my weekend :)Linda Hensleyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-22139211748922457512016-01-23T07:31:00.002-08:002016-01-23T07:31:56.268-08:00"Orbit"

It seems to me that everything large, and everything microscopic, and everything in between acts the same. Electrons orbit around nuclei, and moons orbit around planets, and planets orbit around suns, and the entire universe is spinning. This can all make you kind of crazy if you think about it too much, and I don't even do drugs.

A former coworker once told me she was unfriendly and uncooperative when I started my job because she had really wanted her college friend to get the position. How could I know her friend applied for the job? How could I know my coworker's misguided loyalties would make my life difficult? There were invisible orbits of people around me, and all I knew is that I was trying my best with inexplicable obstacles in my path.

Jennie Cramer was my Grandma's mom, Thomas L. Lee was my Grandpa's dad.

I don't know why I started remembering this, but then I couldn't stop thinking about it. All this time later, I want to yell "I won't do crazy with you!" This woman is still in the outer orbit of my life. She puts effort into looking and acting professional. You'd never know she'd sabotage her own job for the benefit of someone who didn't qualify for mine.

Sometimes we have to accept that there are invisible forces around us, and we may or may not learn what those forces are. We just have to do our best despite it all. I'm glad this woman confessed her motivations to me because she illuminated a life lesson that these people walk amongst us. They look normal, and I don't think knowing her thoughts would've been helpful at the time. What could I do? Quit my job so her friend could be rejected again?

Don't judge my lit -- these are my popular light reading when I have a bad day :)

This is the kind of stuff I thought about while consolidating my library this week. I built a bookcase because I had a vision of the perfect bookcase -- which of course nobody sells ready-made. I'm not saying it's the best bookcase, but it's the best for my space.

Advertising on the back of the textbook.

I gathered my books from around the house (which are HEAVY by the way) and hauled them upstairs. Then I had to sort them all, then of course I had to alphabetize them... well okay, I'm my own kind of crazy, but I was a great page when I worked at the Columbus Library, and now I can find any book in a moment, and all of my series are together.

Anyway, I mused about the old coworker and I handled my treasures, which include these old schoolbooks from my ancestors. I love seeing the signatures of my great grandparents on the fly leaves and the old illustrations... It takes a long time to shelve books when I have such lovely distractions along the way.

These books aren't in good condition, but I suppose they could be in worse shape. To put it in perspective, they're from not long after the American Civil War. You know, like when people were slaves. That seems long ago to me -- or maybe the flip side of it is that slavery really wasn't long ago at all? Which puts the idea of crazy coworkers into perspective, doesn't it?

You can see the bindings on the old books at left are gone or falling apart

If anyone knows the best way to store these books, please let me know. I'd like to prevent further decay. I'd like to put them in boxes, but not sure if I should wrap them up in something first?
Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-83797806256409853632016-01-16T06:07:00.000-08:002016-01-16T06:12:03.354-08:00"Spin"
We used to put our arms out and spin.  We'd get so dizzy we'd fall down and couldn't stand up again without wobbling and staggering, often running into our playmates and making them fall down too.  Or, sometimes they'd push us so we wobbled more.  We laughed a lot because it was all so silly.  We used to hold our breath and hope to faint too.  I'm not sure if we caused brain damage.<o:p></o:p>

Most of my childhood lacked toys.  I know this sounds impossible for today's young'uns, but we often just played with our bodies.  Tag, Crack the Whip, Mother May I?  It was kind of a big deal when we got a Frisbee or a Hula Hoop.  Now that I'm thinking about it, a lot of our play involved rotation.<o:p></o:p>

I was expected to go outside to play, without bothering adults, but Grandpa had actual toys. There was a mechanical tin top, a cast iron truck that escaped WWII recycling, games, cards, wooden enigma puzzles… Grandpa liked playing all sorts of things, especially Jarts when they came out.  Flying, lethal weapons were great.  You just wouldn't suspect it from him since he was so quiet, gentlemanly, and civilized.<o:p></o:p>

I kind of wish I'd kept more of Grandpa's toys, but there's only so much stuff I really need to keep.  My plumbing disaster a few years ago went a long ways towards curing me of some of my hoarding tendencies.  There's nothing like looking at blooming mold on something to break my sentimental attachments to it.  (You know when mold is "blooming" when it gets colorful and lethal.)<o:p></o:p>

I talked of teeter totters a couple of weeks ago.  On the same school playground we also had a merry-go-round.  I loved it.  You push it in circles and then jump on to delight in the momentum.  If you have a group of kids, a designated kid(s) pushes while the others enjoy the ride.<o:p></o:p>

Not my merry-go-round, but close enough

Sometimes I remember myself as a solitary kid.  I felt alone too often -- then I think of swings and teeter totters and merry-go-rounds and know that I played with the other kids often enough to have a world of happy memories.<o:p></o:p>

Mom threatened to keep me home from school if I didn't cooperate with her. "NOoooooo!!!"  I'd eat lumpy oatmeal on my deathbed to "get to" go to school.  One time I had to walk, which was miles of pretty much vertical climbing since I lived in the deep river valley.  School was half over by the time I got there, but I still took my turn pushing the merry-go-round with my tired, rubbery legs even though I was criticized by my peers for a lackluster effort that day.<o:p></o:p>

When I substitute taught, I was surprised to see that most kids don't play on the playground.  They cluster in 2s or 3s and text.  They do that in gym too.  They don't look happy, and I'm sure they're missing important life lessons.  Our society says "safe" is more important than play, and I think that's dead wrong.  Okay, maybe padding under the playground equipment is a good idea, or teeter totters that aren't quite so high, but take away the cell phones and push kids into the cold to play.  Running will warm them up.<o:p></o:p>

I can still hear the squeals of laughter at my school.  Nice children with active bodies and cooperatively competitive natures.  I wish that for today's kids too.Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639676523379057364.post-52239834872202172772016-01-09T07:47:00.001-08:002016-01-09T08:02:31.179-08:00"Tropical"

I get a free lunch every day at work. I like this perk, and I like that I often get fresh pineapple. I think that's about all I've got for "tropical", which seems like an unfair word for the week in Ohio January where it's gray, wet, and cold. I wish I was a snowbird.

"Snowbirds" are people who live in beautiful Ohio spring through fall, then go to Florida for the winter. Lucky, lucky people who've got more money and options than I've got at the moment. (Hi Steve and Dr. Jim!)

I didn't get to see Florida until I was an adult, but it seemed like everyone else got family vacations to the "Sunshine State". Other kids went to Disney World. I camped on a rock in Canada. Don't get me wrong, Canada is beautiful, and I love the woods, but I think I would've liked seeing Walt in Florida too.

I eventually got to Disney World. I went with my little brothers and Mom one year. One of those brothers sulked the whole time because we took them out of school during the school carnival. The other brother was delighted to see places that they'd been studying in Social Studies. Clearly, you can't please everyone.

Pete caught actually laughing in Florida
after a big wave just smacked both of them

Some people love traveling. I like seeing new sights, but often dislike the process of getting there. Sometimes it's nicer to enjoy seeing other people's travels through the internet without the bother of getting out of my bathrobe.

I like seeing what other people find interesting in their travels. I like seeing other people's normal when they post pictures or write about their regular lives in other places. I especially like seeing someone else's art of their normal. Prickly pears in the back yard? Great! Maybe I'll paint the flowers or weeds in my yard sometime.

I threw branches at a raccoon family eating the goldfish in my pond, and someone else didn't know what a raccoon is -- or why I wasn't charmed by the cute little varmints. Because they carry rabies and were eating my goldfish! Skunks are cute too, but they sprayed my dog and I lived with a fog of toxic fumes for a couple of weeks no matter how many times I washed her.

I can safely laugh at other people's skunked dogs through blogs without having to actually experience it. I'm pretty sure I can find an interesting restaurant in Cleveland without having to swat tsetse flies too.

But then, this time of year I wish I were a snowbird. I'd like to walk on the beach without the arctic blast of wind coming from the north. I'd pick up pretty seashells and worry about sharks and sunburn or something. Clearly, I need a real vacation, and the only way to have that is to pack up and go. "Tropical" sounds great in the winter!Linda Hensleyhttp://email@example.com


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Recommended siteA-Z Lyrics Universe
Lyrics/song texts are property and copyright of their owners and provided for educational purposes.
Commit To Sin Lyrics by October 31
Commit To Sin by October 31
We've always been a savage monster
Ripping through the night
And we've always wanted so much more
Than ordinary life
Inside our heart the blood is strong
As the sun goes down
The demons dance inside our veins
As life rolls on and on
With every passing hour we commit to sin
We grasp the claws of evil and commit to sin
With devils on our side we keep on flying high
In the dead of night we commit to sin
We take the stage burning hot
Always running wild
Tempting spectres of the night
For we are midnight's child
On all the fools we turn our back
And live our lives our way
We have no rules, we have no fears
It's all adrenaline
The future is in front of us
And we always shoot to thrill
We are evil on the move
And you cannot break our will
So let the devils have their time
It's best you stand aside
No sense to try and slow us down
We'll take your fucking life.
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|Missouri Guard trains for Kosovo deployment
|Thursday, 20 March 2008
By Luke Waack
GUIDON staff
Missouri Army National Guard Soldiers are training at Fort Leonard Wood to prepare for the unit's largest deployment in almost 100 years.
The 3175th Military Police Company, MOARNG, is using installation training areas and facilities to sharpen Soldier skills before their upcoming deployment to Kosovo.
This military police company is just a small part of the large group scheduled to take up station in the Balkans this spring.
"This is the largest deployment of Missouri National Guard members since World War I. We have over 1,000 Soldiers from throughout the state who are filling the ranks for the Kosovo deployment," said Capt. Jamie Melchert, MOARNG, deputy Public Affairs Officer.
Primarily, it is a peacekeeping mission, Melchert said.
"This group is going to take over an entire rotation for Kosovo. Brig. Gen. Larry Kay is going to be the general officer in charge of the mission," Melchert said.
The 3175th MP Co., MOARNG, trained on Fort Leonard Wood, Monday, using two training areas on the installation.
One was set up as a Forward Operating Base, and the other was set up for military operations in urban terrain, Melchert said.
During training, several Soldiers expressed their enthusiasm for the upcoming deployment.
"I think it is an absolutely positive deployment. We're obviously making a huge difference over there. I think it is a good mission with positive and immediate results," said 1st Lt. Daniel Richard, 3175th MP Co., acting commander.
The people of Kosovo want us there, and that is important, Richard said.
One Soldier has already seen what the deployment will involve.
"I'm pretty excited about the deployment to Kosovo. I went over on the recon, and I got to see some of the good things people were doing," said 2nd Lt. Shane Spellman, 3175th MP Co., platoon leader.
The 3175th MP Co. will perform missions in several areas of operation once deployed, Spellman said.
"As Military Police Soldiers, we will be working with the local police and training them. We'll provide security for any military personnel who need it. We will also be providing law and order," Spellman said.
Soldiers are using the train-up period at Fort Leonard Wood to improve teamwork and communication skills, Spellman said.
"We have a lot veterans going on this deployment and we have a few people who seem like they just graduated from basic training. This training has been really good for us. We've been able to take these new people and develop better team cohesion. It has been pretty intense," Spellman said.
But the 3175th MP Co. isn't just running through training drills, judging their own abilities. They are getting help from other National Guard Soldiers. Members of the Training and Evaluation Battalion observed and gave recommendations to the 3175th MP Co. on how to improve their security operations.
""In 24 days, we give them all the briefings and battle drills that we can to prepare them for deployment. They are conducting battle drills and warrior tasks on a training FOB. We also have other platoons from the unit at a MOUT site conducting patrol missions," said Capt. Barry Floyd, Training and Evaluation Battalion, officer-in-charge.
We're using the MOUT site as a chance to train the unit's new leaders and Soldiers in situations they haven't faced before, Floyd said.
"Fort Leonard Wood has a lot to offer. A great MOUT site, plenty of ranges; just a lot that makes it good to train troops here," Floyd said.
When finished with the 24-days of training here, the unit will go through more training at Camp Atterbury, Ind., and then leave for Europe, Melchert said.
|Last Updated ( Wednesday, 02 April 2008 )
Tuesday, Jun 28, 2016
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