I saw a blog post today that quoted Chris Brady — a businessman, best-selling author, speaker, and a self-proclaimed Rascal — in listing several qualities of a Rascal. According to @RascalTweets:

A Rascal is a guy or gal who makes a difference by being different, who doesn’t follow the herd but protects it. An original character; one who can’t be classified, minimized, silenced, or enslaved. One who holds others valuable without sacrificing his/her own value.

Okay. That’s a good start. I wonder what they were like as children?

When I taught third-graders, I loved my rascals. Those well-intentioned little squirts who loved learning and who saw possibilities adults often lose sight of somewhere in the process and circumstance of living.

The ones with dancing eyes who jumped and hollered at recess and had a hard time reigning it all in once back in the class room.

The ones who burned up energy and ran with curiosity.

Who had stuff to do and were eager to get to it.

Got Shoes, Got My Travelin’ Clothes On… Collage of Kali being Kali, in Coffee Shop with Gramma Barbe. Original photo of shoes was taken by Kali — her shoes, on her feet. She is a bright, fun-loving, knows-who-she-is gal, home schooled, 12 years old. I adore her.

Adult Rascals?

Rascals must be those child-like adults who have learned to think and work and play on a moral and ethical field, who still explore possibilities, and are not easily intimidated by life’s happenstances.

They do make a difference — because they care to.

Now that I know what a Rascal is, yes, being a Rascal is a good thing. I do know some, and I certainly hope I am one!

Here’s my main Rascal… Wes Hartsook

We were in Hawaii, and my then-mid-fifties hubby wanted to learn to surf. The young instructor raised her eyeborows, gave him the once-over, and said with a half-laugh, You?

Yep, he answered, with the big smile he reserves for everyone. Me.

I went shopping on the beach, but got back in time to see him riding that board in on a wave. That’s a triumphant grin you see — tired, but happy.

What a guy!

He’s unafraid to live, to try, to fail, to begin again. He does not quit.

He believes in the ability and worth of people, including himself, unless they prove otherwise.

You’d like him, because he’d like you. And he is loved by his kids, his grandkids, and his wife.

Do you know any Rascals by this definition? Are you one? Freshen up your coffee mug and sit a spell…

Barb

I ask myself, Do I know what I want to have done by bedtime tonight? Enough that I …

• Plan for it?
• Dress for it?
• Mark out an hour or several in my planner to tackle it? You know, the actual steps of activity I will take.

Remember those old Think and Do workbooks we had as school-kids in the primary grades? (Or maybe you’re way too young — but still, I’ll bet you had something similar…)

Think and Do: Thinking is good. So is doing.

I love the thinking part — I can think and plan and boost my energy levels while walking or working out or sitting with coffee and a pen, even while driving. I make lots of notes…

But it’s in the doing those notes that I sometimes get bogged down.

Doing requires me to get up, recharge my brain, start, go! Stay mentally and physically mobile until I get to the having done something part.

And I love that part — I feel good. Having done something I set out to do is in itself an energizer!

How about you?

It’s been a while since I made coffee online — but I still brew a bunch of it in real life for those who stop by.

I’ve missed you all. Please have a cup of Italian roast (or a bottle of water) and join me for a chat…  Thank you for coming.

Barb

I was asked what smells really good to me?

I like to breathe in…

the early morning air wet with dew

freshly-brewed dark-roast coffee

summer rains

salt water breezes

new babies, pure and fresh

pine needles in the forest

Then I was asked where would I rather be? What would I rather be doing? With whom?

I am where I’d rather be, doing what I want to do, with my husband working on his own projects, my kids safely in their homes and work places, their kids happily growing into themselves.

Are there other things I’d like to do? Elsewhere? With others?

Well sure. I’m certainly not done. The path leads ever-forward, bending through the trees.

I have tons to learn and many new friends to build a relationship with, whom I’ve yet to meet.

But today is today… now… the only time I have to be who I am right now. And right now I’m a mom and grandmom-on-call. Today I read. Observe. Ponder. Write and draw.

Am I where I want to be? Maybe a better question is: Do I want to be where I am? And that is a choice………..

I ask you the same questions — I like that first one. It opens the creative juices.

What do you like to breathe?

Are you where you want to be?

Doing what you want to do?

Help yourself to snacks and coffee. Water bottles are in the fridge. Thank you for coming by.

Barb

Once upon a time, eighteen years or so ago, a young man won his love’s heart with a rose every Friday.

Oh, it wasn’t always a rose. Sometimes it was a dozen roses, sometimes a teddy bear. But always a gift, and always on Friday. And always with a note, “Will you have dinner with me?”

She had fallen in love with him long before the gifts began, when they had dated earlier. But circumstances had happened, and at this point, they were not a couple.

She liked getting the gifts, and the romance they promised. Yet she wondered how long both the gifts and the promise would last once she said, “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you.”

So for a while she said nothing………………………………

But before we finish the story…

My husband’s and my forty-five-year-romance is rarely conveyed by a dozen roses delivered as a matter of expectation for a holiday or anniversary, but by the little surprises that come just because – for no special reason.

It’s finding a note and little cartoon drawing put next to the coffee pot where my husband knows I’ll greet my morning. Love that!

It’s dinner out, sharing an entrée, two forks, one plate, two glasses of wine – his red, mine white.

It’s talking about the books we’re reading, sharing ideas, while sipping hot café mochas in a coffee shop anytime of day. Or just reading together, quietly, over our coffees.

It’s adventure – exploring places together. We can be hiking or biking (once we went sky-diving!), dressed in sweats or denim, have soup and salads for lunch, or a chunk of bread and cheese and a glass of red wine. Nothing need be fancy, or expensive. It’s the doing… together.

It’s his framing a snapshot of me, taken on one of those adventures, to hang above his desk, with this comment typed around the edges: When a special person touches our lives then suddenly we see how beautiful and wonderful our world can really be… Love that!

Enduring romance is an intimate discovering of life, together, through many ups and downs. It’s a mutual awareness of and sensitivity to each other, knowing there is no one else you’d rather be living it with.

…And back to the story…

Our daughter did eventually say yes to the young man’s dinner plans. This Saturday will be their 17^th anniversary.

They’re in that process of discovering and enjoying life together. And he’s still giving her gifts. Like this recent trip to Bermuda…

What is your idea of romance? Poetic or otherwise.

Please enjoy the coffee, have a seat, and think back…

Thank you for coming.

Barb

I used to cook. And decorate the food.

When Wes and I were first married, I learned to cook on a budget because money was definitely scarce, and much of what little we both made as teachers had to be saved to buy furniture — and later a home.

But I cooked! I got very creative with chicken and hamburger. And not just with recipes…

I learned how to present food! That just means I arranged it on inexpensive plates so you’d not notice the plates so much. And made centerpieces of wildflowers — weeds? — and driftwood.

We invited new friends over and fed them pretty food. Still chicken, or budget cuts of beef, but pretty!

When our girls came along I continued to create meals, ever experimenting with new tastes, new looks. (The artist in me has always wanted to speak.)

I don’t cook pretty anymore though… What happened?

Sketched and painted in Corel Painter

Now when the kids come over on Sundays, lunch is usually pick-up-style. Hot soups and stews in cold weather. Sandwiches and cookouts in warm. With nibblies and extras on the side…

Yummy — but rarely pretty. Rarely creative!

Friends are still and always welcome — but they get coffee and nibblies. Or wine and nibblies. We go out for dinner!

Things change as we change.

My girls grew up………………………

Wes and I found out how much fun it is to share a meal without having fixed it. Or having to clean up afterwards. Besides, we have better conversations when we go out to eat. Just the two of us. That’s fun.

I still need to create. That hasn’t changed. But my way of expressing it has…

I’d been dabbling in oils and watercolors and doodling with pens for many years. I love watching people, their emotions, un-asked questions, pieces of their personalities manifested across their faces and in their posture.

Body language really does have a lot to say if we take the time to listen to what we see.

I wanted to capture that with my brushes. And I started searching for portrait artists who could teach me. Both locally and on the Internet.

Then in April, 2006, I met Corel Painter software and the Wacom Intuos 3 Tablet in a week-long workshop taught by Jerry Schuster in Durham, North Carolina.

This was my first digital oil painting, my first experience using Painter.  Jamie — at age 12 — put on her mom’s sweater and sunglasses and posed. I took a lot of liberties, using more than one photo to get what I saw in my mind, and Jerry printed it out for me on a 16×20 inch canvas.

I’ve been hooked ever since on all things Painter, and everyday I learn something new. I’d far rather discover something with my paints than cook!

Will this change too?

Probably — because I keep learning and growing and experimenting and creating.

For me, change is a forward motion. Circumstance sometimes requires it, but just as often, we require it. We change as we grow………………….. we move on.

What do you think?

What has changed as you move forward?

Barb

Maybe if she’d asked, Is the art ever done? I might have answered like this:

No. It’s never done. Not really. Not if the artist uses pigments to tell a story and the lead character is a person, or a flower, or even a lonely pot by a stone wall.

People aren’t done. Flowers aren’t either — whether attached to their roots or cut for a still life portrait. They grow and bloom fully and then wither. Like people.

There’s a reason the old crockery pot sits alone in the sun against a stone wall. Someone put it there… someone else may pick it up and use it in ways it’s never known before.

Good art captures the story of the moment… and allows viewers in to observe, feel, and become a part of that moment. To embrace it as their own, and to imagine what’s next. Or what difference it might make to them.

Good art may begin a story, but more likely will point to a moment in time and allow the viewer to finish it.

…you skip in

to the painting…

get lost in a tale

told with shadows and light…

enriched you move on…

and come back…

Okay. not great poetry, but I hope you see my point.

As a painter there are times I feel my work is ready to frame. That’s because what I saw in my mind’s eye I managed to say on the canvas.

So to answer the original question When is the art done?:

I suppose my painting is done when the story of the moment has been told.

What do you think? Do you have that one painting that is an open-ended story you love to revisit? Do you consider it done?

Thanks so much for coming by and sharing your own tidbits…

Barb

She stood in the drizzle of rain mixed with twilight, her face barely visible under a hooded sweatshirt.

Just for a bit of conversation she said.

I was delighted!

I crave the kind of friendship that sees no clock or circumstance, that just wants to come and share for a small while.

When she left, another friend called and asked to come over. She wanted us to tweak a brochure I had made for her on my computer.

She came. We tweaked.

And then we talked over freshly-brewed mocha cappuccinos.

Yum… both the mochas and the friendships.

I didn’t have much dinner that night, and I didn’t miss it!

I was filled by the company of two friends who are genuine and who uplifted me with their impromptu visits.

That they wanted to stop by somehow validated me and I felt good. Right or wrong…

Do unexpected visits from friends interrupt your day? Or uplift them? Or both?

Have some coffee. Mochas and frappacinos and bottled water are all available.

And share your thoughts…….

Barb

Image © Forestpath | Dreamstime.com

And I have my day planned. What am I doing with it?

Out of the blocks…

Jamie VanCauwenbergh

By evening, when the sun says good-night, when the birds settle down and the crickets take up the song…

What will I have done with my day?

Terry Starbucker and Chris Garrett are both having one of those heady blog conversations:

What comes naturally to us, like breathing? And are we doing those things — in our careers and in our lives beyond careers?

What am I natural at doing…

What do I love doing…

What am I good at…

What do I not love doing…

What am I not good at…

I grew up with parents who loved, ate, breathed their professions. My dad lived by the motto “You gotta’ love it!”

So I knew I would love whatever I did.

Because that’s how life was.

And I knew what I would be. A mommy.

Since college was part of the deal in our family, and since I’d been told that teaching would allow me to be on my kids’ schedule once I became a mommy, I went.

And I became a teacher…

…which I did not love. Oops…

But I did love being a mommy.

Fifteen years and three growing girls later, my husband and I started a family business, which he built and I ran. My teaching turned to training others for business…

…and in that process I realized I had a heart and passion for people — encouraging them to hunt down and define and pursue their dreams. To stand tall in who they were becoming. To believe in their abilities, their unique gifts.

From how they dressed to how they ate and exercised to what they read to how they prepared their hearts and minds for all the life they had in front of them, I wanted them to catch my upbeat outlook. I wanted them to be excited about their own possibilities.

I still feel that passion… I have enough years behind me that I know some things are not worth worrying about, that many so-called failures are simply low grades on a test — meaning you just haven’t learned the material yet. I know that while it’s good to be liked, other people don’t define you.

I love my life and anticipate every day of it — one day and adventure at a time. I need to share that — with my kids first, and then with others who want to live life fully.

That’s what I want to have done at day’s end… shared something good with and about the people I come across on any particular day.

I’m an encourager…

Who are you?

What will you have done by day’s end that you love doing?

Do you make it part of your career? And beyond that, part of your life?

Thanks for coming by… please have some coffee, and share something about yourself if you’d like to…

Barb

Image of my granddaughter Jamie © Kelly VanCauwenbergh 2009

His name is Jack…

He’s so young, but I see a child who appears comfortable with who he is so far. Maybe he is loved enough to be who he is. That’s a comforting thought.

He looks as if someone has just asked: Do you have a minute, Jack?

And he has stopped his work to listen…

Whatever his story, I needed to paint it...

He slows the world down for me, just for today. In a world that’s crazy with GO! — a world that seems to spin ahead with or without my permission — this little guy offers me a minute to breathe and gather my thoughts. To smile. To feel like I matter.

He’s in no hurry.

Am I? Do I take the time to say yes to someone who needs a minute to be heard? Do I consider them important enough to stop what I’m doing and just listen?

How about you?

Barb

P.S. Thank you so much for coming by. Please help yourself to coffee — Valerie often brings doughnuts or other goodies over from Seeing Things.

This morning I’m stealing a rose from Vered’s beautiful garden for the side board. If you get a chance, scoot over there for a bigger bouquet and for her thoughts on life-predictability and time’s fast pace. You’ll be glad you did. Just the pictures are worth it.

The painting is done in Corel Painter 11, using Den’s Oil Brushes. You can see the details of the painting here if you wish.

I drew him first, and used Den’s Oil Brushes in Corel Painter 11, giving him different shirt colors to bring more focus to his precious face and posture.

I think so…

At Every Day Thoughts from Life readers were invited to look at and give critique to the beginning of a short story called Death of the Heart, written by Sal Vilardo. 

As the story opens, a young man named Micca stands at a window in his dad’s room (at a small health care facility) looking through the rain at a poorly-kept lawn and a small, cluttered back porch. His memories and thoughts run crosswise through his mind and roughshod over his heart. Like so many broken pieces.

His dad is dying, and he’s the only one there…

Reading the story’s opening paragraphs brought up my own memory:

I’ve been at that window…

… at the end of a hospital corridor, with those emotions, as my mom lay close to death in a room down the hall.

They were sending her home, and I’d just been made primary care-giver. Without warning, without experience, without wanting the job!

I lived 1300 miles away… I couldn’t nurse… Couldn’t lift my mom… Had family and kids back home… Had just found out about the severity of her illness… Hadn’t even had time to process yet!

Standing there, looking out over the hospital lawn with rains trickling in chaotic patterns on cold unfeeling glass, my emotions churned and fell over each other. Fast. Nothing lasted long enough to figure out. Just questions. No answers. Like the chaos on the window glass. Ever-changing. Cold.

Would anyone understand I couldn’t deal with this?

Did they care?

During those last three months of my mom’s life, I wrote. Not in the pretty journals I was used to — but in large ugly spiral notebooks and sheets of cheap yellow manuscript paper.

I wrote poetry. And prayers. I asked questions and wrote out my frustration. It was my way of sorting and trying to understand feelings and thoughts that made no sense to me.

That was twenty-three years ago. The world returned to normal as I came home to my family, to my life.

Yet I’ve never been able to rewrite or share how I felt until today. I still miss her…

…my mom’s intelligence, her spiritual strength, and her sense of humor remained to the end. And those are treasures to me to this day — treasures I wouldn’t have been given had I not stayed to care for her. My sisters and dad and I grew even closer, sharing responsibilities as each of us was able.

There are so many reasons why I wouldn’t trade those months. Not for anything.

I wonder how Micca’s circumstances will resolve?

Have you ever had a terrifying experience you wouldn’t trade?

Does reading fiction help you deal with and learn from those experiences?

Have a great weekend, and enjoy the coffee………………………..

Barb

P.S. The abstract painting is here by permission of the artist, my friend Patty Nice. You can see this one and others — fractals and kaleidoscopes — on her blog, The Accidental Artist.

The second image is a doodle I did in Painter X, playing with the brushes. To me it feels like I felt that day at the corridor  window so many years ago.