Family Friendship

I'm getting to know my parents on a different level, one of friendship more than kinship, I suppose.  I've enjoyed an "adult" relationship with them since I got married and moved out at the very young age of 18. We lived near them, as a young married couple, and I spent a tremendous amount of time with them then, perhaps too much (if you ask Tim.)  I thought I was very adult at the time.  Basically, I was seeking a new recognition and approval from my parents of their grown-up, married child.

I attach significance to dates and anniversaries, for some unknown reason. For example, I remember when I turned 36 and rolled into the "I've been married longer than I was not" stage of my life.  We had been in the Navy for eleven years and lived in many places around the US as well as two years in the Philippines.  We had not, as a family, lived near my parents for a considerable amount of time.

And as it turned out, we never lived in close proximity to them again until they moved in with us last April.  Even though we had visited with them on a regular basis, sometimes three or four times a year, I regarded them in much the same way as I did as a child. I told them about my successes (they applauded.) I shared my heartache (they sympathized.) We laughed at old jokes, the familiar family lexicon, baby language that is undecipherable to the uninvited, uninitiated, the outsider. That intimacy of shared experience.

Do we ever "know" our parents?  Supposing one had a good childhood (as I did) and good folks (which I have) and, all things being equal, has a good relationship with one's parents. Do we build upon that foundation or just take it for granted?  Do we look at them fairly or are we prejudiced in favor of childish wants and needs?  How do we shift into a different mode of communication when all our lives we've been parent/child and not friend to friend?

One of the greatest challenges for me, since my mom and dad moved in, is learning how to be a caregiver without being condescending.  The roles have shifted somewhat, but please Lord, help me not assume that I am now 'parenting' my parents.  I want nothing more than to be  good, kind, concerned and at times, a firm giver of care to my folks.

And, may I make one thing clear?  Do not ever think I am being self-sacrificing or noble in having my folks live in our home.  There are all kinds of reasons for them to be with us right now, but one of the most important is that it is much easier to care for them when they are near. It would have been impossible to help them if they'd had to move into an assisted living facility in Alabama.  If you've ever had a loved one in a nursing home in your own town, you'll know what I'm speaking of.  There is always the guilt at not spending enough time with them or having to pick them up and take them to their doctor visits.  Whereas physically it is more demanding to have them live with us, emotionally it is far far better. And there are so many gifts I have received from them.

By far the greatest of these has been knowing them better.  Mom has had to fuss at me a few times to stop me from being so bossy.  She is teaching me how to give graciously and love well.  I am beginning to see so much of myself in her, which leads me to greater understanding of myself.  I am hearing her voice in a way I never did before.  I'm enjoying her company in a different way.  It's hard to communicate with Dad because of his hearing loss but it is so worth the effort.  I try to include him in all of my conversations, no matter the difficulty.  He surprises me sometimes at what he hears; it seems selective at times!  Because he needs to be as self-reliant as possible, I try to not smother him with too much care.  We try to get out and "mess-around" (running errands, WalMart, Post Office and such) every couple of days or so.  These are our bonding times.

Our youngest son, Ben, has been in transition over the last seven months and has lived with us for a few weeks, here and there, during that time.  I realize that I did not know him, really, not like I do now.  He had, after all, been gone from our home since he was nineteen years old.  And even though we lived in neighboring towns and visited back and forth pretty regularly, we were stuck in that parent/child mode of communication.  Seeking approval or solace, stuffing each other into boxes that they do not fit (or perhaps, never did), making presumptions and misjudgements.  It is utterly fantastic to spend time with him, this fascinating man that he has become.  I would never have know what I was missing if he hadn't moved back in for these brief spells.  What a loss that would have been.

The only way I can insert myself into my daughter, Cara's, insanely busy, complex life is by taking the train to Springfield and spending a few days with her and her family.  Living together, talking for hours, running errands with her, drinking gallons of coffee and playing Scrabble  endlessly on my iPhone.  I haven't been able to do that with her that since my parents have moved in and I grieve for the loss of that precious time with her.

Our middle child, Andrew, lives in Houston.  We haven't lived near to him since he was seventeen years old.  We dropped him off with relatives in Alabama to work the summer before college because we were moving across the country, to California.  We've always rolled out the red carpet for him when he came to see us, three or four times a year.  Like the prodigal son returning, we'd kill the proverbial fatted calf, trying  to stuff into those few few days the kinds of life experiences that build up the commonality, the lexicon of family intimacy. In recent years, we have spent many lovely times together, loving each other and counting our blessings, but we have not had the leisure of living together. I doubt I truly know who he is and I'm sure he doesn't know us anymore.  We've all changed, grown and hopefully, become more fully who God has intended us to be, but we are familial-strangers.

I guess my purpose for writing this is to say that I am a very blessed person.  I am eternally grateful for the precious opportunity to know and love and serve my family in this way.  Don't congratulate me or pat me on the back because then I will think I've done something special rather than being the recipient of treasures beyond compare.  If ever I begin to act or sound otherwise than joyful or grateful, remind me of what I've just told you about family friendship.

The Downy Comforter

We closed the door.  The room was dark.  We crawled under a plush comforter on the tall, four-poster canopy bed and talked. Well, mostly I talked and my friend listened. Each time I paused, my friend would say something like, "It seems like you've got a lot of people depending on you." After about an hour we heard people stirring outside the bedroom and she said, "We probably should be getting out there in a minute or two, but before we go, let me pray for you."  She prayed for me.  Me, who always prays for others, who strengthens and sustains, counsels and cares for so many, for my strength to be restored and for encouragement and joy in my heart.  Soft tears fell gently from my eyes.  I felt her love and sincere friendship enveloping me and through her, God's love.  My heart cried out "Let this be enough.  Let this be...."

Today, on Face Book, I shared with my friend (who has cancer and is receiving radiation) the terrifying news of my dad's tumor, plumbing the depths of her experience.  She asked me pertinent questions and then proceeded to pray for me in her reply message. I received her words like a feather comforter being wrapped around me, melting into my skin and covering me with grace.  Warm tears blurred my eyes, obscuring the prayed message words.  I am comforted, consoled and humbled by the love of God expressed through my friend.  My heart cried, "Let this be enough.  Let this be..."

And now I am going to snuggle into that same downy comforter and let the goodness of friends and the love of God expressed through them console me.  When I rise I will be the comforter and strengthener of the ones who need my loving care.  And I will try so hard to remember that I have the privilege to give that which I have been given and that it is enough.

Come, ye sinners, poor and needy, 

Weak and wounded, sick and sore; 

Jesus ready stands to save you, 

Full of pity, love and power. 

I will arise and go to Jesus, 

He will embrace me in His arms; 

In the arms of my dear Savior, 

O there are ten thousand charms. 

 "Come Ye Sinners", Fernando Ortega

Measure of Success

I often wonder what film stars experience when they encounter images of themselves in the movies they have made.  I feel a sort of pity when I see them as they appear today compared to their younger selves, frozen in perpetual beauty or virility.  Some become recluses, refusing to be seen in their decrepitude. Others spend fortunes on plastic surgery, refusing to accept the inevitable.  Their lives are lived in reverse.

You don't have to be a famous beauty to get depressed when you look at old photos of yourself. Anyone can feel a sense of loss for their own youth, well spent or otherwise. I feel a definite sort of pity for my younger sister, nine years my junior.  She has this continual reminder before her (me) of how she will be looking in about a decade!  Poor dear!!!  Those of us with Scotch-Irish complexions that have spent years in the sun do NOT age gracefully!!!

Painters have reminders of their past everywhere in their works hanging on the wall. Are the paintings which I did in my younger years better than what I am doing now?  Certainly if I use the ruler of financial success, I see myself as failing.  I used to sell a lot more than I do now.  If I rate my growth through the mastery of draftsmanship or technical skills, it might be a draw.  But, if I measure my success as an artist by the ability to paint from life, instead of photography, I think I'm miles ahead.  If I count the ability to paint a la prima, directly, without elaborate under painting, I am pleased with that. If I take into consideration my increasing ability to capture life-like skin tones, that is also progress.

I am not certain if I am a better painter but I am pleased with little steps of success.  Being a self-taught artist,  I haven't gone through the exercises that most artists have been schooled in.  So when I diverge from painting people to paint a landscape or a still life, I am thrilled!  Because I learned to paint people first and apples later, that is progress to me.

Now I'm doing "genre" paintings.  My brother has been bugging me for years to combine his expertise in western horsemanship, tack and lifestyle with my love of horses into creating some authentic Western Art. I have painted my first ever cow portrait!  Actually, it's a young bull (see earlier blog.)  I am just thrilled with the way it turned out.  The piece I am working on right now is three riders in an Arizona landscape.  I've done a careful under-painting so that I could get all the legs in perspective, looking believable.  As I model the forms in paint, my knowledge of horses come slowly rising out of the deep recesses of my brain, like a remembered language, long unused.  

Artists have it all out there, exposed and laid bare for people to see, much like movie stars.  How will you judge me?  Do you see me pushing against formula?  Am I gaining or just treading in place?  Can you see my struggles with personal expression and artistic integrity? Is my work relevant or passe'?

I consider this lovely little study (above) a success... Alie posed in costume as the Girl with a Pearl Earring.  I started it in the live session Tuesday night and finished it from a photo in a few hours Wednesday. It's not my "best" but it really works for me.  Hope I'm living my life forward, not in reverse!

Cookies and Cream

Momma never has liked vegetables and almost never eats fruit.  Her appetite it tiny and she eats things she likes, mostly ice cream.  I wake her up in the morning so she can have some toast and take her pills.  She usually takes a few naps and then has "lunch" about two: a giant bowl of "cookies and cream."  We almost always eat dinner together around six in the evening and Momma almost always has some of everything, this her only meal of the day.  Before bed she has another bowl of ice cream.  Or two.

There's really nothing wrong with eating the things you like, especially when you are 87 years old.  Goodness knows she has few pleasures in life and this is her comfort food, her SOUL food. I encourage Momma to enjoy them, to relish in them, and not deny herself at this stage of her life.  Of course, I wish that she would accompany those pleasures with the necessary nutrition to sustain life adequately.  But Momma does what she wants pretty much all the time.

I'm guilty of the same sorts of things.  I know what is good spiritual food in my life but I insist on filling up with snacks and sweets.  For some reason, which I haven't been able to satisfactorily explain to myself, I am too easily satisfied with fluff.  I am telling myself that email and facebook and surfing the internet and flipping through the channels on TV are all fine and dandy. As dessert, that is. As food for my soul they are lousy nutrition.  I eat dessert first and wonder why I don't have an appetite for meat!

I'm trying to picture myself coming in from a long day of yard work, thirsty and hungry and tired.  I walk  into the kitchen and grab a glass of luke warm soda and a handful of stale saltines because I'm too lazy to put ice in a glass and run the tap until the water is cool and make myself a nutritious sandwich out of the good leftovers from the night before.  After I've filled my stomach with this non-food, I may not be thirsty or hungry any more, but I'm not satisfied and I'm rather disgusted with myself, as well.

I'm terrified of getting old and crabby, having that old person perpetual frown. I'm getting it NOW, so what is going to make me stop knitting my brow and turning down the corners of my mouth? I'm cross NOW, so what is going to fill me with joy and anticipation?  I am pretty darn sure it isn't a steady diet of A.D.D. food which spoils my appetite for the real thing. Once again I will try to push away from the quick calories of junk food and reach out for the spiritual food and the Living Water that will really satisfy and fill up the deep reservoirs of my being.

Nothing wrong with Cookies and Cream, though.  Just so long as it's for dessert!

More Paintings this Week

Stacey 11.2.10 from Session

When it's right, it's right.  Just a quick study and no more was needed. 

             

~ No Bull ~
(Under painting )

New(d) This Week

The Magnificent Stacey

This is somewhat of an homage to "Madame X" by Sargeant.  I am going to leave it this loose and unfinished.  I want her to startle you by her boldness but not to titilate with too much real fleshiness. I painted this one from a photo.

Kendra Reclining

I had such a blast doing this.  I started it in the live session and finished it from a photo in the studio.  I was going to scumble in the back ground but decided to loosely indicate the interior of the studio.  I like it and love the sense of perspective. 

November Rose

The trees have turned very little.  The red maple in our front yard is the exception. It has been changing colors slowly over the last few weeks, hanging on tenaciously despite windy fronts and wide swings in temperatures. Today it is melting into deepest ruby red, preparing to finally deliver it's bounty of leaves to the waiting ivy below. Look out over this part of Missouri from any high vantage point you will see greens and grey and browns and even some bare branches.

Some people say it's because of the dry autumn. Lord knows we have had a terribly dry October, but the rest of the summer had plenty of rain. My frustration is this: every year in New England they have marvelous displays of color. Do you mean to tell me that they never have dry years? Years dry enough to cause eighty percent of the foliage to NOT change colors? I don't think so.

Every year it's something. Last year it was too warm. This year it is too dry. I am not going to begin to understand this and folks who know me know that I drive myself to distraction "trying to figure things out."

I planted a flower garden early last summer just below the windows of my parents' apartment. I planted impatiens and roses and zinnias and blue ageratum, hoping my parents would come sit on the little patio and enjoy the flowers of a mild summer evening. To my knowledge, they've never visited the little flower garden, but they do look down upon it and approve. I have regularly brought in cut flowers for Momma to enjoy and this week I brought her the last two roses of the year. The weather man predicts the temperature to plummet into the lower twenties tonight.  That will end the flowers and the russet leaves and the persistently green ones as well.

Tomorrow it will look like winter.  And it will be winter soon enough.  Short gray days with gray skies and gray tree trunks and gray grass.  Windows shuttered tightly against the gray winds.  I begin to think of snowflakes instead of roses.  Winter. A quieter time, smaller, more confining.  Layers of clothing, walls and windows.  Enclosed.  Close.  One petal falls from the November rose, landing in a beam of weak wintery sunlight slanting on the breakfast table.