Oh, what a lovely list of bliss this week. It was my birthday, you see, as trillions GAZILLIONS of my not-so-nearest but definitely DEAREST best friends EVER posted greetings on my Facebook wall. Ah, I am still basking in the luuuuuuuuv, my sweetums. Positively glowing. In fact I’m glowing so much we don’t even need the lights on tonight.
Now that’s bliss.
And so is this. Portebella ‘burger’ with roasted red pepper, melted cheese. Brie? Brie? I do not recall but IT WAS DELICIOUS. Beyond delicious. It was BLISS ON A BUN. And the salad dressing was some sort of garlic attack in the most goodly of ways.
And of course there was puppy love. There is always puppy love on my list. Count on it. This week the puppy really is a puppy. Just a baby.
Awwwww…Look at that fat little belly. Soft little puppy hair. PUPPY BREATH! Don’t you just want to pick him up and kiss him! And kiss him! And kiss him!!! And snuggle him against your shoulder and KISS his little head and make silly little sing song noises like a completely besotted fool.
Don’t you?
There is NOTHING that brings your blood pressure down better than a puppy. Especially a sleepy puppy. Nothing.
My co-workers and I are lining up to love on the newest perk at work…BUBBA. Not to be confused with the late, great Bubba mine. Who was the best dog ever, RIP. May baby Bub grow into the next best dog ever.
Speaking of work…ta ta…a collaborative painting by two of my favorite students. Two of my absolute favorite people who just happen to have Down Syndrome. This photograph doesn’t begin to do the painting justice. Layers and layers of jewel tone glazes make the underpainting POP. And it’s for sale. The artists get 60% of the profits. The rest goes towards purchasing new supplies for the Neighborhood Center of the Arts. You can read all about this place here. And if you’re interested let me know.
And if you could see these guys paint…oh man, it’s even better than puppy breath. And how do you top that??? They LOVE to paint. They LIVE to paint. Totally focused, totally into it. No inner critic on their shoulders. They just PAINT. And smile and laugh and sing and dance.
And what would a week be without chocolate? This week’s yummiest bliss is the. most. DECADENT. brownie. EVER!!! It’s baked in the local co-op, in their own little bakery. And oh my, I cannot eat more than a smidgen at a time. It’s that rich. I had about a quarter of it over two days and gave the rest away to three other people. And it’s only maybe three inches square, total.
It’s. That. Rich. Which bears repeating…so I did.
Those are all good things. Happy feeling making things. But the thing that came beyond all that, beyond even puppy breath and chocolate, the thing that sent the Bliss-O-Meter over the top—
ahhh… the absolute KNOWING that this space, this studio-in-the-making, is the right place at the right time of my life.
I’d love to hear from you. What rocked your world this week? What made you smile? Share it in the comments section below. We all want to know.
Attention You. Yes, YOU. Put your hands in the air and step away from the computer.
Do it! Do it NOW. SHAKE. IT. OUT. Because (drumroll, ta ta!!!) IT’S DANCE BREAK TIME!!!
Got the blood flowing now. Feels better, doesn’t it?
I know. Because lately the Universe has been coming to me saying, “Susan…your butt’s stuck. Susan, you’ve got to MOVE. Because you are turning into a sack of CE-MENT. You’re retaining water like a pretzel eater riding in the cheap seats on a trans-Pacific flight.”
Really, the Universe said that to me. Because I’ve been sitting too much lately. Logging in all kinds of hours on the computer.
And then a friend posted a link on Facebook. A link about the dire consequences of sitting at the desk, on the sofa, just sitting too long. Is that serendipity or what? All these messages bombarding me about getting off my butt.
So I started paying attention. I googled ‘health risks sitting’. Oh. My….it’s bad folks, real bad. We’re ALL going to die!!! But some of us are going to die sooner of cancer, heart disease, fat bottoms and BOREDOM…ALL FROM SITTING TOO LONG!!!
Get up again. Take another dance break.
Back? Good. Because all is not doom and gloom. I stopped the google search after 50 pages, mostly because I figured the point was made by then. I even read a couple of the articles. Like this one from NPR. I linked it because it has both video and an animated stick man. And I am easily amused by special effects. After scaring the bejeesus out of you with dire statistics the good folks at NPR offer a reassuring antidote…GET UP AND MOVE. Even a few minutes every hour will make a difference.
So I decided to write this post standing up. I stand while I paint. I stand while I teach. Why not stand while I write?
Actually, I dance while I paint. Dance while I teach. But I don’t think I can dance while I write…laptops just haven’t come that far. So I’m doing the next best thing. I’m writing this while balancing on a core stability disk. Which has been stashed under a chair since the day I bought it years ago, stabilizing spiders and dust bunnies.
Now it’s giving me a core workout while I blog. Because if I don’t engage my core I will fall flat on my ass. And I turned it upside down so my feet are getting all kinds of happy with those nobs digging into every reflexology point they’ve got. Ahhhhh… I think I may be falling in luuuuuv with this thing. Umm-hmm. Liking it just a little too much…
You can sit on it too. Matter of fact, I’m sitting on it as I do a next day edit on this post. Definitely got the wigglies going on as I keep the corte engaged. It’s a little distracting as I see how far I can take it. I just did a minute or so of seeing if I could hold a modified V while sitting at the kitchen table.
Got a way to go before the Circ de Soleil comes a calling.
I’ll keep you posted as to my progress. And don’t worry, the Arty Life is open to acrobatics.
January 31. This marks my parents’ wedding anniversary. Seventy years ago today they tied the knot. Mama was a Girl Scout, Daddy a Marine…they knew their knots. This one may have gotten a little frayed around the edges but still it lasted 58 years. Fifty-eight years…until the day my father died. At home in his own bed with his wife by his side.
Edie and Dick. Yin and Yang. They were a pair. And they were tied tight. Right over left and through, left over right and through. A good old fashioned square knot.
I came along late in the game but I heard the story of their wedding over and over. Mama loved to tell stories, especially if she was involved in them. And I loved all things about weddings. A pretty dress, flowers and cake that’s ten times better than any birthday cake. All that and a handsome man who will love you for EVER.
And don’t forget the PRESENTS!!!
So here’s the story AS I KNEW IT. It was a small do. An intimate gathering of family and close friends. The early afternoon reception was a simple one. Cake and coffee. Maybe some champagne. Because I can’t imagine a wedding without champagne. It was at her sister’s house. The same sister whose dress she wore. The honeymoon was a night in Manhattan. Fancy dinner. Fancy hotel. Fancy that.
Oh, and it rained.
And that’s what I was going to write. They fell in love, got married and did the ’till death do us part’ thing 58 years later. Because that was the STORY. Until I went through the folder labeled Richard. Daddy’s papers. I was looking for the menu from the restaurant. I saw it years ago and thought I’d amuse you with photographic proof of what two bucks could buy you in 1942. If memory serves me right–and these days it doesn’t aways–a full course lobster dinner plus drink.
I didn’t find the menu. But I found some interesting things. And, as I went through them, all sorts of questions began popping up.
It began with the envelope addressed to my father. It was plain white. Unadorned with anything save the simple return address. The White House. The letter inside was on matching stationery. It contained a hastily scrawled note from my father’s brother. Dated January 29. Two days before the wedding. He didn’t know if he could make it. No one was getting any time off.
There was a war going on. The whole damn world was shooting this way and that. And my uncle had a first row seat for the duration. Secret Service. OSS. Army Counter Intelligence.
He never made the wedding. Daddy’s friend stood in as his best man instead. One of the honorary uncles of my childhood. But I never put two and two together, never realized that’s why he was the best man and not my uncle. Not until I read the letter.
And then I realized there were a lot of things I didn’t know. A lot of questions I wanted to ask.
But there’s no one left to answer them.
I’ve always looked at the wedding portrait and seen my parents. Mom-and-Daddy-yin-and-yang-in-their-fancy-best. Young but old, because they came before me.
My uncle’s note sent the story I knew spinning off in another direction.
It was raining that day. Hard. Cold and blustery. Pearl Harbor was a little more than a month in the past. We declared war on Japan. Hitler declared war on us. Shock. Fear. Anger. Rage. Bravado. But happy days? I don’t think so.
I look at that photo now and see a couple of kids, 26 and 28. Just a little older than mine are today. Kids who were striving for normal when the world was going bat shit crazy around them. Kids who pledged their forevers together when there was no guarantee of tomorrow.
I think about the simple reception. Hear the undercurrents of small talk that never made it to the story. People smiling and raising a toast to the happy couple while in the back of their minds wondering….All the men in that room old enough to serve, did. Four uncles. And my Dad. The Army. The Marines. Europe. North Africa. The Pacific.
From the concentration camps to the streets of Nagasaki after the bomb.
They all served. They all came home. And they never, EVER, talked about it.
Mama was the story keeper in our house. She touched on a little of everything and told them over and over again. But like the story of her wedding, they were the bare bones, not the meat. And when I took care of her in her later years I heard them so often I stopped listening.
And I’m sorry I did. I regret they became so familiar I tuned them out. I wish I’d dug deeper.
Because she wanted to tell her story. But she didn’t know how.
And I didn’t know enough to ask the right questions.
