Permission to Thrive

     What do you need to give yourself permission to do in order to thrive? What changes do you need to make so that you can feel affirmed and capable and move ahead?

    This sweet hibiscus had a few blooms when I brought it home from the store, then nothing for weeks and weeks and weeks. Finally, I said to myself and her, that it was okay with me if she never bloomed again. Her leaves were a lovely shade of green and that in itself was enough beauty. 

    This allowed me to enjoy her as she is and to focus on her care right where she is at. I kept watering her and used the plant food I bought. 

    And then one day, when she was able, she bloomed. She has the biggest blossoms I have ever seen on one of my hibiscus plants. Ever. Once I gave her permission to just be, it freed both her and me.

    Then I realized, I need to give that same grace to myself. I need to accept that it is okay to change as I go, that some goals need to be altered, as life and circumstances are so changeable. Changing your plan or changing your mind does not mean you have failed. It means you realize you need to make changes in order to continue to learn and grow, to truly thrive.

Is There a Point?

     Is there a point? There might not be. We so often strive to find purpose and meaning in every little thing. Sometimes there is no deeper meaning than what is happening at the surface level, and that is okay.

    I think with my cookie fanart projects I am trying to capture an aspect of my childhood where you get totally lost or submersed in your play or creativity. I have faint memories of what that was like, to have time melt away, to have all worries and stresses fade out, and just be fully immersed in what I am doing in that moment.

    This is the sensation I am hoping to recapture, to help add to the arsenal of activities and processes that will continue to heal and strengthen my soul.

    Every aspect of these projects brings me so much happiness-from the planning, the reminiscing about favorite books, the creating of elements of the projects, and then the fun of putting all the pieces together. I hope you are able to find ways to engage your whole being in creativity as well.

Cookie Fan Art Project 2023, #1

     New Year's Resolutions are not for me. They just seem like another way to fail. It's not that I don't believe in trying to do your best for in setting goals, I do. It just has never worked out for me to set yearly goals. I get overwhelmed or I start off well, and if I make one mistake or drift a bit, I abandon ship.     

    In 2021 I created a baking project for myself at the beginning of the year, the goal being to try at least 12 new to me recipes. It was a great success. I learned a lot, tried new processes and explored new flavors, and had fun sharing my results with friends and family.

    I ended 2022 creating a cookie project based on a Poem from a favorite childhood book of mine-that had cemented my love of cookies and reading, way back when I was about 3 or 4. I had so much fun with that project, that it became the foundation of my 2023 project.

    This year I am going to do a monthly (or maybe more-just depends) cookie fan art project from favorite books of mine. I will include reasons why I love the art in a particular book, techniques I used to create the cookies, book reviews, and baking tips.

    My first cookie project of the year is-Green Goo-with illustrations by Trey Chavez. We were partnered when my story was part of a contest. My book earned a digital publishing contract, in part, due to Trey's AMAZING illustrations. When we initially worked on the project together, I didn't really have any special instructions for Trey, just for him to read the story and do his thing. I never mentioned in the story that I pictured the main character as a redhead, and yet, that was what Trey came up with on his own. It was interesting to see my storyboard scratching's compared to what Trey created. I am always and forever thankful for Trey's work.

    When my story's rights reverted back to me and I had the chance to produce a printed copy of my book, I was so glad Trey was able to partner with my on this as well. It is the most current illustrations that I based my cookie fan art on for this project.

    In this project it was my first time trying to sculpt a cookie a bit more, layering the dough and carving it and baking it in layers. This was also my first time trying to create a comic book effect by outlining characters and objects with black edible ink.

    My pro-tip baking advice-I ALWAYS use salted butter-because on almost every baking show I have watched, the most common thing that contestants get dinged for is not enough salt, seasoning, or flavor.

My rough sketch on the left, Trey's AMAZING work on the right.

The cookies in comparison to the OUTSTANDING illustrations.

 

Three Minute Resurrection

     Almost at the two-year mark for when my dad suddenly became seriously ill. I’m not sure what I expected at this point. I suppose I hoped to be less surprised, less shocked, and less disappointed by the turn of events, and then by how everything unraveled in such a devastating fashion.

    As I see memories come up in my feed, from just over two years ago, just before the bottom dropped out of everything, I am so grateful that I had no idea what was coming. I am slowly sorting it out and beginning to accept that nothing could have changed the outcome. Maybe it could have been slowed, or prolonged, but the outcome would have ended the same. This is progress. I still don’t always believe these truths, though. Someday I hope to embrace this completely.

    There are still plenty of days where I hope for a shift of time and space. Some days I still secretly hope that the outcomes I wanted will suddenly transpire. That has always been one of my main coping mechanisms, spending a good portion of my days residing in fantasy-land.

    Happily, my dad has one cousin that is still alive. She is named after their grandfather the same as my dad. She recently turned 89. I was messaging her and her husband, sending birthday greetings and wishes to her. I asked her if she would write down memories from her childhood, whether just her own or ones that involved my dad as well.

    She answered me right away, telling the story of when their own grandmother had died. She was fourteen, my dad’s brother was ten, and my dad was seven at the time. As was the tradition at that time, the wake and the funeral took place in their grandparents’ house. The three children were tasked with walking to the front, where their grandmother’s body was in her open casket, and they had a corsage that they were to put on her, the oldest cousin, Wilma, being the one to pin it on their grandmother’s lapel.

    As the three children solemnly walked to the front, my dad, the sweet seven year old, leaned over and whispered to his older cousin to be sure to be careful and not stick grandma with the pin.

    This made me laugh out loud. My dad always had that sweet nature, not wanting anyone to be hurt. It also reminded me of my own struggles at age seven in trying to understand what death meant, what it meant to be dead. I had a little friend that died in an accident when I was five, and at age seven I still would wake up in the night and call for my mother, asking questions about why my friend died, and what it really means to be dead.

    In  hearing this new to me story, for a few brief minutes my dad was alive again.

One More Story

     I'm not a classic hoarder. I don't care for the clutter of physical things. I tend to take after my mother's mother. I will throw things out, even if I think there is a possibility I will need them later. When we bought our house, I avoided getting much in the way of furniture for as long as possible. I adored all the empty space. But when it comes to stories, thoughts, emotions, memories-I hold onto every single one, even ones that might seem pointless.

    Why do I do this? I suppose it is some attempt to try to sift through information and make things make sense, to try to understand the why and how of everyday life. We have had a bit of a traumatic summer, even more so than the usual difficulties brought on by a world wide pandemic.

    As my dad said, shortly before he had to have spinal surgery to remove a mass from his spinal cord and get his spine rebuilt, he was just eating his cheeseburger, minding his own business, watching one of his shows on History channel, until suddenly, he wasn't.

    Suddenly we were calling an ambulance, rushing from one hospital to the next, he was undergoing hours and hours of testing, and we were receiving potentially grim information. Massive amounts of medication became necessary to combat pain and the muscle spasms of an unruly nervous system that was overtaking his body. Soon, he was in surgery for 6 hours one day, then 9 hours the next.

    During the days of pretesting and surgeries, he slipped further and further away. The medications caused a deep fog to settle over him. Most of his thoughts and conversations turned either inward or were with people that I could not see. Anytime he touched down in our shared reality, I would cling to any words he said, storing them away in my heart and mind, my precious hoarded treasures. 

    The few minutes before the sedation process began before his big surgery, is when he said, "It's been a good run. Look after your mother." These words left me cringing, wishing he would not say that, as it is no easy task to honor, for a variety of reasons.

    And then he emerged, almost 12 hours later, and was so upset, due to being in even more pain, Pain we thought would be gone, that the surgery would fix. And that was the last coherent moment before he slipped away completely. And his words were full of pain, hurt, and anger over his predicament. Words I wanted to forget, but also held close, replaying whenever they crept to the front of my mind.

    And then, just nothing. Nonsense. Ramblings. Incoherence. Kind words from care givers that mean well, he doesn't mean what he says. Sometimes they never come back, sometimes the delirium is permanent, you just never know.

    Separation due to quarantines and rules about interactions with those in care facilities, loss of time, and for him, further loss of self. 

    Another hospitalization, but at least I can see him. He still knows I am his daughter, but for how long? The next day, the same results, fog, sleep, and fading thoughts.

    And then, oh glorious day, I walk in his room and he is sitting up in his bed. His doctor notices right away the change of mood when dad sees me. He notices dad is instantly grounded in the moment in a way he has not been in over a month.

    Dad starts talking about his woes which leads him to the lyrics of Old Man River from Showboat, so he sings me a verse or two. This leads him to telling me about the time he went with his parents and older brother to Chicago to see the show. He says they rode the train his grandpa Kelly was the conductor on. I know this is true, he has told me this story before. I know it is a real memory, a real piece of him that has come to the surface.

    My heart soars as it is filled with hope. I know this doesn't mean he is cured, that everything is fixed, but it is a hopeful moment, words to cling to and treasure. I am so grateful to hear my dad tell me one more story.