Folk art

I took a class on Folklore at college. We focused primarily on modern or recent history folklore, so classes were filled with discussion about choking dobermans, spider-filled hairdos, and hook handed men menacing teenagers in cars. We examined where these stories originated and what purposes the retelling of them served. I was particularly fascinated by what folklore said about the society that created it. This was pre-internet, so our researches involved archives and librarians. The key element of folklore is that it is passed from person to person rather than through official informational paths. That batman song to the tune of Jingle Bells is classic folklore. Each generation of kids teaches it to the ones just younger, much to the chagrin of parents everywhere.

The class barely touched upon folk art. I suspect this is because the words “Folk Art” are generally used to describe the creations of pre-industrial people. My professor implied that folk art was dead and not worth studying. I knew he was wrong. I know people who make chain mail, leather work, baskets, and paper. Their methods are a mix of ancient and modern. They do this work, not because it is required, but because it brings them joy and decorates their lives. Then I thought further about people who make crafts which are less historical. These too are folk art. They are things created because the making of them adds joy to the life of the creator. Then sometimes to the lives of others as well.


This is a card that was given to me by a good friend. It is hand made using several pieces of paper, silk flowers, a stamp, faux jewels, and glitter. My friend could have just bought a card at the store, that’s what I do for notes. Instead she took the idea of an ordinary note card and spent an extraordinary amount of time making it beautiful.

Here is another one:

That flower is hand folded origami. This was given to me for my birthday last year. I’ve kept it primarily for the words written inside, but the outside is also a gift.

This one uses lots of embellishments:

I’m told that there is a group of women in my neighborhood who gather for card making nights. They buy supplies and instructions from a company, but the work is all done by their hands. While they create small beautiful things, they talk. I see no difference between this and the quilting bees of long ago. People have just streamlined the methods for teaching each other.

Look closely at this one:

The flower was stamped, then cut out. It was glued to another piece of paper with leaves stamped on it. That was in turn glued to a piece of paper and another. In all, this card has five layers of paper. The maker of this card would assure me that it was easy, no trouble at all. The difficulty is not the point, there is something wonderful about the way that people make things needlessly beautiful.

Some kind of a press was used to make the raised patterns on this card. The little circle dangles freely from the ribbon:

This card expresses the whole point:

These creations may not qualify as art by most definitions, but they each succeeded wonderfully at bringing joy to me and to the women who made them before they came into my hands. Adding beauty to the world is a good use of hands and time. I see these cards everywhere, being given woman to woman. They connect the ladies of my neighborhood and my town. I love it.

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A Brief Thought on Managing Systems

I have run out of brain today due to extreme effectiveness in tackling my To Do list. So I offer a thought I crafted last month when I was helping Kiki wrestle with her school’s registration system to set up classes for next year:

Among the things my kids are learning by participating in public school: Bureaucratic systems are often stupid, but if you are clever, the system can be made to dance.

The system danced and Kiki now has a solid plan for classes through the end of high school. As a side note, I once read an article talking about the economic differences between people who believe that systems must be endured and the people who believe that systems are to be managed. People in the second category tended to be more financially prosperous. I wish I could remember where I read about it, but that goes with the lack of remaining brain I guess.

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The Semi Annual Festival of Yarn

Every six months our church broadcasts a General Conference. Over a weekend there are 10 hours of prepared talks on various doctrinal subjects. The leaders of the church prepare these talks on a variety of subjects some encouraging, some admonishing. The membership of the church are invited to listen either in person, on TV, on Radio, or over the internet. For the Saturday sessions Howard and I listen on the Radio. On Sunday we hook a computer up to our big TV and gather the family for Conference. This is when the Festival of Yarn begins.

The kids rejoiced when I plunked the tub full of yarn, scissors, and crochet hooks down on the floor. “You got new yarn!” someone cried. Yes I got new yarn. I remember last Conference when we had to argue about yarn colors. The kids each grabbed a skein and as the choir began the opening hymn, we began our crafts.

Sitting still for two hours at a stretch is a challenge for young children, even in their own home. I always tried to plan activities for them to do while they were listening. We bounced from one choice to another until I dusted off my old crochet hooks and yarn. I made all sorts of creations using crochet when I was young. None of them were particularly useful, but I liked making them. My rhythmic motions and the growing granny square drew the attention of my kids. Soon they wanted to make things with yarn too. I handed out what yarn I had and the creativity began.

This year both Link and Patch tried their hands at crochet, but defaulted to making long finger knitted ropes. Gleek made several small crocheted pieces, none of any particular shape. She also made yarn flowers, yarn dolls, and a finger knitted rope. Kiki worked a little on the knitting project which she’s had since she was 11. After awhile she switched to a school painting project. Patch took a break from finger knitting to make yarn constructions using knots. I made granny squares. Howard worked on assembling miniatures at the table behind us. Our hands were busy and our ears were open.

“I like Conference.” Patch said.
“Me too.” Said Gleek.

I looked around the room. I knew what Patch and Gleek were not able to articulate. The atmosphere in the room was calm and cozy. We were all together in a way that seldom happens in our crazy scattered lives. For two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon we were together listening to words which helped us think about how to be better people. It was lovely.

I made five granny squares in those four hours. We already have a dozen from conferences past. They’re made of random colors, because I use which ever colors the kids don’t want at the moment. Some day I will have enough squares to crochet together into a blanket. It will be a crazy patchwork of mismatching sizes and colors. It will be perfect, a representation of all those conferences together, when we stitched together things far more important than yarn. At the end of the final conference session, everyone tossed their yarn projects– finished or not–into the tub. I’ll put it away downstairs until next Conference when we will have another festival of yarn.

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Some days are grouchy without good reasons

For a day which had higher than usual levels of grouchiness in it. I think it ended pretty well. The broken lawnmower was hauled away by a guy who thinks he can fix it in less than a week. The girls were hopefully chastened and made to think a little bit about their repeated conflicts over treatment of the cat. We watched The Great Race. That movie makes me laugh even though I can recite the lines before the actors speak them. (I watched it a lot as a kid.) Then I wrapped up the day with writing project progress. None of the grouchy stuff should have been such a big deal. Hopefully I can be less grouchy tomorrow.

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Examining My Emotions about Writing as Related to My Book Project

I am part of a group of writers who meet every couple of weeks. Rather than spending our time together critiquing, we socialize. Writing gets discussed often, because it is in our minds, but we spend most of our time talking whatever is going on in our lives. This is particularly nice since we all share a social context and have similar viewpoints about the world. We write different things, and have different backgrounds, so the comparisons are endlessly interesting. Tonight we spent half our time together talking about houses. Later the conversation drifted to a place where I started talking about my feelings about my work in progress as well as feelings about writing in general. I’ve been vaguely aware for weeks that my writing time had some suppressed emotion attached, but honestly I was too busy to pay much attention. I did notice that at times I was avoiding writing. What I was really avoiding was the suppressed emotions attached to writing. This evening’s conversation helped me pull the cover off of my pit of emotions and for the first time I can see what is really in there. At the end of the evening, when the location we meet at closed, one friend said “Are you okay? I feel like we’re leaving you in a sad and scared place.” She’s right. Usually we’re able to find some resolution to emotional topics before the end of the evening. I assured her I was fine, but it wasn’t until I got in my car to drive home that I realized why. I needed to leave that pit of emotions open, I needed to spend some time down in the middle of it. I have to be in the middle of it if I want to clean it out.

Next I am going to list what I found in my emotional pit. Please note that at the moment I’m feeling quite analytical and not at all upset. It is very fascinating to me that all these contradictory emotions can dwell simultaneously inside my head.
The List:

I know that my book is important. I don’t know why or to whom.

I know that there are things for me to accomplish which require me to finish my book first.

These two bits of knowledge are daunting.

I am afraid that my slowness in getting the project done will cause the project to miss some opportunity, that the importance of the project has an expiration date. Which I will miss. Because I put other things in my life before writing.

I worry about how long it is taking me to revise the project and how emotionally draining the revision is. I know I am far from done with revising. If the book does get published, that means even more work, not less. It is hard to want more work.

The subject matter of my book has very personal elements. I worry about having it publicly criticized and rejected. I fear I will not be able to maintain objectivity about those rejections and criticisms.

I’m afraid that the book will be too successful. I know best selling authors and their lives are crazy. Being paid well would be nice, but the level of stress which comes with that money is hard to want.

I’m afraid that the book will bomb. That it will never earn money nor fulfill its purpose.

I am sad that I don’t have more spaces in my life to devote to writing. At the same time I know that the lack of those spaces is primarily my fault. I choose how to spend my time. If I choose other things, then writing does not happen.

I am afraid to really throw myself into writing. Often time is not lacking, nor is energy, but I save the energy for other things instead of giving it to writing.

I feel like the project is good, but that I am failing in my responsibility to get it done.

I feel like the project is stupid and I am wasting the time that I spend on it.

I know that I will have the inspirations I need for this book when they are needed. This gives me strength and calmness to keep writing when the words feel stupid.

I wonder why this project matters beyond my personal desire to complete what I started. I sometimes wish I didn’t have the feeling it was important so that I could set it aside without guilt.

I want to be done with this stage of the project so I can start learning what comes next. I want to be to the point where I can be submitting.

There are probably more things. As I think of them, I’ll add them to the list. For right now, I’m going to bed.

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Gifted programs and decisions

I have notes for three blog entries which I scribbled down over the weekend. I wrote notes for two more on Monday. It was delightful. I loved the fact that my brain was spontaneously percolating more than one blog entry at a time. That used to happen, but hasn’t for months. Then I stumbled across Tuesday. It wasn’t Tuesday’s fault really. Nothing inherent to the day was problematic. I just woke up with a sense of stress and sadness. Sometimes that happens. I tried to muddle through anyway. Then in the afternoon, Tuesday did provide new food for thought. I’ve been thinky with it ever since. Gleek was accepted to a gifted program which will require a two year commitment and a transfer to a different school.

I am a graduate of GATE (Gifted And Talented Education) a program that was run by my California school district in an effort to meet the needs of kids who learned things really quickly. Being one of the Honors kids put me with a group of peers who valued school and learning. I made great friends and had a good experience. Towards the end of high school I noticed that there were kids not in the Honors classes who were every bit as smart as I was. They just didn’t quite make the cut due to class size limitations. That was when I first questioned whether test-to-get-in gifted programs are a good thing.

I’m good at learning new things very quickly. My brain picks up information and stores it even when I’m not consciously trying to learn. Know what I’m not naturally good at? Following through. I’m happy to make a herculean effort for a project, but I frequently fail at do-a-little-every-day type tasks. In school, I was great at learning, but awful at studying. I’m told this is common to gifted people. Which is fine, so long as the word “gifted” is being used as a descriptor for a particular pattern of brain function. Instead it is often used to mean “special” “smarter” “better” and is held up like some golden prize that one must simply be born with. I think this reverence comes in part because those who think in careful steps are in awe of intuitive leaps. I am in awe of the people who know how to work steadily on a single thing until they get really good at it. That story about the tortoise and the hare is true and gifted people get to play the part of the hare.

This gifted program that Gleek may be entering, Kiki was in it six years ago. Now Kiki says it was really good for her and that she is glad she went. I have vivid memories of some very hard months. It was only after we emerged from the program that I read several articles which made clear to me the fact that whether or not a person is gifted or talented, the people who succeed are the ones who work hard. That was when I learned to praise and reward effort no matter whether the effort succeeded at what it set out to do. I’ve learned so much since Kiki was in the program. I am better prepared to handle it. Yes I do have to handle it. This is a program which expects parental support. It is a high-intensity program. For that reason I have reservations about committing to it. But then, Gleek is a high-intensity person. It is possible that this is exactly what she needs. I know for certain that the school she’s been attending isn’t right for her anymore.

In the article I linked yesterday there is a phrase “narrative in the public discussion.” One of the things I don’t like about gifted programs is the narratives which surround them. “These kids are special” is in the air. That is often followed by an admonishment to the kids that because they are gifted they have a responsibility to live up to their potential. The problem with that narrative is that it only sets a high bar without showing the kids how to reach it. If they don’t hit it on the first try, it feels hopeless to them. Instead these kids, the ones who learn by intuitive leap, need a narrative which talks about the value of work. They don’t need lofty goals, they need practice pacing themselves toward far goals. The program is structured in such way that kids can learn pacing there, but when Kiki was in it the narrative was off. Of course the only way for me to affect the public narrative on giftedness is to participate in the discussion. I can be the voice which says that we all have things to learn and it doesn’t matter how fast we learn them. Education is not a race. There is no prize for getting there first.

We will probably accept the placement for Gleek. We have a couple of weeks to decide and a few more factors to weigh, but early indicators point that way. This is yet another of those parenting decisions which I must make without knowing what all the repercussions will be.

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Article on why Internet Fear is Overrated

Every so often I come across an article which I know I must bookmark and keep track of forever because it backs up an aspect of why I parent the way that I do. This one gives me solid reasons to use for why I am not afraid when my kids use the internet. I wish I’d had this article on hand before I did that panel on Kids and the Internet at LTUE.

‘Juvenoia,’ Part 1: Why Internet fear is overrated

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Today, I Cooked Quiche

I made quiche for dinner today. It was not fantastic quiche, but indicates something about today. I had space in my brain to set out and cook a food because I felt like eating it, rather than scrambling to throw something foodish in front of the kids because they were complaining. I used my rolling pin. I got flour all over the counter. Then when I was done making a mess, I cleaned it all up. It is not that the day was luxuriously empty. I had a list of things to do that kept me busy most of the day. It is just that my mind was remarkably free of stress and anxiety about the busy things. I like that. Hopefully I’ll be able to have a pattern of days like this one. For now, I’m going to go eat the last piece of quiche.

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My conversations with God

When I watch Fiddler on the Roof, Tevya’s conversation’s with God feel very familiar to me. I too speak with God on a daily basis. Sometimes that speaking is in formalized prayer. Other times it is merely me rolling my eyes heavenward and asking silently “Really? Why today?” There is no indication that Tevya ever gets answers to his prayers, in fact the opposite is implied. Tevya is left to create his own answers as he tries to balance tradition with a fast changing world. I do get answers. Not all the time, not always clearly, but over the years God and I have developed a rich communication. Mostly those answers come as knowledge/concepts which my mind then turns into words. They are subtle and in earlier years I often confused them with my own desires. I still do sometimes, particularly when seeking answers on an emotional issue. Most of the time I receive these inspirations in direct answer to my prayers or requests. Occasionally I’ll be struck with one when I’m not seeking answers. My usual response to out-of-the-blue inspiration is to answer with the eye roll “Really? Why now?”

Yes I am aware that these answers could be coming from my own mind. I could be creating a comforting fiction of God. Except without fail those answers are right. They are right in ways that are impossible for me to predict. They are right for reasons which sometimes don’t become apparent until years after I have followed the instructions. Yes again, I could be justifying decisions after the fact by simply gathering evidence in support of them. I choose to believe that these answers come from a loving God who is as present in my life as I am willing to let Him be. That last bit is key. I can shut Him out. I can do the spiritual equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ears and singing loudly so that I will not hear Him. It is very tempting, because all too often the answers and inspirations I receive are quite difficult to follow through upon. So I grow a little shell for my heart. I hold up all the good things I am doing as a shield. “See God? I am going to church and teaching my children. I am doing regular service and reading my scriptures. It’s all pretty hard, so I should just keep working at it for awhile, right?” I stay busy with the good things I am doing so that I won’t have to do any more, rather like dodging a phone call from a friend because I think she’ll want me to volunteer for a bake sale.

This is where church meetings come in. One of those good things I use as a shield is church attendance. Except if I really want to avoid conversation with God, the last place I should go is His house. So I go there. I listen. I sing. Then my hard shell cracks open and inspiration pours in. It is like finally talking to that friend and discovering that, yes she wants me to volunteer for a bake sale, but she’s also wondering if she can come help me clean my house, plant flowers in my garden, and maybe repaint a little. I’ll have to help with all of those things too, of course. It will be work, but in the end I will be the biggest beneficiary. When the messages are clear, I adjust my life to make space for the work.

Thus I find myself posting about inspiration on the internet, which is notorious for swooping down upon people in very unpleasant ways. I also find myself tinkering with my weekly schedule because apparently getting my essay book done is still important. While I’m tinkering with the schedule Family Dinner needs to go back on it. In addition, I should keep up that time partitioning plan, because it is a really good thing. So I roll up my sleeves and start in on the work, realizing once again that perhaps I should listen to this particular friend more often. Even while He is handing out assignments, He is also doling out large measures of hope and energy. When I add His things into my life, the impossible is accomplished.

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When my life was crazy

Yesterday I sat at the kitchen table, black binder in front of me. It was a simple three-ring binder filled with printed pages and opened about halfway through. The pages to the left were covered in scribbled notes, stars, and arrows. Pages to the right were pristine, as yet untouched by my editing pen. This was my essay book, my work in progress. I called it Stepping Stones whenever I didn’t just call it My Book. Working with pen and paper was kind of old school, but I found that it better engaged the editing portions of my brain. I had just reached the portion of the story where it was time for me to tell about undertaking the XDM book project.

Four pages were unclipped from the binder. They represented four attempts to wrap events around story. Four times I had made different arrangements of words to tell what happened. They all lacked a connecting thread, the heart of the story which explained why all the events matter. I got up and walked away from the table yet again, hoping that a different location would help me find that thread.

Working on the XDM X-Treme Dungeon Mastery project was crazy. It really was. The quantity of work was impossible for the allotted time. The opportunity cost was horrendous, thought we didn’t know all of that until after the project was complete. For all the craziness of it, doing the project was exactly the right thing to do. Because it was right, we did the impossible. It was not the only factor to that crazy impossible spring. We were also in the midst of the Scrapyard of Insufferable Arrogance printing process and book release. We ordered slipcases to make boxed sets at the same time. Then we counted books and realized that the time had come for us to reprint Under New Management. To add even more craziness we also remodeled Howard’s office, did major book shipping events, and ran a booth at GenCon for the first time. All of that within 5 months.

I found the thread when I remembered the night when I lay curled in my bed all but broken. Putting a book together in only five weeks with no prior experience in textual layout was a real trial by fire. I came out changed, stronger. My emotional trial and triumph was the thread which linked all the facts. I scribbled notes until all the pieces were outlined. I would have to type them in detail later, but I’d caught the essence of what I intended to say.

I flipped the binder closed and got up from the table to go stand at the sink where warm air from a heating vent would blow across my feet. I could hear my younger two kids upstairs playing with a friend. My teenagers were downstairs, thoroughly involved with their screens. I could see my planner sitting on the counter, open to today’s list of tasks. Most of them were already checked off. My life as it currently stands is quite busy. My days are full, and I am frequently reluctant to list my things because I always get the same reactions of disbelief and/or admiration. Also frequently, I feel overwhelmed by my things. It is good for me to remember that what I deal with today is as nothing in comparison to the spring of 2009 when we did XDM. I have survived far worse, I can handle what is in front of me.

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