daisybones

Typical Overwhelmed Mommyblogger Post

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 12:52:00 +0000

To be clear, this post is completely a procrastination mechanism. We've much to do today, what with the Absolute Perfect Storm of Ill-Timed Life Events. I'm prepping for Molly's 6th birthday party while trying to spend time snuggling and grooming Dharma, as we have an appointment to euthanize her this evening. Molly understands that she "most likely" won't come home from the vet's office. She asked, with the theatrical gleam in her eye- project!- if we could have a doggie funeral. Because a six year old girl can put the fun in funeral. Oh yes.

Meanwhile, my neurosurgeon says there may be more stenosis from my bone anomalies (look, Jennifer K- I've stopped using 'deformity') causing continued nerve pain. Stenosis is apparently when the holes in the vertebrae are too tight for the spinal cord and things get angry in there. His words- too mentally busy to google it again. I'm waiting to get a new MRI and then we'll see where to go from there. Could be more surgery. Could be spinal cord stimulator, and could be he'll just complete my cyborg transformation, in which case I demand an arm that shoots lasers, silver bullets, oaken stakes, and regular ammo. The latter is most likely to help, as we've had a Class I Zombie Outbreak.

Immediately I want to delete my joke, as the attack was on a real human, in real life, who has lost his fucking face. His FACE. Kids, for fuck's sake, smoke weed if you must drug it up. It's a motherfucking herb. Hard drugs can make honor roll students eat peoples' faces. We should be learning this in science class, along with normal human sexuality and do you see how much I don't want to leave my little writing bubble? Reality hurts. I have my mother's little helper script full and at the ready, so I'm armed against Generalized Anxiety Disorder if not full-on melancholic reality. Better still, I've got my wee Birdy, whose smiles turn the saddest Ex-Goth-Ish Grrl into a Twee Hippie Mama 100 times a day. I have my Bu in whose shoulders I've buried far more grief than this, so we'll be fine. I think Molly will handle it very well, and that's a big comfort.

Um, OK. I'm off to create a paleontology party and brush my Dharma and feed her peanut butter, her favorite food. Here's our gorgeous pup watching her smallest human play:

That silhouette with the floppy lab ear and pointy shepherd ear is the most beautiful thing in the world today. I'll write more about her later and tell you about her adventures, intelligence and sweetness. She's had an amazing and long life and we're all so lucky to have been her family.

Wordless Wednesday: Eye Makeup Win

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Wed, 23 May 2012 14:20:00 +0000

The Village to the Rescue! Secret Fears of a Stay at Home Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Mon, 21 May 2012 10:53:00 +0000

Something just hit me this week: I'm going to be a full-time stay at home mom. I'll be the acronym that made me cry with jealousy six years ago. The first few weeks back at work after Molly was born, I'd read the web moms tossing around the SAHM label so casually, so unaware of the depth of their privilege, and I'd cry onto my breast pump. Some time during my Bird's belated Terrible Threes, my three-day weekends and evenings were so frustrating that Monday was a goddamn holiday. Adult conversations and a relative lack of screeching toddler (I worked at a children's clinic- heh) were good, good therapy. I realized then that my temperament needed that time away. I shrugged off the desire to be home with my Boo and declared that I was a happily working mom.

The last day of Kanawha County public school snuck up on me- just four more days. It really never occurred to me until this week that I'm going to be with Birdy full time. For an entire summer. And I'll be doing that partially to completely-fucking disabled. (I'm starting to get sick of that word quickly but it's apt for now. Or forever, if you have some silly idea that missing half a limb is a problem.) This hit me on a bad pain/depression day, when I'd called the in-laws to keep the baby overnight on a school night. I panicked that evening, quietly. I wasn't terribly keen to admit I was scared of something I used to covet. After a couple of days of rest, my pain is better- and lo! the depression faded too. (Hi, therapist: you were right about the chicken/egg...)

The epiphane that settled on me like a comfy blanket was My Village. My Aunt who has been like a third parent my whole life, my Dad who rode the roller coaster of his daughter's moods and talks me down when bill collectors call and managed to eventually stop feeling nauseous when I pierced/tattooed something. And I have my new family that felt like home long before the wedding.

I married into a very Appalachian-traditional family. There are four generations of Evanses in our hollow. My dad-in-law is retired and he's always been Molly's babysitter. She has an amazing bond with her Grandies, which is a wonderful treasure. Down the hollow, I have a dear friend A, with four gorgeous children who has many time rescued a deadline-racing designer from a clinging little girl. One of my focuses while I'm off work is to help make sure she and her husband get some more time out. She home schools the girls as well, and Molly has repeatedly asked to do school at home. I'm thinking of creating a light summer plan to work on reading and art and to attend UU services to help my daughter reconcile her very mixed spiritual heritage: LDS, Lutheran, Atheist, Christian with aversion organized religion, non-theist pagan... I think if you throw that in a God Blender you get Unitarian Universalism, right?

I'm going to ask A about her summer lesson plans and see if maybe we can find a way to co-teach on some days. I know there'll be days I need to call on the Grandies' for help when my pain level's too much. My Little Bird is so mature and helpful to Mama, but she clings and on bad days my patience is very touchy, and I just don't want anyone to see me in pain except Shane. And that man- Oh, my- I married the man I needed. In the early days, when all I wanted to do was to self-destruct and shatter from losing mom, he'd demand that I "cowgirl up" and power through it. He saw strength in me and reminded me it was there when it was so hard to find. Now, he's shifted with me. He'll gently steer me to bed when he reads the tiny signs of pain in my face. He's my reality check, and my awe-inspiring confidant. I've hurled such darkness at him, deeply buried worries and doubts and shaking fear and he knows somehow when to listen and hold me and when to call bullshit and tell me to get over it.

I'm so blessed with this nest of loving people. So very happy and safe to know I'm never in this alone- whatever this is. Pain or grief or panic or depression. All at once, often. Thank you, too, my wide, beautiful network of friends I've hugged tightly and friends I know from your words.

I'm feeling a little melodramatic, so I'm shutting down before I tip over the edge into syrupy. But thanks. Thank you, thank you.

Discovering Alison Lapper

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 11 May 2012 19:55:00 +0000

During my phocomelia research, I came across reports of a controversial statue, Alison Lapper Pregnant by Marc Quinn. After seeing the breathtaking sculpture, I dug in to find out about this muse, and discovered she is an artist as well. Her work is a powerful examination of body image, beauty culture, and feminism. I grinned when I saw a mother with phocomelia, who wears her hair short and spiky, and changes the color of it often.

Here is one of her digital pieces:

Here is a statue of Alison in Trafalgar Square, by Marc Quinn.

Alison, too identifies with the Venus de Milo. (I visited the broken statue theme several times in my student art.) This delights me so much, I can barely stand it. She's amazing. She, too, must have confronted body image concerns again and again. During this pregnancy, I wonder, did she too wish for her child to be unaffected by her anomalous genes? And did that dredge from her unconscious the creeping, hidden insecurities that worm away beneath the warrior-woman-proudly-strange-beauty persona we both constructed from/for our lives? And my own quiet fear voice asked: Is she stronger, braver, more adept than me? She seems so fierce. But I've always been pretty in-your-face as well... It's so alien to encounter someone I see as so like me- a role model? With no hands, an artist, a mama- but I'm so aware of what I have that she doesn't. She grew up in an institution for kids with severe disabilities- my parents were so incredibly supportive. She paints with her feet and mouth- I have one hand that easily grasps my pens and brushes. My mouse, my beloved keyboard. I want to know her better, so I order her book from Amazon UK.

During my ordeals with my back, I've been confronting the idea of disability- after my whole life I've balked at the notion of being disabled because of my arm, now my hidden, crooked spine sweeps the rug from that persona. Now I'm the woman in bed for days. The limping mom with a strained expression. But, like every other mental breakthrough I've EVER had, I see now that this label disability is fluid and temporal. Relative. Some days I just have to surrender. Some days I can walk a few blocks and drive a good bit.

I'm acutely aware right now of how much of my body works. Looking at Alison pregnant I remember the gratitude washing through me when I conceived. I was in gaping awe that the surgeon's careful redesign of my uterus and vagina allowed me to get pregnant easily, to have a brilliant and enjoyable pregnancy, and then deliver naturally, albeit with difficulty.

I'm so curious how this incredible person framed her life in her book, and to read more about her wonderful art work. A book review will certainly be posted.

My Upcoming Art Tasks

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Wed, 09 May 2012 10:55:00 +0000

A while back, an art blogger I adore told me she enjoyed my to-do list posts. She said it was interesting to see what a little life-snapshot looks like. I've always loved art process posts, so as I learn to be a more intentional, professional, and productive art seller, I'm enjoying writing it. It also helps to make me more accountable.

So here are the things I know I need to do, the things I need to learn, and whatever other tasks arise. I'll highlight my priorities for my own benefit. Those items I need to wrap up for a possible show in July. (w00t!)

Finish current design client work
Check in with N. about July art show on Capitol Street for ArtWalk
Plan reasonable amount of new work, framing and display design
~~Score hard street drugs for to stand up for a few hours at the reception~~. Remember to schedule rest before the opening.
Upload the rest of my digital prints to my Etsy shop.
Revise all my listing titles at Etsy
Create reproductions of my best drawings- these sell well, according to a friend who works at Etsy.
Design better graphics and split up design services for

Etsy package- banner, icon, thank you graphic, etc.
Facebook cover banner
Google+ cover banner
Blog header graphic
Twitter background
Logo design
Business Card design
Full ID package

Buy a Facebook ad
Buy some Etsy ad spots
Create schedule of Etsy times to renew
Decide about Cafe Press plans, & compare to others like Zazzle
Redesign my blog, Facebook cover
look at other artists, especially art sales on Etsy, as opposed to wearables, crafts
look more carefully at Jessica Gonacha Swift's marketing and base-building. She's incredible. Do look at her fun, gorgeous work.
get WV specific info for registering new business (we're dissolving the old photo/web development biz)

On Art & Pain

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Tue, 08 May 2012 12:52:00 +0000

I'm working this week on an art/writing business plan, so I've been doing some serious old school web surfing. (Thank you, Web 2.0+ for the tabs. The tabs are a surfer's best friend.) I'm looking at art and design business posts with a much more careful eye. I've been skimming tips from Etsy and great creative resource bloggers like Lori McNee and Chuck Wendig for ages, but I just mentally filed it in "useful info" and skipped on to the next lolcat, #DRATW meme, or Regretsy post.

Now that I HAVE to buckle down, it seems I am. Maybe the way to be a working artist is to remove the safety net and just cliff dive into that roiling ocean of the possible.

I've found some really great, practical resources, and that's what I'm seeking. The psychological junk that gunks up the engine? I got that. I've got The Artist's Way, round three. Well, round two- the first attempt was pure art school slacker fuck-up-ery. I have my meds; I have my therapist. I need action items, concrete to-dos, and real world ideas. The best article I've seen so far is this very comprehensive list from FASO- Fine Art Studio Online, at his blog Fine Art Views. I followed FASO's link to How To Be Creative at Gaping Void, thinking it would be fun but not much help to me because I have creative in my pores, blood, and bones. I need steering and organization. But I landed at a great, informative post.

I noticed a thread, though, that set me to musing. Both articles mention pain. FASO even plays on the word painting, telling us it's no coincidence that it starts with pain. I have a loaded, giant, bulging bunch of baggage with this idea, and I've had to kick that bullshit to the dump before I even started to accept the work of art-making. In college, I dragged my art education out painfully long. I tasted every possible medium, and made myself a neurotic and fearful prolonged adolescence in that little fine arts building. Every single piece was about pain. My depression, my fears, and then my grief were formed and solid and nurtured. The content was necessary- some of it moved out of "journal" space and into a place of some depth and larger meaning, but all of it was pure, cathartic therapy. Necessary, that for sure. But it was hard. Maybe grueling. Uphill in lead boots?

After pretty much breaking my brain and soul trying to be a painter, I signed up for ceramics and printmaking classes, and I discovered a new obsession- process. With these new media, the idea and image of the art was a quick and easy thing. As always, starting was exciting. Then, immediately, it turns into crafting and working. I wedged clay and filed beveled edges on to zinc plates. I rolled slabbed walls of clay and cranked the wheel of the press. Most lovingly, I remember the long, careful wiping of the etched plates. I fell in love with the work, and the big Art Monster turned into happy artisan work. It was about skill and patience and meditation. It was tactile- the earthy sulfur smell of wet clay and the oiled inks and turpentine in the print lab. It was home. It took adjusting, and I think I was still assimilating this lesson when I graduated (and became a mom immediately- that's another post) but I'd realized that
you don't love art if you don't love the work.

You have to fall in love with typing or writing the words and the texture of text on a blank page, editing them until they work like a song. You have to enjoy cleaning your brushes and mixing the paint and priming the canvas. You have to love sculpting until your whole body's sore or losing yourself in web code until your vision translates to the screen. Sure, it can be a little love/hate but that's the work. If it hurts, it hurts like running. And fear is always going to be there, as with any unknown. If you're not at least a little bit courting the unknown I'm not sure you're an artist. But the bulk of it, the bones & brick of it- it's just work. You do your job well and steadily and hard. Deliberately, even when it's automatic.

Seems to me that if all that is painful to you, you may want to adjust your career goals. This business part- it's new and there's a learning curve for those of us who'd rather be in a locked studio with a sketchpad or easel or guitar or notebooks- but it's a part of the work, and I love that too. It's the grown up part, and I'm trying to resist blog triteness with all my will but can't: Put on your big girl panties and work. For the best pep talk ever about showing up to do the work, check out Elizabeth Gilbert's TED talk.

Now, my art process isn't about exorcising demons and drawing big mythic stories. It's about taking ink to paper and working the lines. It's the pen and pencil, the scanner bed and the toolbar and perfecting color, texture, composition. It's taking the story in my mind and putting it in sentences and analyzing the grammar and rhythm. It's about getting it done then getting it out there. I am so excited to be in a place right now where my "going to work" is creating then selling. And another tech note- I'm so aware that I can do this in my way so much more than I could have 15 years ago. I can sell directly, take control of the entire process, and get my work to people who love it.

It's power, it's satisfaction, it's my work.

Breakthrough/Diagnosis: Phocomelia

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Mon, 07 May 2012 11:15:00 +0000

I'm sitting in the exam room, wheezing and feverish. I'm at a walk-in clinic, MedExpress. The doctor walks in. He's young, lovely, and has a thick African accent. He asks me, "Phocomelia?" and I reply, intelligently, "Huh?"

He tells me that he's looked at my chart- with a limb abnormaility and problems with the reproductive organs, he's pretty sure it's phocomelia. I gape at him, and ask him is he sure and what is that? He pulls out his iPhone and together we google the syndrome. I learn that I seem to have a genetic mutation with a name, with an actual chromosomal location:

8p21.1

There's a NUMBER. Science! No more baffled GPs musing, well, These things happen. No more chiropractors telling me the Good Lord Made Me Special. Really? I mean, Yeah, clearly the Goddess had unique in mind when she was all electric synergistic quantum something in between the atoms that used to be a star and a cow turd and a butterfly and then me. But with the SCIENCE! I have a real, actual, highly probable diagnosis.

I read over the cluster of birth defects this sydrome can cause. Everything- my arm, my scoliosis, my doubled reproductive organs, my extra kidney, my asthma, even my bluish eye whites and tiny cataracts. All phocomelia: Greek for seal arm. I learn by link surfing that amelia can mean absence of a limb. Amelia, I think, sounds much prettier. Broader category though, and I'm reveling in the exactness of the descriptions of phocomelia.

I am dazzled. Grinning like King of the Lab while they fill me with antibiotics and steroids because I'm dying of bronchitis but I don't care at all. Tear filled, I thank the gorgeous, brilliant doctor. I explain my parents' questions falling flat in 1976, and my insistence to everyone who would listen that all these anomalies were linked.

Occam's Razor, I'd spit my mantra at them. OCCAMSmotherfuckingRAZOR. I've scoured the web for limb deformities and reproductive organs. Nothing. Arm birth defect vagina septum? Nothing. Scoliosis congenital amputation double uterus extra goddamn kidney SOMETHING??? Nothing.

So: joy. I have a reason. Well, a cause. An answer. An answer that each year, maybe 12 mamas in the world, who've taken no drugs during their pregnancy, have a little one with strange limbs, curved spine, extra digestive and/or reproductive organs. Because of a rare, recessive little blip at 8p21.1. (One study says 150 cases ever have been confirmed. One says a dozen or so a year.) Most of the babies have much more severe symptoms than I have. Most have mental impairment. Most have a pair of limbs or all four affected.

There is a very upsetting photograph of a fetus. Apparently miscarried... I stop my image search, click backward. Find a nonsensical piece of graffiti, grab the code to link it at Flickr. Ignore the small, red fetus.

The drug thalidomide causes a copycat thing to happen, and accutane can cause similar stuff as well. Many doctors call the genetic thing "Pseudo-Thalidomide Syndrome," as the drug-induced symptoms are so much more common than the genetic.

My perspective does a dizzying 180: I have not lost the "genetic lottery." I am the luckiest person with phocomelia ever. It hurts a little to walk today, but I can walk. My IQ is high enough to be geeking out over genes and marveling at statistics. My face is pretty, unaffected. My spine- I get tears looking at the spines of these genetic lottery sisters- the spine that gets me so whiny/bitchy, is so much better than it could be. My left hand skips over the keyboard, and the little twinges of arthritis or carpal tunnel syndrome are a wonder. This hand, shaped exactly like my mothers', and sized exactly the same, is my focus. It feels like a treasure and waves of gratitude to the Universe God Goddess Random Chance pour from me.

I message my Dad and tell him this news. He's as thrown and thrilled and satisfied as I am. After talking about this with Shane and my in-laws and a couple of friends, Dad seems to get it the most. It makes me feel closer to him. It makes me miss mom like crazy.

I spend a few days reading, incessantly reciting statistics and medical trivia at Shane. During a reading binge, I discover artist and writer Alison Lapper and I cry. She's gorgeous and amazing and a thousand kinds of strong. I'm working on a post about her now. She has much more prominent abnormalities. She is without arms at all, and her legs are truncated. Reading of her, I am awed.

I am so lucky. Privileged, able-bodied. It's relative, it's fascinating. I'm so grateful I don't have quite the right words. I'm so happy to have this information, this key. The shift in my self-image was never anticipated. I feel stronger in mind and soul and a greater body-peace. The diagnosis itself isn't as important as just the having of one. I feel I know myself more deeply now that I can name this state of being.

It's about that, I suppose; It's about having the words to frame it. That was the hunt for precedent and a concise term. It's how I learn and understand. My words, my body. My self-awareness is more complete now.

I'm the "strange beautiful daughter" from my Ganesha tattoo. I'm a grateful, gorgeous, graceful child of chance, changes and a life turning from one point. 8p21.1 and I spin out around it, all my knowledge and choices, steps and thoughts and art shaped by this unique variation.

Graffiti Image by Diodoro on Flickr.

What the Water Gave Me

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Sat, 05 May 2012 14:05:00 +0000

My full-on on Florence + the Machine obsession is rocking hard. This song goes to my guts.

I'm heading out in a few to test the waters, as it were. I haven't been swimming since early last summer, but as a parting gift from the YW, I got a membership to Nautilus. I'm feeling like the bed days that stretched into weeks have started to be harmful, but most exercise triggers more pain. Water should be my best option. If swimming is too much, I'll at least grab some hot tub time.

Water is so healing and home-feeling to me. My great thinking happens in a bath or shower, and a hot tub and claw foot bath are the only real decadent dream-home items I really strive for. Real soul homes are the Atlantic's salty goddessey tides at Cape Hatteras and the looming cargo ships at River Street in Savannah. The tempestuous white breaks of the New River, and the shallow clarity and marble-smooth stone bottom of the Greenbrier here in West Virginia. Born squarely in the arms of a Mountain Mother, seeing and tasting the ocean's power was a deep homecoming feeling.

It hurts to leave the deeper waters, but less now to return to this house. I'm writing out on my front porch, and the April and May rains are rushing a happy summer song in Sugar Creek, so sweet. When the water gets high enough to talk to me I feel so much at home here. The air smells amazing, the birds sing, praising a little break in our rainy season- tiny yellow finches that match the tiger swallowtail butterflies that inhabit our hollow in huge numbers.

Home is lovely and beloved, but such a tiny teardrop taste of the wild oceans and rivers I'm dreaming.

*Thank you to dear Anne for her Merfilk Pinterest board- image by Watwrhouse.*

ChangesBowie. Er... ChangesRichardsonEvans?

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Thu, 03 May 2012 13:03:00 +0000

So, I've rescinded my status as a worker bee. I had a long, difficult, and teary talk with my director, and Monday was the last day I was the manager of my beloved little shop.

But it was time. I was going to title this, 'Giving up the Ghost,' but then Shane called me David Bowie due to my haircut/blondeness and I've had Changes stuck in my head since Monday anyway, so there you go. My husband thinks of this

when he makes out with me, and I don't know whether that's flattering, super hot, or just scary. I'm going with hot, because Mmmm... Bowie.

And leaping over a meaningless digression, let's return to the fact that my world went a little intense last week and this. After calling in three days in a row and suffering huge, quaking panic attacks as a result, I finally admitted to Shane, my coworkers, my therapist, my neurologist, and my boss that I'm not doing as well as I've been reporting. I've downplayed my pain habitually. It was a really tough thing to face, but it felt inevitable once everything was laid out plain: I can't do that work right now. I can't stand at the register, steam the clothes... I can't do retail. Not even shiny, lovely, charitable retail.

And so I'm resting, and rethinking. While I look into my options- desk job, unemployment, disability, etc. I'm working on my creative endeavors. I'm putting together a business plan- at the moment it looks like this:

Research art, design, and blogger business plans.

Impressive and thorough, non?

It's a sadness, to leave my shopgirl family, but it's time to make friends with mybodyself. I've been meditating a lot on that since the Mindfullness book. It's something I'll probably explore more, but having a keen body-awareness/acceptance is so important for me to heal. I'm calming into the awareness that I'm on the early side of projected recovery after the spinal fusion. This body may take a year to feel good as opposed to six months. It may take 18 months. It's a possibility the disc-generated pain wasn't the whole story- Shane and I both think arthritis is a big factor here.

Whatever happens, I'm being in my now, and my now is a gift to my creative self accompanying a blow to the competent/independent self. There's another thing to explore: being dependent financially, physically from a feminist perspective. It's not terribly easy.

The other hidden win here is more time as a Stay at Home Mom. Sure, Mama's been limpy and there's been a lot of Potter movies and books with iced-arse rest time, but Daddy's been on outdoors duty lately. We're approaching Birthday #6, and planning a Paleontologist Party.

So, any new developments in your life lately?

Scary/exciting changes?

Got any creative entrepreneur links?

How to Go Vegan: The Transitive Property of Coffee

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 11:30:00 +0000

Welcome to a new series of Reality Blogging posts, which is a genre I just invented but which is pretty redundant as most bloggers are blogging their realities.

I decided that it's time to commit to heading in a vegan direction, if you will, after knowing for years that this is the diet my body needs and my heart wants. Dairy does bad things to my digestive system and skin, and it triggers my asthma and allergies. I'm not even touching the animal compassion thing with links or statistics because all we'll hit is pETA websites with sensationalist, tabloid looks and blatantly biased research. Suffice it to say that I personally believe domesticated (or, um all of those which haven't got icky exoskeletons) animals should be treated with dignity and compassion and that we humans are mammals; ergo we wean and then we eat healthy foods. We do not, biologically, have any business messing with fatty, highly caloric milk after maturity. So, yeah... to the funny now?

The tone of my 'How to Go Vegan' posts probably will be more irreverent than most people who'd write such things. There's such a purist element in that community, but a huge part of this diet transition is, for me, all about being less purist and more mindful and intentional. Going to a place of eating less animal foods consistently is more important to me than getting obsessive and then breaking down with a pizza binge.

Another note:
You can pry my sushi out of my gnarled, dead hands. Because I've vowed to The Great Dionysian Forces of Delight that always in my life there will be occasional sushi treats.

Onward to the actual content: I've discovered a great law of foodieness: The Transitive Property of Coffee. This rule reveals that all those foods I've always thought of as eternally married to milk are also great coffee foods! I stumbled on this rule while snacking on peanut butter one morning as I made Molly's lunch. I washed it down with my morning coffee, and had the epiphane. It was suddenly so obvious that all those sweet things I "need" milk for dunking or mitigating richness and sweetness were so beautifully paired with coffee instead.

And coffee has like a trillion more benefits than milk. Doesn't it do the anti-oxidant thing? And it can possibly reduce your chances of developing Parkinson's and Alzheimer's diseases? (Seriously, there are studies.) Not to mention that milk doesn't jack your brain power right up into the motherfucking SKY or pump you full of pure, caffeinated awesome. Coffee is a ritual practically mandated by my genes and my church even. (Google UUs and coffee and be washed in the worshipful bliss.) I know I've recently mentioned my anxiety is in high gear, but I've gone off caffeine and it didn't bring my crazy down even one notch. So hail to the bean, and dunk your egg-free cookies in that delicious, dark elixir of yum. As I write, I'm finishing up a toasted banana peanut butter sandwich with my Joe.

What's your favorite coffee food?
Are you doing any diet changes you want to share?
Any vegan tips to contribute?
Do you use milk or cream in your coffee? Because grow up, dude.* I kid- what's you're favorite non-dairy substitute?

Image credits: Coffee photo by Amanda28192, Milk photo by Mowie Kay. Used under terms of the Creative Commons share & attribute licence.

*Heh, OK, I am a purist. I believe strongly in plain, black coffee.

Hey, Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 21:02:00 +0000

...and boy. I think there're one or two males who brave the PMDD thought-circles and crises of the No That Bitch DID NOT copy my vagina art and pass it off as hers variety. Or his. Again, with the gender equ...

Whatever: Hey y'all.

From a Tumblr full o' Nate.

I've been all not up in your internet because I've been in a Place of Suck, and from that place good creativity cometh not. From that place- the place of anachronistic asthma attacks leading up to bronchitis and sinusitis, paired with a ridiculously busy and worried work week after which my sciatica and hip/back pain decided to go full-on medieval on my ass- from that place? This place?

Nothing pretty.
Nothing even darkly comical or I'm-slaughtering-my-demons insightful.
From this place I have sown a new game of pharmaceutical roulette (with Neurontin) and an appointment with an actual psychiatrist. Interestingly, the Neurontin, intended for my nerve pain, seems to be helping my anxiety. My shrink may be pleased and just say, Carry on.

Meanwhile, I have ten minutes tops of sitting time and I have spent them. Good day and Browncoats Forever and such.

Sick Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 16:44:00 +0000

I'm quitting life for three days. Well, 2 1/2. My back is recovered from this last speed bump, and now I've come down with bronchitis and sinusitis. I'm resting my lungs and bones, and my voice is gone as well. My bed seems the place to be.

I get annoyed at being The Sick Girl. I had acute asthma or sinus infections approximately 63% of my childhood and oh, let's say 22% of my adult life. Going vegetarian helped a bit, and I'm betting that going dairy free will do wonders.

I think the asthma seems to correlate with some compromised immunity, but my constant stress level is probably the most damaging. It's hard to say there's one cause.

I hate being the one who catches every virus and germ, and people who have perfect work or school attendance baffle me. It's draining to feel physically poor, but I also feel somehow weak as if my character is flawed because I'm sick a lot.

For now the prescription is rest and cough syrup, antibiotics and acidophilus to prevent the nasty, and breathing treatments.

Using the nebulizer is a sense trigger. I've used it so rarely as an adult that it always evokes sweet memories. Mom and Dad would get up together late at night when the attacks hit, and set up the machine in our wooden dining table. I'd hold the mouthpiece and the rhythmic drone of the machine would quickly regulate my scared-little-girl breathing.

When the medicine was gone, Mom or Dad would clean and pack up the equipment and the other parent would listen to me talk a blue streak- the albuterol made me so hyper. My face would be numb from the vibrations and I'd still be lightheaded from the drugs and the attack.

They'd hang out with me until I finally could go to sleep. Eric, who can sleep through an atomic blast, would never wake up. It was like a little grown up treat, up late with my parents and feeling so great in comparison to the frightening times before the treatment.

I'm so glad I outgrew the severe asthma, but it pops up sometimes to remind me it's there. This morning, I used the nebulizer and Molly thought it was the coolest thing ever. She also wishes she had a "cool little funny arm".

So now I'm off to nap until her school bus returns my sweet kid with her healthy lungs and ten very fine fingers.

-------

I learned something completely wonderful at the doctor's office, but it deserves it's own post. It is NOT a pregnancy, by the way.

Be healthy my bleaders, and have a gorgeous weekend.

Protection and Power

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 13:47:00 +0000

I've written before about the quantum shift in approaching my health when my fight against depression gave way to a showdown with the spine. The warrior goddess wielding a flaming sword all blazing with magic and metaphor gave way to a zen willow relaxing into the flow of storm winds. It's still challenging to surrender. All my life, wellness has meant mental health. The asthma & allergies, the limb atypical, the anomalies & surgical scars were all given, firmly carved in bone, leaving my brain as the only part needing any attention. The tact that worked was the fiery attack.

power through it

was my mantra, from when the first teen blood came with new, untamed moods
to the last push birthing my daughter, and finally exhausting the fire of pregnancy.

Now I'm a delicate creature, and I loathe it with all my being. Tears and panic never made me feel so weak as this remade spine. When I have a pain surge- and this past two weeks has been the worst since the operation, it's always because I ignore the care I need to take. I let emotional stress build to crushing weight. Or, positively, I fix on a goal and I power through it. Weekend before last, I reorganized Molly's room, then I woke the next day reeling from pains & dysfunction. The weeks following were incredibly hard with bad chemicals at play (see PMDD posts, but the short story is estrogen toxicity) My legs have been an electrical storm of searing pains and short circuited numbness. Today it's finally subsiding after peaking yesterday.

My focus is on protecting this healing. I feel better, and so I want to jump into the piles of to-do lists littering my life. But waiting is. I'm easing my way in. Small work, lots of breaks.

redefining power

as the wisdom to listen. The flaming GoddessSwordMind is there in my core, fueling. I honor that self. But around her is a new body paradigm. Solid and still, bones are weaving new structure and my muscles must rest and strengthen carefully to protect this work.

I'm laughing, reading/writing, because I've written this post in different colors several times. I'm remembering when the anger at the bed rest finally broke me and I just relaxed all over. I'm sure I wrote this at least once since returning to the shop.

I'm laughing and peaceful reading/writing because I understand now that these lessons circle back again & again. They aren't a thing one just knows. They are lessons of experience that have to be lived a few times, maybe a hundred times, to integrate.

To Write

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 00:38:00 +0000

I've been noticeably avoiding any post-length writing, save for what I'm writing without an audience. This is a therapy process I've been missing in recent years. Or rather, it's a manner of thinking- the only way I think in my best form. It's accompanying (and was suggested by) new counseling sessions.

It's all raw and intimate and guts I'm not spilling here. Deep work, opening old grief and buried questions.

Along with internal mental surgery, my body's kept me in bed far too much this week. I see the neurosurgeon tomorrow. I'm concerned with new "dead" patches that come and go but are persistent. This is new. My pain's eased up since last weekend, so it's most likely normal.

So life has been too intense, and I've needed privacy and quiet. I've been with my wildling girl a lot, just watching her fly. She's reading so well, and her bright, colorful, sharp little mind is a treasure chest that keeps opening and unfolding. I've been enjoying the moments with her so purposefully. She changes and grows like a sped up film. It's a blur if I don't carefully attend it.

So this spring, I'm watching the changes and doing deep, careful work. I'm approaching Mom's birthday (the day before mine) with a surge of sharpness to the grief that's been mellowing. My heart stretches to aching reaching for what isn't there.

But the Earth greens and Molly laughs. Shane gets drunk on the smell of my neck. The lilac blossoms and Dharma is sleepy and comfortable and slow and content.

Home feels a dusty and wild garden needing tending, but it is a temple here with all of us straining from paychecks so meager and worries buzzing around. It's our garden, though. A center in the chaos.

Treasure Nest Tuesday: Buddha Monkey Love?

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 21:19:00 +0000

Friday I had an awful horrible no good sorta day. I was muddling about sorting shoes in the basement at Past & Present. In the bottom of a crumpled cardboard box of old sandals, I saw this sweet, gleaming charm. It was Buddha! I got weepy, because when I find shiny Buddha in a box of dusty shoes, I am a Believer in the Divinity of All the Things.

When I was photographing the charm, my Buddha looked a little like a monkey to me.

And this is a whole new layer of awesome. Because of Quiddity and The Art and other things drawing me to the point that you must read The Great and Secret Show, by Sir Clive Barker.

He's only knighted in my head, but he deserves it sheerly on the excellence of The Books of Blood, the conception of Pinhead, and Harry D'Amour's tattoos.

No, wait... LOOK at it. It's a monkey. It's a forcibly-evolved monkey who drank the Nuncio and became Quasi-God then came to trick me into thinking I found Buddha in a box of shoes.

Favorite Things Fridays: Snakes for Saint Patrick's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 12:44:00 +0000

Oh, I'll wear of the green and I'll drink of the Jameson's, but I'll also be chanting in circle and sporting serpent jewelry. St. Patrick's "snakes" were the pagans, and I do my Celtic Love reptile style.

When I lived in Pittsburgh, it was an especially excellent day, for my hair of choice in those days was Tori Amos red, and Burgh guys do not care if you're a natural. They will WORSHIP you with free drinks.

Here's a sketch for the eve of our Ostara ritual.

Snake Charm:

Treasure Nest Tuesday: For the Love of Clay

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 11:00:00 +0000

I studied ceramics in college- sculpture and pinch/slab functional ware. In dis/ability news, I can throw on a wheel... REALLY BADLY. Now the practice for that is off my goals list because of my back.

I adore clay in almost every use. Here are a few of my favorite pieces in our home. The relief tiles are mine, and the mug is by Keith Lahey. It's technically Mr. Bones' but he doesn't drink coffee or tea:)

The Strange Beauty in the Mathematics of Decay

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 15:28:00 +0000

Somebody loves titling doodles far, far too much. This is an idea to draw a human skull in a Golden Mean Rectangle- the kind of supposedly perfect proportion inside which fits my beloved Fibonacci spiral. I think I'll print a bunch of the rectangle template and do several versions, like with the graph paper obsession.

Tomorrow

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 20:05:00 +0000

This made me laugh today- found it in my sketchbook from weeks ago.

Favorite Things Fridays: Who's Your Favorite Artist?

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 13:52:00 +0000

I mention Frida Kahlo most often, but she's really my spiritual, process guru. The artist whose work touches me deepest, who speaks to me on a visceral level, who helped merge my feminism, spirituality, and artistic intent, is Kiki Smith. I love this Flash gallery of Smith's work at MoMa.

Above: Gorgeous Moon Goddess sent to earth to teach us printmaking and sculpture, and to celebrate our innards.

Credit: unknown but seems to have originated at MoMa?

I had the opportunity to hold some of her bronze Jersey Crow sculptures, and it must have been exactly what a religious pilgrim feels upon touching relics of the saints.

Yeah, actually I call her Saint Kiki.
Here is some more of her incredible body of work. And: body. Yes. A great deal of her work is a physically, bloody (even shitty) celebration of our strange, wonderful flesh. But then effortlessly she dances to the stars with lacy sugary celestial art and then comes back to earth in the body of a deer, wise with untold fairy tales.

Pee Body

Untitled

The Carrier

Red Moon

Glass Sperm that I hung a clipping of in my High School locker, thinking only that "Hey, Sperm are very pretty. And I am EDGY and hot for I have a spermlocker." The image wasn't credited. Found it was Smith's deep into a term paper on her work in college:D

Who speaks your art language? Painters, poets, musicians, bloggers? Who turns that brain on?

Link bomb me- let's have a love in.

Treasure Nest- Tardy!

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 12:35:00 +0000

The photos were taken on Tuesday, but I failed to post them here. It was a day of wack. Busy, emotional, and generally frantic. To find my bohemian center, I spent a few minutes with Jamie, the Outer Space Goddess who owns Collage on Quarrier Street.

I tried on some yummy Cat's Eyes. On loan for a fashion show. No awesome for me, but I maxed out my vintage glasses karma already.

She modeled her new outrageous head bands.

I bought one.

Then she noticed my iPhone snapshot addiction and made me join Instagram right there.

She held my hand when the handle daisybones was taken. I'm daisyb0nes.

Then the sccary bunnies wouldn't stop staring and I had to leave.

Above: pure, refined terror.

From Which the Future's Made

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 15:20:00 +0000

In my dream, I received an odd phone call from a person I eventually recognized as a Facebook "friend" I'd never met. (My friend philosophy is to accept every request unless I know the person is an asshat or spammy. Then, when I find that you post photos of mangled fetuses with woman-hate or type in all caps, I remove you.) The caller was upset, but she needed help from a different Heidi. It came to light that she'd called directly from Facebook with a feature that doesn't yet exist.

Then I was discussing the weird situation with my friend and (with dream-brain word salad) I used the phrase "Paternity for Life," perhaps in response to discussing the merits of a friend's Baby Daddy? Anyway, when I picked up my iPhone, the Facebook app had launched and taken me to a request to "Like Paternity For Life." I was wicked creeped- the phone was listening! I turned it off and went to my mic-less laptop and pulled up Facebook. In this nebulous future, (or sideways dimension) there is no Facebook logo. There are colossal ads that run for a week and that company, whose logo was like the Michelin Man punching out at the viewer with an energy drink- Brawndo? Or the one in The Oblivion Society with a more forgettable and therefor realistic name? BUT a hacker had "tagged" the page (as I'm not a hacker I'm pretending they use graffiti terminology) by changing the font in the logo.

And that's how I knew The Zuck wasn't spying on me; a hacker was.

The End.

Credits: my image "Reboot" from 2000-somewhen. Title from a Jim Morrison poem SHUT UP the Lizard King rules.

Favorite Things Fridays: Birds & Snakes #2, The Art of Lynette Shelley

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 14:55:00 +0000

I just discovered my new favorite Etsy artist, Lynette Shelley. Her use of pattern is gorgeous and adroit. Her paintings are like beautiful love stories about animals. There's a powerful, mythical feel to her work. Like a modernized and sophisticated Aboriginal Australian style blended with Celtic illustration. I'm showcasing reptiles and birds, of course, and carefully ignoring her scary [only to me; I know] bunnies.

Serpent Tree / World Tree

Conjoined: The Geckos

Three Ravens

Check out Lynette Shelley's Facebook page,

and her web site, Curious Creatures.

Follow her on Twitter, and then

buy many of her paintings and prints

then send them to me.

Favorite Things Fridays: Birds & Snakes #1

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 12:57:00 +0000

song for the cold blood: strange
creatures, all bones too
many or hollow & drifting
all motion- alien cool & furless.
eggs & change &
molting always a quiet
hiss of growth or flight.
deep ground & under
or sky, impossible. you
are the fancy of
myth & fairy tale,
magic & fear & beyond
this mammal story-
some older knowing lives
small & solid
in your skulls.
smelling with tongues
and feeling wind's tiniest whispers
you are strange songs
calling from
old, cold places.

[mine]

---

I was remembering my Roswell, former pet python and living art material shed-er, this morning. Then I saw a peacock on Pinterest and went into an internet rabbit hole after creating a Birds & Snakes board for my favorite creatures.

I remember as a fledgling Wiccan scoffing at the too-sweet cuteness of totem animals. All these Cat People, Mighty Panthers talking of vision quests and my darling Chein Noir: I shared with her being a "mother" of a beautiful black dog but didn't feel the sister-soul essence she did with her animals. I shrugged off animal magic until it dawned on me that the disconnect was their mammal totems. I was looking at my art- never a piece without moon, crow, or serpent, and realized my sister-beings were reptilian and avian. The fascination lives on, after my printmaking classes and religious studies. They move me with their ancient, alien beauty.

This'll be a two-part post. I've found an amazing artist to feature, and I'm waiting for permission to post her work. I'm off now to fight the urge to sell all my worldly possessions, buy a tattoo machine, and etch snakes into my legs.

Another day...

Peaks at Work in Progress: Logo and Book Cover

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 15:29:00 +0000

I'm attempting an art blitz day with annoying car drama harshing my mellow with mundane stuff. Here's where I am with ongoing visual jams:

These are the logo and color choices for the Doctor Her blog. I'm hoping the site template will come together & go live soon.

Here is the front half of the poetry book for the fabulous Crystal Good:

...And I'm also doing layout for a program for the Children's Therapy Clinic's Night With The Stars. This is the legendary Oscars viewing party that gets me in a formal dress each year. Tickets are still available- come party with me! [CTC logo by Charles Ryan & Associates, watercolor Facebook Page icon by me.]

MORECOFFEENOW! Have a great day, and hug a graphic designer today...heh.