Lily's lid obsession

Lily seems to have developed an obsession with the clear plastic lids from hairspray bottles. Quite often, I find her nosing around on the bathroom counter looking for a stray lid, or reaching into the top drawer hoping to find one hiding there. When she finds a lid, she'll carry it IN HER MOUTH around the house. I have never been able to get a photo of her with a clear lid in her mouth, but trust me -- it is quite a sight. From a distance, you can't see the lid, so it looks like she's just walking around with her mouth wide open. :-)

Extreme cuteness aside, I've explained to Lily that it is not safe to put lids in her mouth. A lid could easily get caught in her teeth or lodge in her throat. Whenever I find her with one, I have to take it away, and that makes her sad.

So every evening, I find her scouring the bathroom looking for new lids to steal. She's obsessed!

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On another note, thank you to everyone who took the time to respond to my questions about scrapbooking classes! When I submit my article, it becomes property of the magazine, so I will not be able to share it with you directly. But eventually it will be posted on the magazine's website, so I can post the link at that time. Again...many, many thanks!

A few favorites

I taught a journaling class over the weekend. What a treat! We laughed, we cried, we hugged...Hands down, journaling is my absolute favorite topic to teach. That's because I believe it is so vital and liberating for each of us to tell our stories. I love helping people learn simple techniques to do just that.

As part of the class, we talked about using quotes, poems, lyrics, or book excerpts on our pages -- as a supplement to personal journaling, or as the journaling itself when we lack information about the photos. Today I thought I would share a few of my favorite sites:

Quotes

http://www.simplescrapbooksmag.com/quotes/

http://www.twopeasinabucket.com/peasoup.asp

http://www.quotationspage.com/

http://www.quoteland.com/ -- my favorite

http://en.thinkexist.com/

Lyrics

http://www.lyrics.com/

http://www.lyricsmania.com/

Book excerpts / quotes

http://www.litquotes.com/

http://www.literary-quotations.com/

Poems

http://www.netpoets.com/poems/

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/

2Peas Blogging Challenge: Journaling

Sunday's challenge (which I'm doing on Tuesday!) was about journaling: Do you do enough of it? Does it always relate to your photos? To answer the challenge questions: Yes, I usually do enough journaling, and yes, it always relates to my photos.

Journaling is near and dear to my heart. I enjoy the writing process, and that was one of the main reasons I started scrapbooking. I look at my scrapbooks as storybooks; the photos are simply the illustrations.

Since I teach scrapbooking classes, I know that people often struggle with journaling. Many people add it as an afterthought, if at all. My opinion is that family and personal stories are a critical part of the scrapbooking process. Without the stories, your photos will not mean as much to future generations. But write the stories, and you'll live on through your scrapbooks.

Because journaling is so important to me, I typically start a layout by thinking about the story that needs to be told, and quite often I write it before even working on the layout. Blogging ties in very nicely to this process: I often write blog posts with the specific intention of using them on future layouts.

Having said this, I sometimes fall short of my own expectations. Journaling can be a very emotional step in the process for me, and there are times when I simply don't have the energy or desire to go as deeply into the story as I probably should. And there are stories that are simply too painful for me to write. But I do try to capture at least the basic facts on every layout that I create.

I don't consider a layout or project complete until the story is told.

A Few of My Favorite Words

I was thinking last night about words that I have a particular fondness for, or words that I tend to use frequently. This topic crossed my mind for no apparent reason, as things often do. Intrigued by my growing list, I asked my spouse to contribute by suggesting words (or even phrases) that I use frequently. For a second or two, he feigned interest. But in the time it took me to fetch a pencil, he fell asleep in the recliner without making even a single contribution.

So here, in no particular order, is a partial list of My Favorite Words, to be expanded whenever he wakes up.

Morsel -- A tiny piece of something, most often food. Our cat, Tinsel, also answers to this word (as well as stencil, gristle, pencil, utensil, and a host of other "-il/-el" words).

Tidbit -- Can be used interchangeably with "morsel", except that it does not always connote food and Tinsel does not respond to it. A downright cute word.

Frock -- Any type of clothing item. Call it a frock and it suddenly improves. Well, at least I think it does.

Troller -- A shortened version of "TV remote control -ler", presumably coined at our house. Obviously, not a real word, but one that I've accidentally uttered in civilized conversation.

Paucity -- An extreme lack of something; scarcity. "There is a paucity of food in the fridge." I just love the sound of this word. It makes even scarcity sound elegant.

Bucolic -- Conjures up images of peaceful, rolling hills. Pastoral, shepherdy, even. A fun word to throw into a conversation.

Plethora -- A lot of something; as in "veritable plethora". Opposite of "paucity".

If you are so inclined (as opposed to RE-clined, like my spouse), my challenge to you is to list your own favorite words. Thinking about this topic may make you more aware of the vocabulary you use.

Or, it may cure you of insomnia.

Circles

I’ve been thinking about circles lately, noticing circles around me in architecture, in design. I tend to see circles more than other shapes because I’ve never really liked them much. I’m a linear person. I like the order and predictability of lines and angles. I much prefer straight lines to curves.

It’s funny how life sometimes takes this linear person in a circle, back to the point from which I started. The notion occurs to me this afternoon as I sit on a wooden bench, looking out the slanted window of the second floor of the music building at Drake University. A light rain has been falling, and it blurs my view of the sidewalk below. It is summer now and the building is nearly empty. All is quiet, except for the sound of a lone clarinet from down the hall.

Sitting here today, my mind wanders back to another summer twenty-some years ago when I first climbed the steps of this very building. I was a high school student at the time, and I was apprehensive about studying piano at a university. Yet my instructor was kind and funny and full of stories. I found him entertaining, and in the process I actually learned a few things.

I practiced my lessons on this very same floor on the days I was dropped off early or hadn’t worked hard enough at home. In this same building, I prepared for recitals in the auditorium with my instructor. He always sat in the top row. And no matter how I performed, he always clapped. It was here in this building that I gained confidence in my abilities and made decisions about my future, whatever I thought that meant. You know, in summer, the future always seems full of possibilities.

I remember after that particular summer, my life began to change. I continued my piano lessons and eventually left for college. Following that came a move to Chicago. Marriage. A series of high-pressure jobs. Graduate school. Apartments, houses. A move back to Iowa. A baby. What had started as a clean, linear path began to curve, although I didn’t think about it at the time.

Today as I sit on this wooden bench, I can hear the familiar flip, flop of sandals walking toward me from down the hall. I peek around the corner and from a distance, I can see a teen-aged girl toss her long hair confidently over one shoulder. She swings her black music bag back and forth. I move so she can’t see me.

Twenty-some years ago, this girl with the long, auburn hair could have been me. It’s me I see in her walk, in the way she carries herself. Yet this young woman walking down the hall is not me. It’s my daughter, nearly the same age I was when I walked this very path. She, too, is here to study music. To take lessons from an instructor whose studio just happens to be next door to that of my old teacher. It’s summer, and her future is full of possibilities.

Funny how life sometimes brings you back to where you started. And when you get there, you realize you’ve actually traveled in a circle when you thought you were headed in a straight line.

I’m starting to believe now that circles might be ok after all. A circular path in life brings you back to a place that is comfortably familiar and allows you to see it for what it was, and what it is now, with a new perspective. It enables you to see how different your life is than you’d expected it to be, how much you’ve changed, and how much you really haven’t. It begs you to compare your current reality to the future that was so full of possibilities. And somehow, contemplating all of this lifts you up and readies you for the path ahead, whatever shape it may take.

“Ready to go, Mom?” she asks.

I smile. Yeah, I’m ready.

A poem from the past

I've been digging through massive amounts of stuff from my past lately. I have found many poems and stories I wrote as a child. This is one of my favorites. I don't know exactly when I wrote it, but I'm guessing by the printing and paper it is written on that I was probably in 5th or 6th grade. When I find things like this, it makes me think that maybe I really haven't changed that much after all. I loved writing then, and I still do. I really get a kick out of the last phrase. That's still a problem for me!

Untitled

As the leaves are all gone off the tree,
It’s time to submit some small poetry.
And as I start this small little mite
I know not what I’m going to write.
I know that I have a terrible urge
To write this poem and invariably surge
Forward into ecstasy –
Fame and fortune all for me!
So as I continue on to write
And see more letters on the white
Paper that’s in front of me
Hang on tight and you will see
How really talented I can be
As I surge forward into ecstasy!
And as I near the half of the page
There’s really no way I can gauge
Exactly what this poem will say.
All I know is that today
I have this uncontrollably wonderful urge
That into ecstasy my self will surge.
By submitting this poem until your brain
I hope that you may possibly gain
Some knowledge then and maybe know
Exactly, truly why I’ll go
Forward into ecstasy.
Would you like to come with me?
All you’d have to do is write
A wonderful poem – just like this mite.
But maybe that isn’t possible at all
Cause I’m so talented and by gol’
I’m getting tired and wore and sore
But I know you really do adore
This small bit of poetry
Submitted by the only me.
I’m slurring my speech and beginning to drawl
And I guess I really said nothing at all.

Compelled

Compelled.

Full. I am full to overflowing. Full of words, stories, thoughts that need to make their way to paper. Ideas take shape and begin to develop. Thoughts roll around in my mind until I can no longer contain them. I need to write.

From a young age, I wrote poetry. Sometimes rhyming verse, sometimes free form. Sometimes humorous, but often dark. Then time rolled on. Perfectionism took hold. The desire to write was pushed back to somewhere deep inside. But it has always been in me. Waiting.

Through my scrapbooks, the words have begun bubbling up again. I scrapbook primarily because I love to write. With a scrapbook, I have a reason to write. A subject to write about. An opportunity to weave meaning into my work. Through scrapbooking, I’ve mustered the courage to write more and more freely, expressing things that have long gone unheard. And the more I do it, the more compelled I am to continue.

Two separate conversations with editors have given me confidence. The first editor hugged me close and whispered, “You need to write.” The second editor, when I suggested that I’m not a real writer, asked me how writing feels. I told her that the more I write, the more I want to write. “Oh,” she smiled. “Most people find writing challenging and frustrating. If this is how you feel, you’re a real writer.”

So here we go. I have no idea where this may take me or what words may come forth. But I know that they are inside me, waiting for me to shape them into something of meaning.

Library Day

Shelving. Checking in. Checking out. Alphabetizing. Searching. Finding just the right book for a wide-eyed second grader. People ask me why I still volunteer at the Beaver Creek Elementary Library when I no longer have a child who goes there. The easy answer is this: I love to be surrounded by books, and I love the order created by shelving them. I actually appreciate the look of books in order on the shelves. Each book has its own address, and when all the books are in place, it feels good. All the spines are lined up, just so. It’s satisfying to look for a book and find it, exactly where it is supposed to be. These are all things I love about working in the library.

But dig a little deeper and I just might tell you the real reason I work in the library.

When I was an elementary school student myself, thirty-odd years ago, one of my favorite days of the week was Library Day. Our library was on the top floor of the school, and I was always anxious to climb the painted cement stairs to pick out new books. I can still remember the feel of the construction-paper bookmark with its mimeographed seasonal picture...maybe a kite or a snowflake. There was something about going to the library that always gave me a sense of optimism, of excitement. In fact, I always believed that given enough time, I’d read every book on the shelves, starting with the letter A.

I can still remember the slight mustiness of the library, yet new books always smelled fresh when I opened them for the first time. Pulling on the drawer of library cards, but not pulling so hard that whole drawer would come crashing down. Listening quietly to a story while sitting cross-legged on the floor.

But the main reason I loved going to the library so much was because of our librarian. She taught us how to handle books so they would stay like new. She showed us the ways of Dewey Decimal so that we could find any bit of information we needed with the fun of a treasure hunt. She fostered in us a deep appreciation for books, not only for the information they contained, but also for the way they could open doors for us. In books, we could realize our potential. In books, we could learn everything, and that knowledge could take us anywhere.

Then one summer before school started, I learned that my librarian had been killed in a motorcycle accident. Suddenly I realized that she had had a family...a husband, daughters, a farm...even a motorcycle. How hard it was to picture her doing anything else except helping us in the library. How hard it was to believe that she wouldn’t be back in the fall. To this day, I have no recollection of who replaced her. She’s the only librarian I can remember.

And to this day, I handle books in a certain way because of her. I love research and thumbing through pages of picture books. I love the smell of the library. The stacks of colorful bookmarks. Covering a new book to keep it safe. Reading. Shelving. Checking in, checking out. Helping a reluctant student find a book that just might inspire her to read.

I really work in the library because my librarian awakened in me a lifelong love of learning. Library Day takes me back to those days long ago. It nurtures that tender, optimistic part of my soul. And from time to time, I still need that.

Teddy's Big Day

Looking back over photos from last year, this one has to be one of my favorites. The 100-year old teddy bear with the blue ribbon belonged to my dear grandma who passed away a couple of Februarys ago.

Mom knew that Teddy was somewhere in Grandma's house. When sorting through boxes and trunks in the hot and musty attic, Mom felt a distinctive lump in the bottom of a black plastic garbage back buried under a pile of insulation. She knew immediately that it was Teddy. She carried him carefully down the rickety stairs into the light.

The minute I saw Teddy, I recognized him like an old, forgotten friend. Mom carefully dusted his golden fur. I was sure that I could see a gleam in his eye.

Suddenly I could remember playing with Teddy on Sunday afternoons as a child at Grandma's house. In those days, he wore a little green outfit that Grandma had sewn for him. Teddy had been well-loved by three generations.

Teddy sat in my parent's family room until it was time for him to travel to the Iowa State Fair last August. Imagine how that must have felt to Teddy: All those years trapped in a garbage bag and now to be on display in Pioneer Hall. On opening day of the fair, we found Teddy sitting tall in a glass case, proudly sporting a blue ribbon.

Well-deserved, Teddy. Your day has come.