Art

        It’s always been a mystery to me what people will hang on their walls and live with. I’ve seen paired paint-by-numbers of ducks in marshes, hanging a foot from the ceiling on living room walls. I’ve seen stamped out mall paintings arranged in diagonal groupings. And when I was only 11 years old, I visited my friend Carla at her house for a birthday party. There, in the middle of the wall, hanging over the couch, was the worst thing I’ve ever seen - a large black and white framed photo of a young girl in a coffin. (This was actually Carla’s little sister, who died tragically. Mrs. Sheerholtz thought it was crucial to remember her daily as the family walked through the house. Carla didn’t often have kids over and that day that mystery was solved.)
        Interesting choices, those, but are they art?
        Thanks to a gifted high school art teacher, I became a lover of art history.   By grade 12,  I was tearing apart Impressionist calendars and ripping out reproductions of Turner and Constable from old art history texts to frame. In university, it was the age of posters, and there wasn’t an art representation you couldn’t purchase. My walls were covered with thumb tack holes from pinning up Mary Cassatt, Winslow Homer and A.J. Casson. In my spare time, I’d copy these works, trying to duplicate the skill of these masters of colour.


"Glenn Williams" by A.J.Casson


       Art delighted me and still does. We don’t have a great number of works hanging in our house, but mostly because there is a fear of holes in the walls. (I can't explain this. I won't try. Holes seem to indicate a commitment to a certain work of art, and we like to rotate ours.) Our art leans. There are two paintings we rotate on the fireplace mantle. Right now, A.J. Casson’s “Glen Williams” shows the glories of fall in a small Ontario town. (My delight is that this print is actually signed by Casson - a treasured gift from my husband a few Christmases ago.) Soon, the weather will turn brisk and I will put A.J. away for a bit and bring out an original oil by a man named Ole Pii. Ole was an 80 year old artist in a community we lived in up the west coast of BC. He was a master of colour. This particular painting is austere and cold, a painting he did from the side of a van on a brilliant day in Prince George in the seventies. I never tire of the range of colours in the snow in this painting.
          We have another of Ole’s paintings, of two old folks staring at their garden, as their flowers form the sky. This painting makes my heart sing as it carries a huge personal significance for my husband and I.
          And wonderfully, I have three oil paintings by our good friend Reijo. All three transport me to riversides. Just a couple of weeks ago, Reijo, out of the kindness of his heart, sent along this latest painting. I have admired it since the day I first laid eyes on it. It depicts the underside of a river bank, and it is so familiar to me. There is a small stream off of Lochlin Road up in the Haliburton Highlands that could be the subject of this work. On those coming dark and bleary winter days, I will look at it and it will take me right to the river! I know that there are fish there, just under the surface, waiting in the pools for juicy bait. I can smell the earthy underslope and feel a bit of slippery green algae underfoot on the river stones.
          And really, isn't this what art is all about? Good art, no matter the form, causes the heart to sing with a deep connection. It takes us somewhere familiar, it appeals at a heart level. So, I ask you, what is on your walls?

God bless Reijo for this precious gift!

Blood Pressure Rising

     Have you ever felt so stressed that you think you can feel your blood pressure in your lips? Even your ears start to buzz and fill up with a pulsing vibration. Today was one of those days. It started out fine enough. Had a good sleep, took my vitamins, had a good breakfast and packed a "super salad" for lunch. By the time I had been at work for 15 minutes, the nonsense started and didn't stop all day long.
      In math class, I felt like I was performing dental maneuvers,  not teaching. Extracting answers from my wee class was like executing root canals. And the chasing for assignments and forms....help me! 
      It's about focus, I think. Sometimes, it would be wonderful if all class members focused on the same thing at the same time. I've gotten so that I can spot a "glaze over" from four meters away. Sometimes I look into eyes and see no one there. Is he back at summer camp on the rope swing? Is she anticipating snow tubing in the coming months? Are they all wondering what's for dinner?  My blood pressure rises as I try to get their attention.
     An old teacher friend of mine got so frustrated with a grade two boy that she took a piece of masking tape, wrote "focus" on it and taped it to his desk. Right after that she was in the staff room at recess, when there was a knock at the door. Two little girls were at the door to "report" that they had seen the "F" word taped to little Jeremy's desk. My friend suppressed a giggle and told them she'd look into it.
      Sometimes I wonder though....what is all this stressing and fussing about?  It feels some days that I don't actually take a breath until I get home. I careen from one activity to another, gathering momentum as I fly around. I've set a pace for myself and for these kids that I'm not sure any of can live with.
     So tomorrow I will write on my daybook...LOOK UP. FOCUS on Jesus and share some joy! My aim will be to keep the blood pressure steady. This old teacher is going to find something to laugh at, someone to laugh with and something silly to share with these lovely kids.

The Liebster

Fellow blogger, gifted Mary from Beech Croft Tales, (http://marywaindbeechcrofttales.blogspot.com/)  has honored me by putting me on her list for the Liebster Award.
Now it is my turn to honour others for the Liebster! Check out these noteworthy bloggers:

Leesha tells of her journeys as a beloved child of God at God Walks:
http://www.god-walks.blogspot.com/


Garth writes about his travels through Africa on a BMW bike at Garth's Africa:  http://garthsafrica.blogspot.com/ 


Maureen provides a clear message of faith at One Day At A Time:
http://www.onedayatatime-melanie.blogspot.com/


Amy and Ben tell of their preparations, hopes and dreams as they prepare for the mission field in Indonesia at The Eadies MAF:
http://eadies.blogspot.com/


Belinda points the way to the Lord with grace and beauty at Whatever He Says:
http://www.whateverhesays.blogspot.com/

Similes

      There’s a student in my grade 5/6 class who is nothing short of brilliant. Where this kid got the extensive vocabulary that he so freely and confidently uses, is beyond me. He is comfortable conversing in complex sentences without ever using “awesome,” “radical,” or “random,” and like many students I meet with daily, does not use the word “like” as a comma. He throws in “dude” now and then, but the word is so competently placed that I smile every time. 

       Today we were working on “similes.” Students were required to do their best to use imagery to compare objects using “like” or “as.” I received the usual “as strong as an elephant;” “as slow as a turtle;” and “as soft as a marshmallow.” I kept inviting them to go further. How can we make “as slow as a turtle” just a bit slower? We came up with “as slow as a three-legged turtle.” That took some doing. Some didn’t get the idea of similes at all. One girl proudly wrote, “the ice cream was a soft as a baby chick.” I could immediately taste a mouthful of stinky feathers. One fellow surprised me by saying, “he was as strong as a mutant wrestler.” This was way beyond this boy’s usual ability of expression and I couldn’t help but ponder on what he watches on television. 

      But my student writer….he wowed me. I told the class that some day we’d be lining up at Chapters for autographed copies of his novels. Grade 6 boys don’t usually come up with things like: “as pretty as sunlight exposed jewels";  "as strong as a workhorse looking for a treat";  "as soft as whipped cream made from scratch"  or "as slow as maple syrup dipped in starch."
       After class, this boy came and told me, for the second day in a row, that I am a great teacher. I thanked him and reinforced my belief in him by telling him he should get a notebook and write every day. He said he would if he had ideas, so I sent him home armed with a list of story starters. And I thought that for one brief moment, that I had reached someone. For it is my highest hope that the atmosphere in my classroom is one of safety, to express, to grow, to be encouraged. Not every student can be a writer. Many struggle with reading, but to move each along the continuum or even to jump start them into a love of reading and writing is my goal as a language teacher.

Thanksgiving

     In childhood days years ago, Thanksgiving weekends were spent at my grandparents' cottage on Nottawasaga Bay in Ontario. Life pulsed with bursts of colour. There were no skies like October skies if it was sunny. Gone was the summer haze of humidity. Deep blues and crisp indigo nights reigned. As children, we were beside ourselves in anticipation of that last weekend of the season at the cottage. One more kick-at-the-can to enjoy times with cousins and run wild on the shore and through the reddened forest. We'd rake leaves, jump in the piles and enjoy the dusky smell as Dad burned them in the fireplace. We'd add to our collection of acorns and chestnuts, finding ways to make games with objects of nature.


Grandma, Mom, my brothers and I

       The adults seemed relaxed while preparing the huge turkey dinner and baking pies on Sunday, but at the back of their minds, they knew there was much  to do before leaving for home on Monday. In those days, having an un-winterized cottage, the purpose of spending that last weekend there was to close it up, put it to bed for the upcoming temperature plunge. Water systems were turned off, windows boarded up and bedding was carefully placed in airtight containers in hopes the refugee mice would not reach them. What a bittersweet time it was.



Old Shed near Aunt Alma's cottage - seen better days...



      After hugging the cousins goodbye and having one last look around, we'd pile in the old Chevy and wave at the lake, knowing it would not be until Victoria Day weekend in May before we'd see it again.




Woodland Beach


     Those days are well behind me now. Although I'm tempted to be sad that the cottage is gone and so are many beloved family members,  - Mom and Grandma and Grandpa, there is much to be grateful for. This weekend the weather is perfect. The skies are clear and I'll still spend it with people I love. Thank you Lord for such good memories and many yet to be made.




One Last Look!

 

Point of View

        I arrived home one day five years ago, in the spring, to find four floppy baby squirrels on my porch inhibiting my entrance by crawling up my pantlegs. Since then, I have longed for a squirrel-free yard. I've not appreciated the high pitched scritching, and their relentless attempts to enter our home through miniscule gaps in the roofline. Especially despised were the red squirrels -their territorial hissing, their attempts to intimidate me, to have me dash to make it into my own car. Did they think I might one day drive away and not return? That they'd finally have the yard to themselves?



The Rocket

          But this summer, after watching one red squirrel daily, getting to know his personality, all that has changed. I've decided I like him. I admire him. I call him "Rocket", "Rocky" for short. That little dart makes me smile. I pointed out his habits to my husband and now we discuss him like a family member. This is what I see: Rocky thinks he is Lord of the Manor. He strives to rid our yard of every other member of the Sciuridae family. He runs the perimeter of the property, leaping from branches, slipping along the rail pipe fence and negotiating wires. He is a rocket. From his lordly perch high in the maple, he is ever watchful. No grey or black squirrels are allowed on our property. The tree nuts, keys, and cones are his. Somehow this non-mortgage payer thinks he owns it all.

        We have a young black walnut tree at the side of the house. This tree bears large, round nuts that look somewhat like limes. I have seen Rocky scale the tree and systematically shake down as many nuts as possible and then start a run, carrying one at a time from the side of the house to hide his cache in the thick evergreens that border that back of the property. To do this, he has to lift and carry something that is about one third the size that he is. The nut is bigger than his head, but his sharp incisors hold the nut firm as he uses his straggly tail to balance his way along. Before he hides the core of the nut, he usually sits in the maple tree and gnaws off the outer shell. But a few times, he brought still-green nuts, outer cores intact and displayed them on an evergreen branch about five feet off the ground. They were there for all to see. My imagination tells me that Rocky showed them to us. He must feel a sense of accomplishment and pride as he shows us his wares.



        At any rate, we've become accustomed to each other. He no longer hisses when we come into the yard, but he goes about his business at his usual break-neck pace. He watches and we watch. I find myself concerned when I've not seen him for a couple of days. Then there he is again, running his course. Why this is a delight to me, I don't know. But I'm glad of the change of heart toward this little creature in God's care.

Away

    Yesterday, after a particularly rough week, I begged my dear husband to take me “to the wilderness.” We’re usually people of lakes, rivers and streams, but every time we happen upon a forest or pond walk, we agree that we need to spend more time in the woods. The rich earth, the precarious hike over tree roots and muddy pools are a far cry from the pavement world in which we dwell. And this is the time of year that all the signs are there - our comfortable outside weather will soon end. Every time we’ve been couching, I’ve pointed out that these are the glory days of early autumn when the summer sun is still making a play - that these are the days we’ll long for when the furnace is roaring and we’re watching the cold, white world through panes of glass.

     So we headed out. The fishing gear was in the car, “in case”, but fishing was not the plan. We headed up to the Wye Marsh, a place I’ve only seen when supervising busloads of kids on school field trips. Yesterday, the Marsh was almost deserted. It was 23 degrees, slight breezy and intensely colorful. Ontario’s leaves are at the beginning of the turn, but the marsh grasses and bullrushes are already yellowing. Snakes and frogs skittered across the path in front of us as we wound our way through the expanse of waving reeds. Snapping turtles and green turtles surfaced and swam amidst swans and mallards. Stick bugs skimmed the pond surface keeping minnows and pumpkinseeds company below them. The air was clean, such a peaceful place.

 I felt my senses fill and my heart slow its beating. For a few hours, the stresses of our workplaces and family concerns took a back seat to migratory birds and aging water lilies. And I was filled with gratitude once more for time spent away.