Inspired By.

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It’s late and I’m exhausted. I am soul tired and bone tired and trying hard to grasp onto the good things and face reality, such as it is. Mom sleeps next to me, here in our own quiet room of a fifth floor oncology wing. For a few hours this evening she was coherent, ate a small bowl of soup and her headache was gone, her fever was down, her levels looked good. A glimmer of hope.

I don’t know what to think about anything. I don’t have a lot of words to say. And for the first time in a month, I don’t have a paintbrush in my hand.

I have memories, good ones. I have prayers. I have a whole host of angels that call, text, tweet, message, and show up live and in person to love on us and ease the pain. And I have these little links of happiness that have made hard days a little brighter. I hope you enjoy them as I have. If you found a good link this week, do share.

Clouds.

Light.

Warmth.

Lovers see like artists do.

Unearth your story.

And a random comfy chair I’d love to curl up in right about now.

Poem : What I Learned from My Mother

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HM0170~Pink-Peonies-Posters
Friends, first I want to say thank you for the overwhelming support at the announcement of my new shop last week. At this point, I’m excited to report that I have more orders to fill than I can really keep up with and more ideas and designs floating in my head than ever. It’s so hard to predict inventory before opening the store, so perhaps I got a little bit ahead of myself… Oh well. It’s an exciting time.
Of course, it’s in the midst of this joy that life, in it’s unpredictability and indifference to our preferences and plans, chooses to intrude and remind me : it’s out of my control. I went home for the weekend, and it turned out to be a lot harder than predicted. I share with you this poem in honor of a friend that passed away, and my mother who is in the hospital again trying to regain strength after a hard week.

– See more at: http://shewritesandrights.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2011-11-18T23:38:00-05:00&max-results=5&start=80&by-date=false#sthash.pMWFXiJF.dpuf

What I Learned from My Mother
by Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love 
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole 
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins 
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewings even if I didn’t know 
the deceased, to press the moist hands 
of the living, to look in their eyes and offer
sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing, 
what anyone will remember is that we came. 
I learned to believe I had the power to ease
awful pains materially like an angel. 
Like a doctor, I learned to create 
from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once
you know how to do this, you can never refuse. 
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.




[Photo.] – See more at: http://shewritesandrights.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2011-11-18T23:38:00-05:00&max-results=5&start=80&by-date=false#sthash.pMWFXiJF.dpuf

Insecurity in Art.

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Last Tuesday morning as I sat in a cafe chatting with a friend and getting ready to launch my new art shop, my best friend was preparing her culinary midterm project. This is her first term in pastry making, and she was nervous. Ten minutes into the process, she accidentally sliced open her finger as her professor watched, sliced it open badly enough that she had to leave her midterm and go to the emergency room for stitches. The poor girl. Mercifully, her instructor told her she could retake the midterm on Thursday. He knows from experience the nervousness, the danger of being a brand new chef in a kitchen full of fellow brand new chefs.

And this morning was so much like another morning I remember. It was late August, at the very beginning of my sophomore year. I was standing at my easel for the first day of Drawing I. The classroom was warm in the haze of an un-air-conditioned building, but I was scratching away at my sketchpad, glancing back and forth between my page and the prop – a lone orchid on a stool in the middle of our circle. I glanced at the girl next to me. My orchids drooped, clunky with the weight of too much shading, while her feathery petals sloped delicately across the page. I felt suddenly, regrettably faint. My face flushed with anxiety and blackness clouded the corners of my vision. I couldn’t breathe. The professor walked past, and noticed my hand poised motionless over the paper.
“How’s it going?” she asked brightly.
In a shaky voice I asked to sit down. She went and found me a glass of water and let me sit, head between my knees, until I could breathe again. I couldn’t bear to look up and see if the other students were stealing glances at me and my incomplete page. As soon as class was dismissed I rushed back to my room and collapsed in the middle of our floor to the half amusement and concern of my roommates.

There are a hundred more moments like this one built up in my head : the time when, reading aloud in front of my advanced composition class,  I stumbled over the same phrase in my own essay several times before finally reading it right. The time when another art professor walked into the quiet and mostly empty art studio and criticized my painting, even though I wasn’t his student. The time that I cut my own finger while slicing bread with Erica for dinner – I nearly passed out and she had to bandage my finger for me.

These moments pile, one on top of the other, like bricks. My insecurity is the mortar that seals them all together into a thick barrier that separates what I am doing now from what I want to be doing in the future. I become hardened and indifferent to art, believing that there is no place for it in my life. I am not meant for it. It is not mine to enjoy.
But it’s a defense mechanism, this wall. It puts me in a dark place where my blog posts and poetry and sketches stay buried, lest someone finds them lacking and amateur. It’s where all my excuses are born, reasons to keep my cooking and my art and my writing to myself. It helps me hide away my thin skin.
But what joy is there in art unshared? A slip of the knife is an easy mistake. No matter how steady our hands, we are all thin-skinned and fragile, vulnerable and easily exposed. A wall will only bury us and who we really are. There is no joy in that.

I’m working to break down the walls I’ve built around myself, to bare my thin skin and share my art with others, no matter how painful the process, no matter how raw it makes me.

We have to be willing to slice ourselves open, to pour ourselves out onto the page.
Are you in a dark place? What walls have you built around yourself? What painful moments are you holding onto, or rather,

What painful moments are holding you back?

[All images by me, Bethany Suckrow.]

Introducing : The Ripe Word.

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It started with this little idea I had and it grew into something surprising. Something big and unpredictable and good. And I can’t believe I’m writing this post, that in mere moments my little idea will be out there for the world to see. Nevertheless, here it is. My little idea is now a big idea about to come to fruition.
My friends, I have started a business. The Ripe Word is my very own Etsy shop I have created for selling my watercolor and ink paintings.
Where did my little idea begin? It’s a long story, but in a nutshell, I’ve always been an artist. I’ve been drawing and painting since I was really young. For a brief while in college I was an English and Visual Arts double major, but discovered that visual art was more enjoyable when I was creating it on my own terms, rather than in a classroom setting. So I quit. I chose one over the other. For awhile after that I didn’t pick up a sketchpad or paint at all, I think because I felt intimidated, but also because I was preoccupied with finishing my degree in English/Writing. After I graduated, I began to pursue it again – slowly, quietly, when I was sure that no one was looking.
What sparked the impulse to sell my work? A few months ago, a family friend began planning a silent auction for my mom to raise funds for her medical debt. She asked me to donate artwork for it, knowing that I dabble in it. I said yes without any forethought to what I would create in order to contribute.
And then I began to think : what can I create that will be more than beautiful, but will also serve as a glimpse of my mother’s story, and mine too?
grasshopper
Some of the text incorporated into the artwork is poetry written by myself, some are quotes from poetry or prose that inspires me and speaks to life as I see it : beautiful, brief, and sacred. The images themselves – mostly fruit and other natural objects – are meant to depict life, healthy, joyous and simple. Life the way that it was meant to be enjoyed.
lemons1
Noteworthy about The Ripe Word : 

Fifty percent of the profits from each sale will be donated to my mom to help her as she continues to pay off her medical debt. She was first diagnosed with breast cancer in 1997 and was later diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer in 2002. Since being diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer, she has undergone a variety of treatments and surgeries, and spent much of 2011 in the hospital. [Read more about my mom’s story here.] This is my way to honor her, and help her in a way that I am able. [In case you were wondering, yes, she does think I’m crazy for offering this, but since I inherited her stubbornness, she can’t stop me.]

The Ripe Word is going green. I’m currently researching materials to make this an eco-friendly business. Paint, paper, ink, mat frames, packaging, and business cards are all on my list of to-find. If you’re an artist that works with these materials and can give me good recommendations, I am all ears.

 
A Note of Thanks :
The auction for my mom was held in mid-October, and it drew a crowd of more than 800 of our “closest” friends, family and acquaintances. My family is truly blessed to have such a strong support system. Even in the midst of one of life’s hardest experiences, we have discovered profound joy. This business is in part dedicated to the people that continue to support me and my family, for the prayer and the visits and the meals and the hugs that keep us moving forward. Without you, I wouldn’t have had the courage to do this.

With Love,

B. – See more at: http://shewritesandrights.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2011-11-18T23:38:00-05:00&max-results=5&start=80&by-date=false#sthash.pMWFXiJF.dpuf

Guest Post | Un-Growing Up.

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Today’s guest post from Brynna Lynea King is dear to my heart and very close to my own story. If you’re a twenty-something like us - or any age for that matter - and still trying to figure out how to be a grown-up, this one is for you. Or have you had an epiphany like Brynna’s? We’d love to hear how each of you are working towards un-growing up.

Un-Growing Up 

brynna_htp_06Recently, I became a writer.  Oh, well, that’s not quite true. Let me start again.

One month ago, I finally decided, once and for all, to be a writer.  I started a freelance business that I hope grows into something fabulous.

Here’s the thing, though: I have written since I learned to write, which was nearly 20 years ago. I won writing contests in elementary school and had an original poem chosen for publication in high school. I majored in writing and literature.  I’ve been a contracted writer for a marketing agency for over a year. So what is the difference between that and what I’m doing now? Is it that I made an announcement, or named a business after myself? No. My identity as a writer is not a company name or a website or business cards or professional headshots. These may have helped me convince myself, but they came after my decision was made.  The reason I am choosing to be a writer is that, after a lifetime of self-doubt, I realized that I was at risk of letting my dream slip away.  And getting in the way was “real life” – or, what I imagined real life meant.

I “grew up” four years ago. I transferred colleges to focus on my future. Then I got engaged. After that, I graduated.  In barely over a year, I had gone from being an art-bleeding, hard-partying singer-songwriter and the keyboardist in a reggae band to transferring schools, cleaning up my act, and planning a wedding. Soon, I found myself applying to graduate school to be a teacher – because after all, what does one do with a writing degree?

But then came the trouble. I had a wonderful husband and a neat, pretty life.  But it wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as it was supposed to be. In my junior high classroom, I felt like a kid trying to act like a grown up in front of other kids, unable to be myself — my not-really-very-grown-up self — for fear of seeming unprofessional or losing respect. And I was wearing slacks.  At home, I was attempting to play perfect housewife, overwhelming myself with assuming all household responsibilities because I thought that’s what good wives do. I found myself in the midst of a violent, self-inflicted identity crisis based on my own assumptions about what it means to be an adult — assumptions that almost cost me my dream and a huge part of myself.

The truth is, I’m an artist.  I’m a writer. I have trouble picking up after myself, and sometimes I enjoy a little chaos.  And so, to balance the pendulum, I’ve been working on un-growing up — just a little.  Here are a few things I’m learning.

“Growing up” does not mean becoming someone you’re not.

Are you becoming a better version of the REAL you? I can try to be a neater neat freak all I want. But I am not a neat freak at all. Un-growing up here means letting go of selves I sometimes wish I was, and working purposefully on improving the self I am. The real grown-up qualities of responsibility, wisdom and maturity are good, necessary things. Add these to your true self; no made-up self can wear them nearly as well.

Growing up does not mean achieving perfection.

You’re driving yourself crazy. And I guarantee your spouse, boyfriend, or best friend is also growing weary of your constant pursuits in the direction of perfection. Repeat after me: perfect is boring. Some synonyms of “boring” are characterless, colorless, drab, and lifeless. When your goal is perfection, you miss out on creativity, which is almost always messy and never perfect. Perfectionism robs you of life and joy.

Growing up does not mean you can’t have fun.

One night fairly recently, I got mad at my husband when he told me he only likes doing chores when he can make them fun. To me, this sounded immature and irresponsible. Really? If chores can be fun, why shouldn’t they be? Stop taking yourself so seriously.

Un-growing up is letting go, deciding for yourself, and enjoying the process.

It’s throwing out expectations, unrealistic standards and, most of all, rules. Rules like “you must major in something practical” and “you can’t have any fun once you have kids” and “wash your sheets every week.” Says who?  Take your three-month-old camping. Major in underwater basket weaving, if that’s what lights your fire. And surround yourself with people like my amazing husband who will make sacrifices (like washing the sheets) to support you in your dream, because it’s what you have to do.

At the risk of sounding like your Facebook wall, I turn to the legendary Steve Jobs, who really had this one down:

“You’ve got to find what you love… Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work.  And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on.”

I didn’t decide to be a writer until I realized I might have to spend my life doing something else. I might just grow up and leave writing behind.

No, thanks – I’m going back for it, and it’s coming with me.

~

brynna_htp_20Brynna Lynea is a freelance writer and blogger at brynnabegins.com where she blogs about her creative process, taking chances, learning new things, pursuing projects and dreams, and leaning on the grace of God.  It is about enjoying today and not worrying about tomorrow.  It’s about paying attention to the process. Check out her stellar freelance website or follow some of her everyday musings @brynnlynnea.