Twin Pixie Studios

Music is drifting from the girls' bedroom where my two pixies remain awake and active despite the hour. Each night after reading we snuggle and whisper as I rub their backs. They often ask for a story about Gina when she was little - like them. Tonight I told their favorite: the story of when Gina pulled the fire alarm at school because she wanted to see the fire trucks.

When the story is over its time to say goodnight. Yet I make no effort to disentangle myself from the cozy nest of arms and legs we've become. They beg me to stay and I do, promising just a few more minutes. Every now and then they act up and, knowing I'm entirely responsible for the situation, I threaten to leave if they don't settle down. But we all know its an empty threat - I'll never leave them. Instead they will leave me, and sooner than I can bear to imagine. So I stay as long as possible, wrapped in the joy of holding these two little girls as close as I can before they fly away.

The rain begins, and the animals are crying at the door to be let in. So I get up.

And now I settle in to write, a small menagerie to keep me company. Little voices travel down the hallway and around the corner. Giggles. Laughter. A stern reprimand from Emma. Lily's inevitable cry. Heavy footsteps march down the hall, serious and purposeful. The light patter of a tiptoe run follows. Emma marches into the room and nearly catches me hiding an ice cream carton behind the chair. She has something to report. " Mama, she shouted at me." Lily's face is streaked with tears. "I said sorry!" she cries, collapsing dramatically at my feet. I send them back to bed, but Lily needs to be carried. As I pick her up I hear a spoon clatter to the floor. I know by the time I return the puppy will have devoured what remains of my clandestine treat.

Lily wraps her arms around me, nestling her head on my shoulder. The back of her crazy hair defies gravity, tickling my face, and her breath is warm on my neck. "Mama," she whispers, " I love you all the way to Africa and back." And I know I'll be there all night.

key to happiness

I'm sitting at the kitchen counter looking through the countless images of jewelry and artwork, hoping for inspiration. This is supposed to be blog about art and life, I keep reminding myself. I finally settle on this image of a bracelet I made about six months ago - its a vintage escutcheon with the word "happiness" encased in resin behind the keyhole. Its suppposed to inspire me write on...Nothing yet. I think I'll change my venue.

I've moved outside into the girls' playhouse in the back yard. Clusters of cumulus clouds drift overhead, in a cerulean sky. The girls are busy climbing up and down the sliding board as they wait for me to finish writing. A copy of Junie B. Jones and some Sneaky Peeky Spying sits beside me, a guilty reminder that it's nearly time to read in the hammock, and I'm doing something else.

"Mom, do you want to be an acrobat with us? You just have to practice and practice, and then you make up your own show."
What's it like to be an acrobat, I ask?
"Well, it just feels like being myself. It feels like happiness."

Its really so simple - that deep sense of knowing, innate to small children. The great irony is that as we age and become more "knowledgeable," we become ever more dependent on the world around us to guide us, to tell us what is right and good, what has value. Rather than allowing ourselves to trust that deep sense of knowing, we're compelled to chase after it - that nebulous detatched sense of what is "good" - that we too may be valued, important, ergo happy.

I often hesitate to write, or blog, as it were, for just that very reason: So much to say, but where to begin? So many stories to tell, stories that reflect my own deep sense of knowing that our humanity is the delicate thread that connects us all, each to the other, but am I really "good enough" to do this? To call myself an artist? Is it not arrogant to do so?

There are so many things to do and see in this crazy amazing life, and my journey thus far has been rich indeed. Now my greatest hope is is to leave the world a bit better by raising two girls who, despite the everything, continue to trust the wisdom of the inner voice. The one that has the clarity to say, "It feels like being myself. It feels like happiness."

Each afternoon as the sun eases its way toward the western horizon, the heat of the day giving way to the sweet coolness of early evening, we head out to the hammock. There, beneath the sprawling limbs of an apple tree heavy with fruit, we three spend an hour or so swinging and reading, reading and swinging. We read Stuart Little and Cinderella, and my personal favorite, Pippi Longstocking. We crunch on apples that have fallen fresh from the tree and sing silly songs and tickle each other until we can't stand it any longer. Then we'll head to the garden to pick flowers and look for butterflies. And all I can think is, this is it - this is what its all about.

If only I didn't have to go in and start dinner...

"wheeeeeee..."

There are some things that render me utterly speechless. Like family. And sisterhood. I am one of five sisters - number "two" to those veterans of large families whose first and often most pervasive sense of identity is attached to a number. And despite repeated efforts to express the fullness in my heart, words are inadequate. As such, I can only hope that the images in my last post - all family photos, sisters - tell the story. My own words are always inadequate. And this is why I make art. It is my peace, my joy, my pain, and my gratitude. It is my way of saying thank you to the great benevolent spirit that fills my life with so many blessings.

I recently made this necklace for a dear, kind, and generous friend who is like a sister to me. Her sweet face, so full of unbridled joy, is a reminder of the boundless potential that lies within. In the photo, she is flying on a playground merry-go-round. The tiny basket at the bottom, often referred to as a folk art "whimsey," was carved from a fruit pit by her grandfather. The basket, along with numerous other treasures, she gave to me in a beautiful red vintage paper box. Gifts, meant to be used in my art and jewelry. I often wonder - how did I get so lucky? Could I possibly deserve such a friend? I can only hope she feels my hand in hers, my love, each time she wears it.

It makes me want to say "Wheeeeeeeee..."

sisters

a volunteer harvest

One of my favorite things about late summer is the heading to the farmers market to gaze at the bountiful harvest: juicy tomatoes, sweet corn, tender lima beans, the inevitable bouquet of sunflowers. And each year I vow to get more organized in the spring so that the girls can have the great satisfaction of plucking a fresh ripe tomato from their own vine, one they nurtured from seed. Because those I did manage to get in the ground look pitiful, even bedraggled, what with the hot summer draught. "They look sad," says Emma. Even the goats are frustrated.

Then, a few weeks ago the heavens opened up and wept. The sad and shriveled plants are suddenly standing more erect. The pasture, green again, invites us to twirl until we fall. And there, at the foot of the goats' stall just beyond their reach, a modest garden grows. Two tomato plants and a butternut squash. Scraps fed to the goats, expelled and fertilized, become a volunteer harvest for our delight. "That's amazing!" Emma says to Nougat. Hmmm...seeds of hope?

beautiful chaos

Despite my true desire to work in a cleanish, if not organized space, the studio looks like th aftermath of a hurricane more often than not. When describing it to studio virgins, I jokingly refer to it as Sanford and Son-esque. There are two standard replies. The first and most prevalent: "You mean its a junk room?" In this case, I would rather have a root canal than invite them to my home, what with all the worry and fretting I'll do to remove the life-size dust bunnies that have accumulated while I've been foraging around in my "junk."

The second response begins with a subtle but distinctinve raising of the eyebrows, followed by a crinkling at the corner of the eyes. A slow grin. Clearly this one knows of the treasures the lie within, waiting to be uncovered (okay, unearthed might be a better term), discovered, trannformed. "Can I see?!" And now I'm giddy. The joy, pure joy, of sharing these things with those who understand, who see the tender spirit of something in all of its potential beauty.

As I write, I'm struck by my own simple folly. Don't we all desire to be loved - treasured - just as we are? And that fear of judgement, that someone might see the unsightly blemishes, the gargantuan dust bunnies that no longer fit confortably under the furniture and are now dancing freely across the wood floor in the autumn breeze, that fear can be paralyzing.

One of Gina's many gifts was that she never seemed to doubt herself. Every Saturday she spent the afternoon getting ready for 4:30 mass: hair, nails, jewelry, the whole shebang. She spent hours gazing at herself in the mirror as she primped for the big event. She would finally emerge in time to read a few pages of her latest steamy novel just before leaving (made Nana crazy that she read such "filth"). She was aways quite pleased with herelf, eliciting, "you look nice," from everyone in the room.

Her reply? "I always do." Every time. No arrogance, just a simple fact: I am beautiful, inside and out. Period. Couldn't we all use a little of that?

summer treats

There's nothing like the coast of New England in the summer. We've just returned from a week in RI, where we rented a cottage for a week - our little family vacation. The weather was disapointing but typically New England: cool, stormy, and wet. I love New England and often fantasize about living there again someday. And although I prefer swimming when the sun is out and the air temperature is above 62, the girls didn't seem to notice. It was a week of splashing in puddles, treasure hunting on the beach, and eating ice cream while watching the fishing boats in the port of Galilee. The magic of two little girls finding their first starfish humbled me.


I love saving vacation until the very end of the summer, when the shadows are long and the daylight is soft and precious, dwindling in expectation of a restful autumn.

I've just settled into an old comfortable couch at my folks house. We've come for a quick visit before they begin preschool later this week. As dad reads the girls' bedtime stories, I'm savoring a bowl of Mom's blackberry flummery. My second. The vanilla ice cream has melted under the sweet, thick blackberry juice into the gorgeous color I've always associate with late summer. Remember the first time you tried to mix oil colors using only primaries? The blackberries are the exact color I remember mixing from ultramarine and alizarin crimson, the blue-black of night. The vanilla ice cream beneath it is melting into a gorgeous, swirling creamy purple that in our family heralds the end of summer. I always hated that color when it occured by accidentally adding too much titanium white...I wonder if I'd have felt the same if it had been included in 64 box of crayolas. Really, who could resist a color called "blackberry flummery?"

I begin this post dumbstruck. My intention of late has been to let go and just write: about nothing, about the mundane, about the passage of time, the beauty of small things. My heart is so full, yet I can't seem to find the words to tell this story. I sit down to write. Nothing comes.

The phone rings. I'm relieved. It's mom. She's going to the store to order some curtains and wants to know: how far is it from the top of the box spring to the floor? On the girls' bed. She wants them to have a nice bed skirt. You can call me back, she says. No. I'll forget. Let me do right now...I can't find my tape measure. The kids were using it yesterday for tug of war, and when an argument broke out - there were 3 kids and only 2 ends to tug on - I took it away. I don't want anyone to get hurt, I told them, but really I wasn't up to the task of playing referee, so I put it in a "safe place." Now I can't find it. So I settle for a plastic ruler and do my best. Somewhere between 17 and 18" - does that sound right? Yes, she says, she just needed to know if she should get an 18 or 20" skirt. Thanks ma.

Em and Lil each have their own room, but they sleep together in Emma's room, in her bed. It was mom's bed. The same one she shared with her sister Gina until she got married at 25. Whenever we went to visit - my four sisters and I, we slept with Gina in that same bed. Gina had Downs syndrome, born in 1948, at a time when such a "condition" was seen as hopeless. The medical community recommended she be institutionalized, warning she wouldn't live more than a few weeks at best. Just leave her behind, they suggested, and move on with your life. My grandmother Nana was 48 at the time, my Opah was 52. Mom was 8.

My eyes fill with tears as I write now. Not for the sadness of her loss, but with joy and gratitude. From the moment she arrived in this world, Gina defied all expectations. She experienced every moment as worthy, and was not afraid to feel the true depth of her emotions, whether joy or despair. And she had that uncanny ability to see clearly. One of my favorite books is The Little Prince, in which Antoine de Saint Exupery shares the greatest of all wisdom: "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." That was Gina. But always with a little mischief up her sleeve.

Gina died in 2002, shortly after I became pregnant with Emma. But her spirit remains everpresent. Recently we were visiting my sister Sara, who now lives in my grandmother's house. We took the kids to the attic to search for George, the 6' black snake who often leaves his skin hanging over the rafters. It's a 250yo civil war era house, and the attic is full of mystery and aura. The kid love such adventures, and find it in no way creepy, unlike the adults. Suddenly, in the quiet of the dusty filtered light and creaking floorboards, Lily began to giggle. And she couldn't stop. What is it, I asked? Its Gina, she said. She's tickling me! And I'm sure she was. Perhaps someday I'll tell her story, for it is her greatest gift.

twirling...

As I sit down to write this glorious late summer morning, I am plagued once again by the broken record of my own inner monologue, the one that insists this blogging thing is an act of vanity. It may as well be Carley Simon singing "You're so vain..."

However, I've recently been reminded of an incident that has profoundly changed my perspective on blogging. Shortly after finishing graduate school, I was working as a therapist with children and adolescent victims of domestic violence and sexual abuse. Somehow I believed I had made some grave error while working with a young boy, and shamefully confessed my mistake during a meeting with my supervisor. I was convinced my poor clinical judgement had ruined this poor boy's hope of recovery. My supervisor tilted her head forward, looked over the rim of her glasses and said in monotone, "Anne, you're not that powerful."

So it is with that in mind that I have given myslf permission to blog. It is with great relief that I will begin to write NOT about what makes me important, but rather about what is important to me. My pixies Emma and Lily, motherhood, family, compassion, love, and the long journey to that peaceful place within that feels like home. And it is there, in that return to the heart of childhood, that the infinite capacity for joy resides. This is the story I hope to live in this life and share through my art. Don't we all want to twirl until we fall down, giggling in the fresh green grass?