Exploring Creative Expression

I'm off to corn country shortly to enjoy friend and fellow artist Tamar Assaf's participation in The Fields Project. Tamar is Hebrew for fabulous and the selection of her work for this annual celebration of art and agriculture creates not just beauty but also an excuse for me to road trip (via commercial airline, naturally. I'm a lot closer to hip replacement than I am the hip college scene) to the Land of Lincoln where I shall eat tomatoes and corn from local farmers all day every day while talking about how good the food is, which is the way of my people. We are a people of Grammas offering seconds, of long, lazy discussions of string bean varieties (go, Kentucky Wonder, go!) and of watermelon slices so sweet you'll weep with the glory of the divine mystery that is summer eatin'. Art and agriculture belong together. The smell of grilling burgers and sunblock, the sweet nectar of a peach, sleeve-wiped and juicy fresh from the tree, the moments sublime and cuisine exquisite, will kick off hot fun in the summertime for me. See you there.

How Does Your Life Matter?

"The Call" usually comes with a lengthy Latin-based diagnosis, a medical mystery shrouded in grafted syllables of a dead language. Anyone who's done any amount of living has gotten "the Call" and has paused.

Work can wait. Errands will keep. Inhale. Listen. A nearby spring bird declaring its sole right to the elm. A distant motor accelerates and fades. The fabric of the draperies lets loose a gentle shimmy in recognition of the invisible force of the wind upon it. Email will be there later. It's not going anywhere. Inhale.

Elle's surgery is scheduled; what dates are we available for a pre-surgical party to give love? Calendars, usually the boss, can be cleared. We'll be there. Y'know, we have a guest room if Elle needs a recovery place; I work from home; I can be here; feeble, desperate bids for uniting against the C word - recurring at 46 - inhale.

I'm much more comfortable with my own mortality than I am the mortality of friends. It's a control thing I guess. I joke with my husband on lazy weeknights as we Tivo through commercials that he can just put me down like Old Yeller if I crumble.

The crumbling of others, though, digs deep into my gut, into that adolescent stick-girl obsessed with fairness, fists clenched, ready to show you all when she grows up. A call for justice, sunburned shoulders and scabbed elbows, lacking in life experience to see the big wheel, to know that fortunes ebb and flow.

Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty pass. I'll do the next thing, the next work of my workday. It matters. Being able to create a path for others to continue creating, that matters. Carefully formulating a way to connect the disconnected matters. Giving love through the difficulties matters.

Giving love matters.

Love matters.

A Whole New Shade of Weird

I'm no stranger to weirdness but last week I conversed with a woman whose ideas were ... out there.

She asked what I did and I explained that I founded Art of Possibility to represent physically disabled artists. She then launched into something she calls "people first language" where I'm supposed to say "artists with disabilities" to make her more comfortable, or "people who work as artists that have disabilities" or something. The "people" comes "first."

When I told her that I'm okay being a blind lady instead of a "lady with blindness" (which sounds utterly stupid to me) she insisted that she was Right.

Seeing as how I'm often fallible, I let her notion roll around my consciousness a couple days and, y'know, it just doesn't hold up. If she wants to say "person with disabilities" instead of "disabled" when personhood is understood, more power to her. But to try to shame me into speaking in a way that doesn't disturb her delicate sensibilities, when no matter what we call it, I still can't see, is just diverting attention from true, meaningful change.

To extrapolate, everyone knows if I say my husband is an engineer that he's a person who works in the field of engineering. No one thinks he's an artichoke or an iguana. Do we have to now describe all physical characteristics that way? "The red-haired boy" becomes "the boy with red hair" or is it only characteristics that make others uncomfortable because of their own biases?

Any sentient listener understands that physical limits of the physical world impair our opportunity as physically disabled, not other causes. It's physics. So for Art of Possibility, we'll go with brevity and sanity in our parlance.

To the "people first language" people, I'd recommend getting past your own shame and stop projecting your prejudices onto others who don't share them. Those of us doing the actual work of inclusion have enough to do without pandering to word games that don't improve our daily lives.

With Gratitude...

When I could still read for pleasure I devoured books. I always liked the Acknowledgements. Read 'em all. I like dedicating a page to gratitude. It may be the best use of the blog I've yet identified.

Thank you, Jennifer Norton. Friend and Art Director, with me at the point of origin as I grow this circle of love.

Thank you, Dean Collins. You're a sane and stable influence and I truly appreciate your commitment to having Art of Possibility Studios' site accessible.

Thank you, Cheryl Hodgson, for making LLC filing and trademark registration less scary. It's not often people love their lawyer, but hey, I'm building this brand on love and long hours. You supply both.

And thank you to the people who quietly care, who offer resources because they believe what I believe, because they want to see this work, because they are empowered to diligently and determinedly make a difference in the lives of others.