PAIN, Part 3: Creativity in the Midst of Pain

Part 1, "An Introduction to the Subject of Pain"
Part 2, "My Personal Pain Story: The Pink Porcupine"
Part 3, "Creativity in the Midst of Pain"
Part 4, "What Others Have Written on Pain and Suffering"
Part 5, "Resources Related to Pain Management"

Please bookmark Appalachian Morning or click at this link to add it to your RSS Feed or Google Reader as I will update these posts from time to time. You can also follow along on posts by "liking" Appalachian Morning on Facebook.

Disclaimer: I am not a psychologist. physician, physiologist, or therapist. I have no medical or mental health training whatsoever. Therefore, no advice, medical or psychological, is intended or implied by any of the posts in this series on PAIN.

PAIN, Part 3: Creativity in the Midst of Pain

So many of my feelings and beliefs about creativity and how it relates to pain stem from the experience I had as a teenager over an eighteen-month period when I was ill with mono and then a benign tumor in my neck and three surgeries related to it. I would gather my sewing box, sketchbook, miniature poodle Suzi, and small b/w TV and, with Vernor's ginger ale close by to counteract the peroxide mixture I had to gargle with, I would retreate to my bed for the day, making tiny felt creatures and sketching farm scenes in pencil.

Perhaps it should be pointed out that I was a bit of an introvert, already enjoying creative pursuits, and I had the encouragement of my parents and the time to give to experimenting with arts and crafts. I also had a wonderful high school art teacher, Mrs. Catherine Lotze, who inspired me and even invited me into her home to show me the beautiful things she and her mother before her had made. So, though my love of making things did not begin with illness, the illness gave me time to nourish the tiny seed of creativity genetics or environment or parental guidance (or a mix of all three) gave to me.

In 2006 and 2007 when I was working on Open Your Heart with Pets: Mastering Life through Love of Animals, I solicited stories about people and their pets. Many of the stories I received concerned the manner in which the writer's pet had comforted and cared for them during illness. And, as I delved into the subject of pain this month, I found another commonality: many folks use creativity as an outlet to express or escape from pain.

When I am in discomfort or pain (in my layperson's terminology, I am using "discomfort" to indicate pain that only marginally interferes with undertaking one's usual activities and "pain" to indicate a level of feeling that does significantly impact one's normal activities), I can pick up the tools I'm using for the book illustration project of that month, work on my novel-in-progress, or grab some needlework and, perhaps like a person who has learned to meditate well, I mentally dive into the task at hand and my focus is on it and not on how I feel. Not on what hurts. Art takes me away the way nothing else can, or ever has.

When I put down the creative task and try to watch what for me is mindless TV—or talk on the phone, do laundry, or fuss in the kitchen—everything my body feels floods back. For me, creativity is truly an escape, and I wonder, sometimes, if those closest to me know how much of an escape it has been. For, looking back, that escape was not always a good thing. There were things—issues, problems—that at times needed addressed, but for me I went to the comforting thing I knew: making something. Controlling tangible materials to create something I judged as good. But, we'll save the psychoanalysis for another time and for the purpose of this post let's assume delving into creative work is a good way to cope with pain.

Surprisingly, some of my best work has been done when I've been ill and/or in pain. The collage below was done while recoving from a hysterectomy in 1994. I piled magazines on my bed and, scissors in hand, cut out images that related to me and appealed to me as a woman. This was a few years before I started my own business, and the company I worked for had given me a health leave of six weeks. My mother came to stay with me for a few weeks to help with the household and children and this allowed me the time to recover and to delve into something purely for fun, cutting and pasting magazine images; something I've liked to do since I was a little girl.

In 2002, I spent a winter month ill with something I don't even remember now, and decided to paint some watercolors of birds. My "Birds of the World" painting was born, which has sold many prints at Cafe Press and also led to a commission for two watercolors, one of scarlet macaws and one of an eagle.

The work featuring abstract shapes that follows is one of a series of drawings I created using Sharpie markers. This was in the winter of 2006 and every evening after work I settled into a small faux-leather chair, alone in my centuries old house after my sons flew the nest. A wooden tray on my lap to hold a pad of Bristol Board and a table nearby for every color of permanent marker Sharpie makes, I would listen to the TV as I recovered from a painful illness that drained me of energy, sapped my strength with fever and medication, and introduced me to a new level of pain and discomfort. (Fortunately, after an operation later in the year, I made a complete recovery.)

Once I did the first drawing in what I note in my computer files as "bold abstracts" (shown above), I was hooked and did many versions using Sharpies and then later branching out into Prismacolor and also in acrylic (see two images below). This was a big breakthrough for me in terms of my "fine art" work (as opposed to illustration or work-for-hire) and it all started when I was ill. It was a purely right-brained process putting these shapes and colors down. I did a very simple sketch of shapes first, but the placement of colors was purely intuitive. I never thought about whether or not these drawings would sell or show... I delighted in the process and these drawings are some of my favorites that I've ever done. (You can see more of these at http://www.gallery.janicephelps.com/.)

There is a sterotype and misconception of artists as being unhappy, addictive, dysfunctional creatures toiling away in a poorly lit studio alone, with holes in their sweaters and not enough to eat because they've sacrified everything for their art. This may be true of some creative folk, but I do not think it is a prerequisite to creating masterpieces, or even simply art that is worthwhile to the artist and to those who enjoy it in homes, businesses, and museums. I don't smoke or drink alcohol, and other than a brief time working at a table set up behind a furnace in the basement of the rental house I shared with 8 other women in the late '70s, I've not toiled away in darkness, and now live in a nice home with heat and a/c and skylights. I'm responsible and dependable. So, what gives? Does my subconscious think I have to pay for my good fortune by getting sick? No, I don't think so.

I think it far more likely that the physiology of my body is such that certain malfunctions are likely to happen, given the right circumstances of time and place and whomever I am in contact with (in the case of germs) and perhaps the stress in my life at that time. I can minimize risk through behavior and personal management, but there is only so much that I can control.

I've come to think that what is more likely is that I learned at a young age to cope with pain by escaping into a world of creative endeavors. When focusing on the process of making something unique, my brain successfully blocks out pain. When faced with severe pain, it is a different matter, of course. In the rare times in my life when I've been too ill to draw, craft, or read, I know it's serious. Yet, even at those times I have closed my eyes and thought about future projects, even when I was unable to act on my thoughts right then.

One of my very favorite books is The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby, the 43-year-old editor of Elle magazine in France. Struck by a sudden, paralyzing illness; unable to speak or move anything but his left eye, Bauby communicated his thoughts to an assistant and the results are this slim, heart-breakingly beautiful book. (I cannot believe that the hardcover edition is no longer available; but luckily you can obtain the paperback, Kindle, or audio version.) The publisher states: "Rather than accept his 'locked in' situation as a kind of death, Bauby ignited a fire of the imagination under himself and lived his last days--he died two days after the French publication of this slim volume--spiritually unfettered." I read Bauby's book for the first time over a decade ago and know that it was one of the most influential books I've ever read, and it remains so.

It is important that when we are busy with the responsibilities of life, the sacrifices we make for others or the things that we must do simply to live in the world, or coping with pain or illness, that we take time, at least a bit of time, to enjoy the beauty around us, in the way that is right for us (in other words, not what someone tells us we should appreciate or do or create, but what really is right for us). The photo above shows petals from coral-colored roses. I loved their color and the way the petals look against the white plate. Here, also, is an image that is reminiscent of a painting; but it is simply the sunlight coming through the windowshade of the 100-year-old house I used to live in. Just seeing this, gave me hope. So, you see, even if you are not able to create something, your mind can be thinking creatively. It can "go there" and comfort you.

I've enjoyed making Artist Trading Cards (ATCs) and here is a fun one I made using the gold foil lining from a package of French cigarettes my husband had. The cigs got tossed, but I kept the pretty foil and added to it dried daubs of acrylic paint and a saying I liked. I later found, when reading Elizabeth Edwards' autobiography, that she had this saying painted on a wall in her home, I believe in the kitchen. That made the ATC even more special to me. (You can find many ATC trading groups online and trade with others all over the world. A good way to interact with others if illness keeps you homebound.)

In Pain, Part 4, I'll list things that others have said about pain. But I'd like to include here a few words by fellow blogger/writer/artist February Grace. I asked her to weigh in on the pain-creativity connection:

"I’ve been using creative thought to distract myself from pain since childhood, though I didn’t realize that was what I was doing until a few years ago. While there are definitely kinds of pain that no amount of creativity can divert your attention from completely, personally I find that no matter how bad it gets, if I can even for a few minutes direct my thoughts purposely toward something, someone, or somewhere else of my choosing, then the pain seems more tolerable. Creative thought is something I still have control over, even when I have no control over what my body is doing to me.

"You never know, either, where those thoughts can lead. The novel I’m currently working on came to me as an idea in the middle of a night last summer when I was too sick to even lift my head or open my eyes. The pain was immeasurable, and aside from it, all I was aware of in the room was the sound of the three-clocks-in-one I have on the far wall, all ticking. I focused on that sound, one thought led to another, last fall I started writing the book and now, it’s a story dear to my heart."

In Summary:
It's my hope that in times of health you will find a creative outlet. Let go of needing to be really good at the thing you are interested in, whether it be music or painting, needlework, poetry, writing, or baking... Whatever it is, enjoy the process, treasure the journey and appreciate the results as an indication of the willingness within you to try new things.

Begin this practice when you are well and strong and then, if the time comes when you find your well-being challenged, you'll have a creative outlet to escape into. It will feel familiar—like a comfortable sweater or a pillow that seems perfect in every way—an ideal place to rest, recharge, and locate the peace you need to heal.

PAIN Part 2: The Pink Porcupine

Part 1, "An Introduction to the Subject of Pain"
Part 2, "My Personal Pain Story: The Pink Porcupine"
Part 3, "Creativity in the Midst of Pain"
Part 4, "What Others Have Written on Pain and Suffering"
Part 5, "Resources Related to Pain Management"

Please bookmark Appalachian Morning or click at this link to add it to your RSS Feed or Google Reader as I will update these posts from time to time. You can also follow along on posts by "liking" Appalachian Morning on Facebook.

Disclaimer: I am not a psychologist. physician, physiologist, or therapist. I have no medical or mental health training whatsoever. Therefore, no advice, medical or psychological, is intended or implied by any of the posts in this series on PAIN.

PAIN: The Pink Porcupine

"...we can let the circumstances of our lives harden us so that we become increasingly resentful and afraid, or we can let them soften us and make us kinder and more open to what scares us. We always have this choice." The Places that Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times by Pema Chodron

MY RELATIONSHIP TO THE HEATING PAD BEGINS
When was the first time you experienced pain? For me, it was in my ears, and this is curious as I grew up to give birth to a son who has struggled with a hearing disorder for nearly thirty years now and undergone two painful ear operations. I had horribly painful earaches (called "bealed ears") as a young girl (before age five). And, way back then there were no "tubes" to insert. The heating pad and late-night TV were my companions as I remember being up in the middle of the night, on the sofa, covered with a homemade afghan, the heating pad, and some long-forgotten program on the b/w television. To this day, I associate the smell of a heating pad with being a little girl.

The earaches felt like an ice pick, slowly pushing ever harder against my eardrum and radiating into my jaw, eye, and temple. The muffling of sound was accompanied by a thick, yellow liquid medicine (of which I can still remember the smell) that was not as gross as the liquid that stained my girlish pillowcase each morning when I awoke.

The earaches were the worst pain I'd felt in my young life and were, I realize now, an introduction to the pain that life can bring. When my parents loaded me in my flannel pajamas into the car for a ride to the hospital to have my tonsils out (as this was thought to perhaps help), I didn't worry about the surgery, I didn't know what surgery was. I kept my eyes focused on the shoebox on the front seat between my parents. In it was a surprise that I would get once settled in at the hospital: a Raggedy Ann doll. I can remember the anesthesiologist asking me what presents I received for Christmas and in the middle of my answer I fell into a deep sleep, had my tonsils removed and was never bothered by earaches again.

Just before my fourteenth birthday I came down with a nasty bout of mononeucleousis followed months later by a growth on the right side of my neck, between my jaw and collarbone. At Halloween that year I was in a semiprivate room having the abcess drained. I don't remember pain from this operation, but learn about pain I surely did, as the middle-aged woman sharing a room with my young self was undergoing an operation for hemmorhoids. She cried, and screamed, and cried and begged for relief, interspersing her moans with German words I didn't need an interpreter to understand. I promised myself to find out what on earth caused such a horrible condition so I would never have to have done to me whatever it was she had endured.

The following Halloween, at age 15, I was back in the hospital again for a repeated procedure to drain the abscess in my neck. I remember the pain associated with this period because the growth pressed against the year-old scar tissue of my previous surgery and felt like some alien creature was in my neck struggling to rip through my skin and break free.

It was hard enough being a skinny, flat-chested teenage girl with a big nose in a school with cliques galor, without also having a neck swollen on one side like a linebackers' physique, and after surgery a scar that looked like something from "The Bride of Frankenstein." I had already traded toe shoes for drawing pencils and a guitar, and it was a good thing for I spent a lot of time in bed, keeping myself occupied with various craft projects and learning new songs. In December the abscess returned and after putting up the Christmas tree, my parents and I trudged off to yet another hospital where the surgeon removed the tumor once and for all and carefully improved upon the scar left by the previous doctor. Today, it is only noticable if you're looking for it and is easily covered completely with make-up, but I still love wearing turtleneck sweaters.

MY RELATIONSHIP TO THE ICE BAG BEGINS
A few years ago I woke up in the middle of the night ready to scream as it felt as if an ice pick was inserted in my right knee. I couldn't move or straighten my leg. Within seconds I practiced calmly breathing, rolled from side to back and slowly extended my knee, which then only ached mildly for a few hours. But it was terrifying. To be peacefully asleep and wake up in such excrutiating pain! And then it happened again, and again, and again. One night I felt that this was something I could not live with and I was becoming afraid to go to sleep at night. Newly married, my husband was being startled from his sleep by a screaming, sobbing wife.

But, it happened only once in a while, perhaps once a month at most. X-rays were done and showed a piece of floating bone. Surgery was scheduled, and while no floating bone piece was discovered by the surgeon, a good amount of arthritis was, and this was scraped out. A few months after the surgery, I had the stabbing pain at night again, though it was not as severe. I was disheartened. But, fortunately, it seems to have abated. I remain hopeful, but also empathetic every time I see someone with their leg in a brace, indicating recent injury or surgery. To me, this was on a level of Jack Bauer-related torture, and I'm afraid I would give up all State secrets fairly quickly.

This past month I have had a painful infection (facial cellulitis prompted by an infected tooth in my lower jaw), and now I am starting to see pain as an entity, separate from myself but often attaching itself to me . . . going along with me through several periods of my life. Popping up, like an unwanted houseguest, at the most inopportune moments and always staying longer than expected. When it takes its leave, I am so grateful and eager to forget it that I mentally push the experience deep into the trash compactor of my subconscious so that I can refocus on beautiful, happy, fun, interesting things such as painting and writing and my family and pets and trees and snow and baking.

Then, for reasons that seem to have something to do with genetics or bad luck, pain shows up again just as I've really started to forget about it, and I am forced to prioritize and juggle all the wonderful things I love with this big pink porcupine of pain metaphorically (or literally) on my back.

IS IT MY FAULT?
I've wondered if there is some unconscious draw within me that beckons pain and illness to come closer and stay awhile. Do I feel that I have so many blessings in life that I must pay for them by an equal does of pain? Do I feel guilty for having a home, a good marriage, two grown sons, enough to eat, a fulfilling career, and pretty much everything I want, and thereby unconsciously assuage this guilt by getting sick? I don't think that is it, for I've had times in my life where things were very tough financially and in other ways too. I don't feel the world owes me the good things I enjoy now, but I don't feel guilty about having them either. Like most people have been through a lot and come out all right; I'm happy with where I am in life.

IS IT GENETICS?
Could my frequent visits from pain-the-entity be a result of genetics? Does pain keep a record of family trees, visiting one generation then the next? My father had some of the same achey-breaky conditions that plague me. Dad had the back, joint, and lung issues, for instance. His parents died when he was three (his dad) and four (his mom) of respiratory or viral illnesses. Asthma, arthritis, and allergies run in my family...as in run toward us.

And my eldest son has had more than any child's fair share of pain, which has caused not a little psychological pain for me. Watching your child endure is a particular kind of torture, I think. It is of some comfort that his disability involves a sensory disorder, and he seems to take illnesses that would bring me to my knees in his stride. Through six years of wound care to his legs, through many issues with his teeth and operations on his ears as well as a progressive hearing loss, even through a severe beating several years ago, he plods forward with his life, seldom complaining of pain or discomfort. It is almost a gift, how he seems to feel so little. But when I see the nurse unwrap his lower legs and stare at six years of seldom-healed wounds and scars from a condition that seems particularly unkind on the body of a young man with so many challenges already, I blanche and feel as if I might faint. I have had to learn how to adopt the matter-of-fact attitude of his nurse, of himself. It has not been easy for this queasy mother to do.

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME HAS THORNS JUST AS SHARP.
When I decided to write on this blog about pain, I did so to learn more about it and also to reach out to others who share this aspect of life. For some reason, in the midst of pain, I wanted to battle it by going deeper into the subject. I was in the middle of a painful week with facial cellulitis, an illness the endodontist described as possibly "life threatening," bumbling my way through each workday with the help of Tylenol 3 and icepacks held up with pillows against my swollen face while I sat on the couch and drew or typed or read. I was not allowed to lie down to sleep, and this bothered me more than I expected. The antibiotics and other medications played havoc with my sleeping schedule, and I found myself staring at my laptop's keyboard in the wee hours of the morning, wanting only to drink coffee and write.

I began to make a list of "all the stupid painful illnesses and procedures I've had in a half-century of life." (When you are unwell, you feel "half-a-century" old; when you are well, you feel, oh, "a bit past forty.") When I compiled the list, then healed from cellulitis, then looked at the list again, I realized the particulars did not matter. What brought the pain doesn't matter. What matters is that it was there and what it has taught me about being human, being mortal. So, I will spare you a list and ask you to trust me when I say, I know what it is like to feel pain so intense you wonder how you will face another day, but you want that day so much that you hang on and come out the other side. Fortunately for me, I have never gotten to the point of not wanting that next day, and the hope it might bring, to arrive. But I've come close enough to it to understand how powerful and all-encompasing pain can be.

Painful illnesses accompanied me as I raised children, moved from FL to OH, worked at my business, wrote books and painted and embarked on a thousand wonderful, life-affirming things. In other words, though pain is sometimes there, it is not all that's there, and I find that comforting.

Pain, I realized recently, is almost like an entity, a character, in the play of my life. If I had to draw it, I would draw it as a pink porcupine. Pink, because I love the color, and a porcupine because no one really wants to hold a porcupine very close at all. The pink porcupine might have been on my back (or various places within my body), at times, but at other times it wasn't there at all. It did not define me, and after each challenge I was able to move along toward more comfortable times. I say this not to brag, but to express thankfulness and impart encouragement. I have long been a fan of Sarah Ban Breathnach and her Simple Abundance Journal of Gratitude as well as Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy. Writing down and thinking about the many blessings I've enjoyed in my life, have worked like a vitamin to hold me up during times of pain, to give me hope, to help me avoid self-pity.

WHAT IF IT DOESN'T END?"
Most of the pain I've experienced as an adult has consisted of either a dull, chronic ache and discomfort or an acute, sharp, intense pain that, thankfully, eventually, ends. It may take days, or weeks, or months, but it does end and seldom is pain so bad that it prevents me from doing my work, which I enjoy and find much comfort as I escape within the demands of it. (Working for myself really helps in this regard.)

Each time pain visits, part of me fears: What if it doesn't end? What if this is really something I'll have to live with for the rest of my life?" And I understand now that many people do live with a condition that is so painful it permeates everything they undertake, everything they hope for and want. I am humbled knowing the strength of the human spirit to endure what seems impossible to handle.

As I mentioned in Part 1, there seems to be a stigma associated with admitting to being in pain. The person who handles it with stoicism ("repression of emotion and indifference to pleasure or pain" ~Random House Dictionary) is respected more than someone who, in mentioning pain or illness, is seen as a complainer or whiner or weak person. Most all of us want to be that stoic person, but find it difficult and so add guilt to everything else we are feeling mentally and physically when ill. We seperate not only from deepest emotions, but from our loved ones who struggle, also, with feelings of guilt and powerlessness.

"I WISH I HAD A RIVER, I COULD SKATE AWAY ON..."
There must be a balance of honesty about our situation and the use of coping mechanisms that can channel all the emotions and thoughts we dredge up when we are being honest. And this is where creativity comes in. This is what we'll look at in Part 3.

Janice Phelps Williams
www.appalachianmorning.blogspot.com

PAIN Part 1: Introduction to the Subject of Pain

Pain.
Aching
stabbing
throbbing
radiating
relentless
acute or chronic.
Pain.


I've been in a fair amount of acute physical pain over the last seven weeks. Thankfully, it has now skulked away, mumbling the brand name of my antibiotic and shaking its fist. I injured my back at the end of November, and it was just healing up and not constantly reminding me of the foolish move I'd made (trying to lift up an elderly friend), when I came down a week ago with an abcessed tooth. Overnight it progressed to facial cellulitis, a painful, serious infection that ebbed its way out of my jaw, chin and cheek thanks to the miracle of modern medicine.

I've had periods of both acute and chronic pain at other times in my life as well, and while I've written about my childhood, my children, surgeries, my business, my love of Ohio and art and crafts and books... I've never written about pain until now.

Outside of the medical community, pain seems to be a "hush-hush" subject. To talk about it, to admit to experiencing it, implies a degree of wimpishness, of self-centered attention-seeking impropriety even. For men, there are even more societal pressures to "put up and shut up" when it comes to pain and all sorts of cliches such as "take it like a man" and "Don't be a sissy." As children, when we said, "It hurts!" our parents may have countered with: "Now, don't make a big deal out of it. It's not that bad." Parents may be so afraid of raising a whiney child that their only course of action is to negate feelings and discourage further discussion.

Fortunately, although I spent a year and a half of my high school education ill and undergoing three surguries, my parents did everything right. Looking back now, as a mother myself, I marvel at how they offered to me the right mix of empathy and confidence in my ability to cope. They took my complaints and concerns seriously, yet never babied or spoiled me, though I'm sure at times it might have been tempting to do so, as I was the only child still at home and was introverted and sensitive by nature.

When bringing up my artistic leanings in conversations with others, my mother often mentioned how, when waiting for surgery at age fifteen, I asked for pen and paper and created a little chess set so I could play the game with my father and pass time while coping with pain and waiting for the operating room to free up so the surgeon could relieve pressure in my swollen neck (from a benign tumor). What Mom doesn't mention is that she and Dad were the sort of parents who encouraged my creativity and gave me the pen and paper and played the game with me as if these were good solutions to a stressful situation.

In the adult world, it seems we don't trust ourselves or others to mention, admit to, or discuss pain and illness for fear of giving into it entirely and letting its presence control our lives and keep us from the good health we all hope to experience. But perhaps that is the wrong approach. Perhaps silence only empowers pain; by trying so hard not to mention it, we end up screaming about it in less psychologically healthy ways. While no one but immediate family wants to listen to in-depth, descriptions of illness or medical procedures, that verbal faux pas is a far cry from stating the truth:

• "I'm in pain, but finding ways to cope."
• "I've been ill, but am on the mend..."
• "I am doing much better thank you; but it was pretty awful."

(Of course, in work environments there are reasons not to share health information, but I am talking about discussions between friends and those in one's social circle.)

All posts on this topic:

Part 1, "An Introduction to the Subject of Pain"
Part 2, "My Personal Pain Story: The Pink Porcupine"
Part 3, "Creativity in the Midst of Pain"
Part 4, "What Others Have Written on Pain and Suffering"
Part 5, "Resources Related to Pain Management"

Please bookmark Appalachian Morning or click at this link to add it to your RSS Feed or Google Reader as I will update these posts from time to time. You can also follow along on posts by "liking" Appalachian Morning on Facebook.

Disclaimer: I am not a psychologist. physician, physiologist, or therapist. I have no medical or mental health training whatsoever. Therefore, no advice, medical or psychological, is intended or implied by any of the posts in this series on PAIN.

On Luck, Resolutions, and the New Year

When the sky turns light gray and the grass is covered with a dusting of snow, my mind and heart join together in prolonged reflection. It has been that way for me since 1990, my first holiday season after a divorce; when I realized the deep divide between "before" and "after." A division that was all-consuming after 13 years of marriage, but now from the perspective of two more decades, was not the only Big Thing In My Life. Time does that, thank God.

In fact, from 1990 through 1998, there was no snow in November to prompt reflection, for I lived in Florida. The blinding whiteness there is found on Siesta, Lido, and Longboat Keys and in the crushed shells in so many driveways. Yet, come "wintertime" and the annual lighted boat parade with jolly Santa carousing by in a speed boat upon the blue waters of the Intracoastal Waterway, I would feel all mushy about my life, the befores and afters, the "what next?" and "what if?"

I would set a few goals and, guess what, they would come true! Slowly, surely, but each goal would come true sometime during the next year. I set goals slightly bigger. They came true as well. Yes, a lot of things came that I didn't ask for and did not want in the least. People and circumstances and troubles that slithered into life like varmits seeking a warm place when the weather turns cold. And, like everyone who moves several states away to start a new life finds, these creatures followed me from Florida to Ohio, where they alerted their bad-news relatives that I was an easy mark.

So, as dreams were realized and luck and good fortune, I fashioned out of disappointment a giant virtual fly swatter to knock away those happiness-suckers, those nay-sayers, those we're-gonna-knock-you-on-your-ass-and-kick-you-in-the-teeth life events that, face it, most everyone has by the time they are well into their grown up years. Some people have them right from the start, but I was blessed that way.

When November rolled around and I looked back at goals that were met and looked forward at goals to be set, my heart would fill with a sense of gratitude that needed no Macy's Parade prompting or Advent calendar reminding. I got it. I got it from my head to my toes, how life comes at us. How we pull it in toward us. How we do nothing and it jumps on us. How it doesn't need to know anything about us to kick us -- or to bless us.

Some folks do not believe in luck. They are the "up by their bootstraps" sort of folks who own their due for all that they've done; for how hard they've worked for all that they have. But if I were to do that, I would be saying that others who live far away in less-stable places, or right in this very county of Athens, Ohio, for instance, are where they are right now completely because of their own bad choices or laziness, and I know in my heart that is not true and is not fair. And thinking that way does nothing for my soul.

Yes, we steer the boat that is our life, but the floatsam that drifts toward us -- we cannot control it completely. There is an element of luck to life, bad luck and good. That's why there's the lemon>lemonade saying, and why kids who sold lemonade from the end of their driveways in the '70s and clipped coupons in the '00s are thankful and hardworking but also would like to have a break once in a while from having to strive so hard.

And that is the good news about each successive year that I reach November and plan ahead: The striving has taken on a different tone as I've reached my fifties. It's less about things and more about "I am likely to get another year on this earth, what do I want to do with it?"

People joke about New Year's Resolutions. I love them so much I start in December. It takes the focus off the commericalism, the credit card debt-to-come, the work involved in enjoying a holiday . . . Resolution is not the greatest word for it, I think (and I have ordered a new thesaurus to help me find a better word soon...). Hope is not quite the right word either. Some word is needed that expresses a proper mix of "can do" with "gratitude" and "hope" and "pluck" and "optimism" and "forging on in spite of the tough times that might come our way as well."

Put the Christmas gift list down. Make a cup of your favorite warm drink. Sit in silence. Think about the coming year. What do you want? What do you really want? Don't pick "win the lottery." Pick something that is more toward the end of probable than impossible. Pick something that matters, but something you can measure. Write it down. Stick it on your mirror. Believe it. Consciously and unconsciously move toward it. Tell others you want it, or keep it a secret, but do not forget to want it. Do not be afraid to want it. Go for it.

And next December, please share with us how your goal was met.

Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!

Janice Phelps Williams
www.luckypress.com and www.janicephelps.com

Preserving Memories with Scrapbooks: Super Scrapbooking Links

Note: After my essay, below, there are dozens of links to scrapbooking websites, videos, crop locations, supplies, and more. So, scroll down if you are in a hurry, or better yet, bookmark this post so you can refer to it later.

A few months ago, I attended my first scrapbook "crop." I knew nothing about scrapbooking previously, beyond a visit to a camera store in Pickerington, Ohio, that had an astounding selection of scrapbooking products and tools and few people in the store buying or advising. There was little warmth there, and that made all the "stuff" seem very commercial to me. Also, a bit expensive.

Now, I see things differently. A friend named Janis invited me to a dinner with her needlework club (Athens Friends and Newcomers). There, I met Margaret, who invited me to the evening book club of the same main group. The book club met in the home of a woman named Jan Weckman (who I later found went to Kent State about the same time I was there). As the book club disbanded, we passed the door of a spacious craft room located off the foyer. I asked if I could see the room: two rooms, with big tables, comfortable chairs, a large-screen TV hooked up to a computer, all manner of tools and punches and stamps and binders and paper!

"What is this?" I asked, all Janice-in-Wonderland. "This is where I hold scrapbooking workshops," Jan replied (or something to that effect, I felt like I'd found the end of the new-crafty-person-in-town rainbow and, one-two-three, I'd signed up for the next class.

It was a Saturday morning at 10 a.m. and went until 4 p.m. The reasonable price included a healthful lunch as well. I took along the scrapbook I had been working on (with no exposure to other scrapbooks or "crops"). And purchased a few products Jan had in her studio from Creative Memories (with all the tools she had available, only the most basic of supplies were needed, and everything CM offers is acid-free and will keep your family photos safe for generations).

It was a great way to spend a rainy summer Saturday, and the eight women there were friendly and interesting. It was easy to start conversations because everyone had their family photographs with them and there were scenes of a child here, a vacation there, a holiday as well. The second crop I attended at Jan's house had a few of the same women, and a few I hadn't met yet. The third crop, earlier today, the same. I saw some women I knew and the others were scrapbooking friends-to-be. We swapped the information we had about the recent tornados that hit Athens and Meigs Counties (about 38 hours earlier), and I marveled that more information had not been available in this age of instant news (but the newspaper's building had been seriously damaged and our other paper in town only publishes twice a week).

Afterward, I couldn't help but think of my grandmother, Helen Greene. She made beautiful quilts, all pieced by hand and quilted by hand by the women in her church group. I wondered how their conversations compared to those in crops today: children, husbands, school activities, work, books read, recipes tried, movies, illness. But also there are periods of silence. Jan has quiet jazz playing in the background and fresh brewed coffee. How blessed I feel to have found Jan and her workshops.

Since Jan sells Creative Memories products, I am using those products now (previously I had bought materials at Wal-Mart). I also purchased CM's "Storybook Creator" and am learning how to do the digital scrapbooking. Since I've worked in Photoshop for years (creating book covers), it was pretty easy for me to pick up, but even without that background I think it would be fairly easy. After an hour or so, anyone with some digital photos (or print photos scanned in) should be happily creating a digital scrapbook page. (See my first effort in the image above.)

I spent some time searching for scrapbooking information online and perhaps these links will be of interest to you too. If I've left anything out (and I'm sure I have, this is not an exhaustive list, who has that kind of time...), let us all know in the comments field. Or, join Appalachian Morning on Facebook, and leave a comment there.


CATEGORIES BELOW:

1. General Information


2. Videos


3. Scrapbooking Supplies & Tools


4. Workspace


5. Digital Scrapbooking


6. Instructors / Crops / Conventions


7. Scrapbooking Magazines


8. Books on Scrapbooking (and Card Making)

ONE--GENERAL INFORMATION:

CREATING KEEPSAKES

MEMORY MAKERS MAGAZINE

CREATIVE MEMORIES

SIMPLE SCRAPBOOKS

SCRAPBOOKS, ETC. (A BETTER HOMES & GARDENS SITE)

SCRAPBOOK.COM

A GREAT VIDEO ON TAKING PHOTOS FROM BOXES TO SCRAPBOOK

SCRAPBOOK FLAIR

TWO--VIDEOS:

MY ASSISTANT, TYLER WINSTON, HAS SET UP A YOUTUBE CHANNEL WITH FAVORITE VIDEOS RELATED TO SCRAPBOOKING!

ALL CREATIVE MEMORIES VIDEOS

STAMPINGTON & COMPANY'S YOUTUBE CHANNEL

THREE--SCRAPBOOKING SUPPLIES & TOOLS:

CRICUT MACHINE

SILHOUETTE SD

VIDEO ON 4 FAVORITE TOOLS

CREATIVE MEMORIES

YOU CAN FIND MANY SCRAPBOOKING SUPPLIES FOR SALE ON EBAY.

IDEAS: CHARITY CROPS; MASQUERADE CROPS; TIPS & TECHNIQUES CROPS

YAHOO SHOPPING LISTS SCRAPBOOKING SUPPLIES

TRAVEL SCRAPPIN': "QUALITY SCRAPBOOKING SUPPLIES FOR ALL YOUR TRAVEL ADVENTURES"

QUIRKS OF ART

STUFF4SCRAPBOOKING

FOUR--WORKSPACE:



FIVE--DIGITAL SCRAPBOOKING

CREATIVE MEMORIES: DIGITAL SCRAPBOOKING IDEAS

DIGITAL SCRAPBOOKING SOFTWARE REVIEWS (TOP 10)

CREATIVE MEMORIES: DIGITAL SOLUTIONS (ON YOUTUBE)

MEMORY MIXER (ON YOUTUBE)

MY MEMORIES SUITE

MAC SCRAP

SCRAP GIRLS

SIX--INSTRUCTORS / CROPS / CONVENTIONS:

GREAT AMERICAN SCRAPBOOK CONVENTIONS

U.S. SCRAPBOOK STORE LOCATOR

CREATIVE MEMORIES "FIND A CONSULTANT"

MY SCRAPBOOKING TEACHER, JAN WECKMAN, AND LINKS TO PURCHASE PRODUCTS (CREATIVE MEMORIES)

PROJECT CENTER AT CREATIVE MEMORIES

WHAT IS A "CROP"?

HOSTING A CROP

PREPARING TO ATTEND A CROP

OUR CROPS PLUS

MICHELLE VOKE'S BLOG HAS A LIST OF CROPS IN PA, MD, VA (AUG '10 - APRIL '11)

INTERVIEW WITH ALI EDWARDS

REAL WOMEN SCRAP TV

Creating Keepsakes Conventions - Scrapbooking conventions held throughout the United States.
Memories ScrapbooKing Expo - Shows in Ohio, Florida, and New Jersey.
Scrapbooks Megameet - Scrapbooking conventions in the Great Lakes area.
Scrapbook Tour -Midwest
Scrapbook Portal Events - US and Canada.
Crop All Day - North Texas and Oklahoma.
Get Croppin' - mid-Atlantic area
Crop a Lot Retreats - East Coast
Croptopia Getaways - Northeast (cruises, too)

SEVEN--SCRAPBOOKING MAGAZINES:

EIGHT--BOOKS ON SCRAPBOOKING (AND CARD MAKING ALSO):

Autumn Leaves in Ohio

The temperature and humidity are dropping. The days are getting shorter. Between May and September, here's what the weather seemed like to me: springlike, rain, rain, rain, hot, really hot, continued hot, can't-stand-it-hot, cool, muggy, 48 degrees, socks, thunderstorms...

But I know that soon the leaves will change color. I will look out our kitchen window and find the small tree where the birdfeeder hangs has turned yellow, yellow, ORANGE! After I spent s e v e n t e e n looooonnnngggg years smoldering in Florida, I returned to Ohio (and a March blizzard) with joy and anticipation of Spring! Summer! and Fall!

Now, 11 years later, I still feel excited when the leaves start to change, and now that Mark and I have over four acres of trees, I have lots of opportunity to study their cyclical hues. As the days shorten, the sun rises in our dining room window and sets right across from the kitchen window. When the leaves give up and scatter to the wind, it is then I can see the hot rosy sun set behind the hills as we meet in the kitchen for dinner. Here are some photos* from our place on Earth to you, from fall 2009, scenes I will enjoy this year as well.

(*All photos ©2009 Janice Phelps Williams. All rights reserved. If you want to share these with friends for noncommercial use, please tell them about AppalachianMorning.blogspot.com.)

More on the subject of rain!

An update on the water in my art studio. A longer title might be: "Hey! That's not the sketch I've left on the floor under a stack of scrapbook page cellophane inserts; next to a basket with old books I'm going to deconstruct. That's precious artwork that I started in 1996 that I was going to finish any day now! Grab it up, man! And wait [end of title, start of posting] look what else I hadn't gotten around to organizing, altering, painting, matting, putting in a really nice leather portfolio case that is on sale at College Bookstore on Court Street:

a perfectly preserved dead bumble bee that I want to draw; it's in a little brown box with a brass lock

a sketch of my son, Jesse, sleeping when he was 2 years old

all manner of artwork by my son, Bryce: drawings on t-shirts that no longer fit him; sketches within letters he mailed to me; small canvases he's drawn or painted on...

beads: glass beads, plastic beads, big and small beads, old and new beads--beads that are mostly put away in their proper places but because recent beading had taken place were all over the surface of tables, tables that needed to be cleaned off so I had a place to put all of the other stuff made of paper that was sitting on the flooded floor

bags of yarn, and by bags I mean handmade bags that I did not want to get wet

an easel, three canvases, a stack of old family photographs I needed to scan

a box of tools

stacks of file folders containing Very Important Stuff

Also in that room, which is not a large room, mind you: waist height-to-ceiling bookshelves full of art and craft books and boxes full of art and craft supplies. Knitting needles that were my grandmother's and great grandmother's (crochet hooks made of ivory!) My favorite videos. The Raggedy Ann doll my parents gave me when I was 6. The voodoo aging doll my mom gave me a few years ago when I was ill. The small stuffed animal made by my younger son when he was a kid, along with the teddy bear he made. A teddy bear from 1915 that flew in airplanes during WWI. On and on it goes...

This is a small room folks, with tall ceilings and a nice skylight but still... Not a lot of room. I have way too much stuff in it; but everything in it is really precious to me. This room is sort of a microcosm of my life, I realize. On the shelves in the closest are every photograph I've kept or taken (prior to digital cameras). In one day of heavy rain, I, with my husband's help of course, had to gather it all up (except what was on the shelves) and move it to the garage.

Now, upon reflection... as fans are whirling downstairs and the concrete floor naked--the carpet having been removed and part of the wet wall removed as well-- I realize that most all of my life, decades, was represented in that room. One room. And that question of "if your house was on fire, what would you grab to save, after your family members and pets" is not so easy.

Yes, I know things can be replaced. But not really. Not some things. Not a lot of things.

My rain-damaged art studio is not that big of a deal. The wet things will dry. The concrete floor whose paint splattered surface looks a bit like my middle-aged skin only gray, will be recovered and presentable again. The wall and its insides will dry and be fixed. I will go to Walmart and buy a ton of plastic tubs for my art supplies and go into organization mode and end up with a studio that looks better than it did before...along with a new resolve to clean up each project as I finish for the day because that is a really really small room!

I'm thinking of the folks in TN and KY this morning who are in shelters, who had their whole houses and lives flooded... who last week were looking forward to summer picnics and time off school, and the job they were trying to get and the book they might read and now they have to deal with insurance companies and mold issues and getting new furniture and how to keep their kids on an even keel when they just want to scream in frustration. My heart goes out to you. Thank God for the Red Cross, I think... And for time, the time that puts hard times behind us. One sunny day at a time. Until it becomes a memory and new things cover over the raw concrete memories of the hard stuff.

"Be kind to your web-footed friends... for a duck may be somebody's mother," my mother used to sing. Yes, this is the season for it.

What Nothing Teaches

The following article was written in 2007, just after a very happy occassion--my second marriage, 16 years after the end of my first. I found it on an CD where I'd saved some of my writing and thought I'd share it. At this time of winter, especially after the nothingness of snow blanketing everything and really amounting to something beautiful, and the blank slate of a brand new year, it seemed apropos. I wrote the following with the idea of a larger piece, a book perhaps, entitled "What Nothing Teaches."

On Saturday afternoons when I visit my son Bryce, especially in the early summer months . . . especially when the air is just warming up, yet not laden with moisture . . . I keep the windows rolled down on the one-hour drive over and tune into “This American Life” with Ira Glass. I love the program, the way a story is woven, up down back forth, through the circumstances of an individual. Not dissected as in Vanity Fair. Not marketed and sensationalized like CNN or “Dateline.” Simply told, much like a welcome guest tells an interesting story. Think Meryl Streep as Isak Dinesen in Out of Africa: “I tell stories.”

A good storyteller invites, rather than seduces with sensationalism or bullies with fear. A great storyteller not only captivates with plot, but with the art of description. The words themselves and the sounds of the syllables create an audible prose that elicits a response from the reader: intrigue, disgust, anticipation, empathy, pity, anxiety, peace, jealousy, understanding . . .

Today is not a Saturday, but a Wednesday. And I am not Ira Glass; not a gifted storyteller, noted journalist, or best-selling author. I’m a woman who works with words and lines and color for a living. Who treasured books as a child and now more accurately values them as an adult.

I am a mother of two sons, a sister to two women, a daughter and, most recently, a lover and wife. I’m an editor, designer, friend, client, patient, painter, vendor, customer, consumer, crocheter, baker, movie watcher, dog lover, writer. I will be even more things as life continues to unfold itself before me and as I say yes to it.

I love flowers, houseplants, yarn, make-up, good stationary, my husband’s laughter, our dogs’ personalities, my younger son’s compassion, strength, brains, style, talent, skin, voice, and humor. My older son’s tenacity, creativity, sensitivity, eyes, eyelashes and quirky pragmaticism.

I treasure my mother’s encouragement and my sisters’ belief in my abilities. In my youngest son I see the future extending like gently rolling farmland on a spring day. I won’t live to know it all, but I trust it will be there and he will make it his own wonderful story. That alone makes me happy.

With all this, there are still a few times a year I must silence the ringer on the telephone, head to the couch or bed, and lie there for an hour or two (with two small warm dogs) stunned, thankful, and bewildered. Anxious – even fearful – a dozen emotions at once in a mix that gently blends as I relax. And all these feelings and thoughts and memories and hopes become one thing, but even that one thing is not my soul. It is, however, my story.

In my story I walk down the coldest, longest, concrete and marble corridor to a stark confining room of Plexiglas, metal, and stone; down a hospital hallway to give birth; down an aisle as a too-immature bride. I walk into a store, twenty-nine years later, a middle-aged woman who knows something about herself, and love, and who is found by a man who will love me, and who I can love and build another life with. I’ve walked into dog pounds, county jails, doctors’ offices, courthouses, X-ray rooms, psychiatric hospitals, operating rooms, banks, nursing homes, car dealerships, airplanes, and post offices more than I wanted to.

I haven’t painted, written, photographed, organized, questioned, or documented as much as I wish I had. But there’s still time.

I love this time in my life. I love my family and my place in it. How did I get so lucky?

Of course, I don’t like everything. Although I once wrote a poem with lines about my memories, which “tap, tap, tap with unselfconscious ease/until I learn to cherish every one/that’s made me what I’ve finally become/someone who though once seemed so small/saw herself and forgave all.” Now I can be more forgiving of others because I’ve had enough time with myself to recognize my imperfections. And, like choosing the right haircolor, Clairol Nice-and-Easy #105G, or the best dress length (just below my knees), I’ve learned how to recognize my assets.
But back to the couch . . .

When I am there, and the mix of happy and sad thoughts and memories begin, sometimes tears form and creep along my Cover Girl-covered face, and, moments after they wet the pillow I’ve rested my head on, I fall asleep. And in sleep there is no heaviness, no sense of dread, no fear of what I’ve done and what I’ve left undone. No pressure, no memory, no want, no regret. I walk down a mental hallway of nothingness, and, in that brief moment of time before my dreams begin, I learn what nothing teaches.

Nothing is the silence before you say words that will change someone’s life forever. Nothing is the pause before someone says “I love you” back. It’s the lack in your bank account, or in your heart. It’s what you didn’t get from your parents. Nothing is the emptiness, but also space. It’s lack, but also freedom. It’s the opposite of more, but not the same as less.

Nothing is what existed before you painted that painting, wrote that letter, baked that pie. It’s a blank slate. Nothing can hold promise or acceptance. Nothing includes everything we could have said and done, but didn’t.

Nothing is not very memorable – we seldom remember what we didn’t do, unless we are filled with regret. Then nothingness taunts us like a schoolyard bully. But then it is more of a something than a nothing.

Personally, I have an affinity for nothingness. It’s everything I don’t need. The nothingness is the white space that makes everything else in my life appear more vibrant than it otherwise might.

In A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers by Xiaolu Guo (Doubleday 2007) Guo describes a Buddhist stra, given in the book in Chinese letters and explained in English as follows: “it means the emptiness is without form, but the form is also the emptiness. The emptiness is not empty, actually it is full. It is the beginning of everything.” When I read this I knew that I was not the only one to value nothingness (oh naive Midwestern girl still inside of me). Or to contemplate it.

Perhaps part of appreciating all I’ve experienced and “gone through” is valuing the
nothingness. I can only describe the nothingness to you by the something surrounding it:

The person who could have been angry at me, but forgave instead.
The not waking up on time and going to the World Trade Center on the morning of 9/11.
The date who said “I could rape you” but didn’t.
The man who said “I could kill you” but didn’t.
The letter I threw away before sending.
The candy I didn’t eat.
The slap I wanted to inflict on my child, but didn’t.
The hatred I chose not to feel.
The resentment I knew I couldn’t let take root.
The television show I didn’t waste my time watching.
The street I didn’t go down that might have taken me somewhere not best for me to be.
The harsh words I didn’t say.
The words I heard and chose to forget. When I forgot, there was nothingness, and that nothingness was good for me.

I don’t know where these thoughts of nothingness will lead, and how they tie in with the idea of a good story; but there’s something there that holds my attention. And like so many somethings and several nothings in my past, I feel compelled to look closer.

Have you thought of nothing? Do the things you haven’t said or done ever take on the same significance as something that existed. Did you ever find emptiness to be “the beginning of everything”?

Man is equally incapable of seeing the nothingness from which he emerges and the infinity in which he is engulfed. - Blaise Pascal

--Janice Phelps Williams. © 2007
Image at top of this article is a colored pencil drawing by Janice Phelps Williams, copyright 2007, all rights reserved. For similar images visit http://www.gallery.janicephelps.com/.

Winter Renewal

The holidays, for the most part, are over. Soon the 60% and 90% off signs will come down in retail establishments and heart-shaped candy boxes will appear way too soon. Credit card statements will come in the mail as well as year-end earning reports to nervous shareholders. Children will return to school, snow will fall, winds will blow, ice will crack, the days will seem way too short and the workday, if we are fortunate enough to have one, will seem too long.

Winter seems a season of not-enough and can be especially limiting to the elderly and those copiing with disabilities. The fear of falling or the difficulties of navigating a wheelchair on a snowy sidewalk loom large north of the Mason Dixon line this time of year. The lack of natural light causes many of us to battle depression; and it is a battle. We wield positive thoughts like a near-sighted man learning to fence. For some, it is easier to stay in and count the days until baseball starts. For others, who work outside, who repair our electrical lines, gather our trash, continue construction jobs that oddly-enough were started in November... well, we can say they are lucky to have a job, but the truth is I wouldn't want to work outside in February in Ohio, or Michigan, or upstate New York, or Maine, or....

So, winter is here, Christmas 2009 is now Christmas-past. What to make of baby new year?

From a creative standpoint, the first quarter of any year can be an incredible time. Here's why:

1) Last year is done, there's a sense of "oh well..." as in "I didn't get that done...oh well" (big sigh, deep breath). Whatever was not done, accept it. Recite the Serenity Prayer. Let it go. Forgive yourself. Move on. Get a new calendar and plan ahead.

2) Things seem quieter in this period of blanketing snow. Use this calm, quiet to bundle up and walk outdoors, if you can; but also to think on what you want to make of the coming year. What is important to you, really important? What three things would you like to accomplish or experience this year? Write them down, perhaps in a notebook. Write them in as much detail as possible.

For instance:
"I'd like to spend more time with my adult son."

Could be expanded to be:
"I'd like to get to know my son better as an adult. To do this, I will share more of myself as an adult in an open-hearted way. I will resist the impulse to give advice, to make judgments. I will try to learn about his work, his dreams, his life challenges in a way that is not intrusive but keeps a door open for him to enter when the time is right. I will find out what he thinks is fun and see if I might find it fun as well. I will embrace those he loves and give thought to what he believes. In doing this, I will learn who this man is who was once my little boy."

Or, "I'd like to go on a cruise with my husband."

This could be expanded to be:
"I'm imagining time where there are no interruptions to our togetherness. No phone calls or emails or text messages from family, friends, or clients. No deadlines. We'll sit on the ship, hold hands and watch the sun set. We'll eat new kinds of food that we won't have to prepare. We'll read books for hours, if we want, see some shows, dress up for dinner. It will be like a second honeymoon."

Whatever your goals are for this year, imagine them in as much detail as possible. Write it down. How will you feel losing weight, starting that cottage industry or home-based business, planning for college, seeing that child graduate and leave home in May? What good can come of it--focus on the positive not the negative. These are goals, positive musings. You can find at least one for the year, right? The are opportunities and hopeful things to plan for all around us, even when life is challenging, even in the middle of winter.

3) Not only is there a sense of quiet contemplation in winter, and a sense of "oh well" over things that were not done in the previous year, but the first months of a new year are fresh, new, like a beautiful snowfall untouched by anything. And if you believe you have the power to write what you want on those new days, you will discover an amazing thing. That you can reach your dreams. You can achieve more than you may have thought possible. Life can hold wonderful experiences that at this point, on January first, you have no idea of. A good and wonderful experience is just around the corner.

"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams," said Eleanor Roosevelt. It is one of my favorite quotes and so true. I put this quote right up there for me with "I must do that which I fear most," by the same woman.

When my soul and my life were in winter (and I'm not talking weather here), these two sayings really made a difference. Before I published a book, illustrated a book, published the work of 20 other authors, or edited and designed 200 books for other authors and publishers, I took out a red lipstick and wrote a hopeful sentence on a mirror in my bedroom that I looked at each day. It was my message to myself; it was the truth I told myself; it was my letter to myself: "May all your dreams come true." And while it takes some reflection to remember the things I would rather forget, it takes no time at all to bring to mind my dreams. I only have to look around me; they have all come true and now, in 2010, it's time to imagine new dreams.

For there are always new dreams to have, and this I have learned from my mother who, in her eighth decade of life, continues to dream. If she decided to take up a new hobby or return to college, I wouldn't be at all surprised. She is perpetual youth mixed with mature wisdom. Feminine grace and steely determination. How much I love her and admire her example.

So, let me let you go now. Go forward in this wonderful new year, holding in your hand a piece of paper or an iPhone with an electronic notepad or a laptop with a Word document that is titled "2010 Dreams." Write at least one dream down today, in detail. It will take you fifteen minutes at most. Save it to your desktop, put it on your refrigerator. Smirk at anyone who mocks it. Disregard anyone who judges it.

It's your dream, all yours. And the future belongs to you.

Happy New Year from the foothills of Appalachia this early Friday morning, January first.

Janice

As Summer Turns to Autumn...

I love the advantages of every season so much, it's difficult to choose a favorite. Perhaps even more than the seasons, I enjoy the changing. The sense that something new and different is on the way. The letting go and the moving forward. Important principles that have kept me sane for decades.

Letting go:
As night-time temperatures drop here in the Appalachian foothills of Southeastern Ohio, let's take a moment to remember the summer of 2009. The blessings and the challenges. What we enjoyed and what we survived. Dreams that came true or hopes that were dashed. If the latter, can we find anything of benefit in it? If the former, what's next?

We let go of the lake, the hot sun, the sounds of children playing in the water... we let go of the way a cabin smells, popcorn cooked in a big kettle over an open fire, teenagers falling in love. We let go of languid evenings spent on vacation, or action-packed efforts at waterskiing, biking, rock climbing, canoeing. And now is the time to remember, to print those photographs out and place them in an album... to give thanks for anything good that came our way in the last twelve weeks.

The child who grew from kid to high school student. The mother who visited and deepened a connection with grown children. The sister who loves flea markets and always gets us. The flowers -- snapdragons, day lilies, roses, peonies, geraniums... The abundant forest, the sweet small yellow and black birds who love thistle and are the first thing I look for each morning.

The grill, the steaks, the corn on the cob. The tomatoes! The farmer's market. Cooler weather "up north." Summer camp. Riding horses, riding rails. Cheap thrills or expensive indulgences. Graduations of all sorts. Summer romances.

Now it is time for welcoming autumn -- the beautiful, vibrant, golden tease of quiet, reflective winter.

I spent 17 years in Florida and you could not over-estimate how much I missed the changing seasons, the hills, the ebb and flow of life "up north." Now, tucked away on this hillside, the trees and air alone tell me what is next. And it seems each year at this time I'm drawn to reflect on the past and plan for the future. This is when I think of goals, of what I want to do with my life, what I want to do with my time. What went right, what might need some fixing.

Living creatively means living consciously -- aware of not only what is going on around you, but what is going on inside of you. Learning how to let all of life happen around you but not necessarily within you. Protecting that part of you that holds a dream -- not coddling it, but treasuring it, and also asking something of it: What will you do? For any reflection that doesn't close, eventually, with a plan of action leaves us unsatisfied and incomplete. It's the action that leads to our dreams.

Hope is a great thing, but it isn't the thing. The thing, for each of us, is something we can remember, document, tell our kids about, photograph, write about.

As summer turns to autumn, what will be your thing: your hope materialized? And what can you do to reach it? Tap into your personal creativity, and the collective creativity of your place on earth, to make your dreams come true.