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We got away last week.  It was a wonderful, welcome campout although slightly different than our typical active vacations.   Due to my foot injury, hiking was not an option.  Afraid to stop moving I wondered, "What will it be like to camp for fours days with no hiking?"  Pre-departure I anticipated boredom, frustration and weight-gain and had a really bad attitude.  Knowing this was our only opportunity to recharge, I decided to pack as many journaling supplies as I could and optimistically envisioned hours of time to play. 

I packed a quilted, fabric journal that I made during an Artfest retreat.  The smaller size fit nicely in my tackle box along with the rest of my journaling kit.  I hadn't used this journal for more than 10 years.  When I made it my creative life was focused on art.   Due to a car accident I hadn't played my viola for nearly 3 years.  Depressed, suffering and living in a musical void I longed for happier times.  In the first dozen pages of my journal  I sketched dreams of health and happiness and musical goals.  And then I put it away for a decade.   A funny thing happened during that wait.  I stumbled across my journal last year, opened it and was astonished to see my dreams on paper.  As I turned each page I was more and more amazed--my dreams had all come true! 

It seems like this is a magic journal.  But I think every journal is magical.  Fill one with your dreams and watch them come true.  Work through your challenges.  Sketch your hopes.  Doodle your fantasies.  Then watch them come to life.  Like Harold and the Purple Crayon, you may be surprised and delighted by what comes out of your pen!

I just read What it Is by Lynda Barry and fell in love.  Read this book!  It is a fascinating creative journey; a "how to write" manual in journal form.  She journals her artistic journey beginning with childhood.  We see the dreaming, the questions the self-doubt and eventual confidence played out in her journal.  We see her become an artist.  During our trip I practiced one of her ideas, "keep your pen moving."  I sat under a tree to draw.  I drew all afternoon.  I refrained from judging my pages; I just drew.   It felt good.  I experimented with new styles and techniques and had a ball.  Barry talks about children's art, "when kids draw they make sound effects or start talking out a story that seems to be happening live."  The adult version of this is doodling.  "Doodles can be called mindless drawing.  It's one of the last places drawing still exists in a person who gave up on art long ago.  A place where one line can still follow another without plan." 

It turned out to be one of our better camping trips.  My take away from this vacation was I didn't have to be in constant motion.  It was enough for my pen to be in motion.  The last morning of our trip I remarked to my husband, "I've been so content and placid on this trip.   I think it's because of all the journaling."  His reply?  "Don't stop."

Do you journal?  If so, share your thoughts.  If not, head over to Creative Playground to find out more.


 
 
I had planned to write about Being Gentle today. It hasn't felt like a gentle day. The harder I try to put together cohesive thoughts, the more fragmented I feel. Shattered.

Grief punched me in the stomach in the middle of the night. It's been in knots ever since. Subconsciously I pushed the heartache down into my belly to avoid the pain. I know the vice grip I feel is really me trying to hold the lid on my feelings. My mind is saying I don't have time for this now. And my body is saying oh yes, you do.

So how do I follow my own advice? How can I Be Gentle when there's a raging storm inside me? How can I cope when I need to keep going? I've tried all kinds of things today--my entire list of Coping Strategies--except Be Gentle. Today I just can't figure out how to Be Gentle and that's the one I need the most.

Logically, I know it would help to let go.  Years ago I went to a book signing by the inspirational writer, SARK.  She had us write our worst fear on a piece of paper, fold it up and hand it to the person next to us. Then we all said, "will you throw this away for me? I don't need it anymore."  It was a simple, yet powerful demonstration of letti

What am I holding onto? What's keeping me from processing my grief? The fear that I'll cry at the performance tonight? The fear that I won't be prepared for rehearsal tomorrow? The fear that I won't be ready for the youth orchestra concert this weekend? Many questions; many fears.  I need your help. With these keystrokes, I'm putting my fears down on a piece of paper.  Will you throw this away for me? I don't need it anymore.

 
 
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Every February I display my collection of vintage Valentine's Day Cards. I love the precious designs. They are colorful, tiny treasures--a glimpse into a charming tradition. This year I feel quite nostalgic as I tuck them into my ribbon board. My thoughts drift to the people behind these tokens of affection. I think about some of the special ones who influenced my musical life and I think about the love notes I'd like to send.

To Mom Mom, my maternal grandmother:  I love to talk about your amazing job playing the piano for silent movies. If I only knew more about that! I'm grateful that you shared your talents by teaching piano lessons--particularly to your daughters. I wish we hadn't lived so far from each other. Luckily my mom shared such lovely memories about you that never fail to make me smile.

To my sweet Grandmother:  I miss you! You gave me one of the best gifts I've every received-- a 78 rpm record you made for me when I was 6! It was like magic for a young girl. There you were on my portable record player, singing songs to me and telling me how much you loved me. I still play that record nearly 45 years later. And yes, it is still just like magic.

To my aunt:  You were a music mentor to me from the very start. I'm astonished to realize the depth of your influence. When I first wanted to join the school orchestra you were the one who suggested the viola. You watched me grow and supported my dreams from afar. When it was clear that I needed to upgrade to a better quality viola you helped me go instrument shopping in Philadelphia. You encouraged me to attend a summer quartet program that had a profound influence on my selection of private teacher and college. And now that I think about it I'll bet you even convinced my parents you'd watch over me while I was so far from home. Thank you for being an angel in disguise!

To my dear Mother:  Thank you for always singing! It feels so good when your songs pop in and out of my head and I think of you. I have vivid memories of Saturday afternoons when you had every radio in the house tuned to the Metropolitan Opera. I was enthralled to hear you tell the opera stories. You showed me your passion for music and taught me its healing power. And even though it meant I moved far away, you encouraged me to follow my dreams. I'm only beginning to understand how hard that was.

These are my love notes to four wonderful women who inspired me and encouraged me and allowed me to dream. They all played a significant part in my musical life and for that I hold them close to my heart. I wish I could let them know how grateful I am for their unlimited support. Putting my thanks into writing feels somewhat inadequate when really, I want to hug them and tell them how much I miss them. For only one is left to thank in person. I think I'll call her today.
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