A penny for your thoughts...

The other day I removed all of the loose change from my purse. I had managed to collect $36.68; no wonder it was so heavy! I sorted out all the change as some was Canadian currency and some was US. There were lots of pennies. I wanted to see which coin was the oldest. It turned out that there were two pennies that were the oldest, dating back to 1974. One penny was Canadian, with a little duo of maple leaves on the front; the other was a US penny, with Lincoln still visible on both sides. Those pennies had been around for 35 years!

Of course, I wondered how far and wide these pennies had travelled, only to be collected in the palm of my hand, at this moment in time. I am sure if they could talk, they would have some stories to tell. Perhaps they would tell me that they had greater value, once upon a time. I then wondered about my life, and about how far and wide I had travelled. I agreed with myself that I had travelled far and wide, indeed. But, for a few moments of self-indulgence, I sat there thinking of a time in my life, in 1974. I thought about where we lived as a family, who we knew in our circle of friends, and what was happening at school. Here is a list of things that came to mind, in no particular order. (I have learned the beauty and simplicity of a list from a dear, dear friend, recently):

1974

I was in the fourth grade. I had to wear glasses and I hated them.

This was the year my mother gave my brother and I our own house keys because she would not be at home when we left for or returned from school. She had a friend of hers macrame a beautiful design using fine cord with red beads so we could wear the keys around our necks and not lose them. We wore those keys proudly! We were the original ‘latchkey’ kids in our neighbourhood. I felt so important wearing that key!

Our apartment had bright green shag carpet. I imagined it was grass.

I began my collection of “Raggedy Ann and Andy” books.

Shawn Roach (eewwww!) ran up to me on the playground one day and planted a fat, sloppy kiss on my cheek. I was stunned and the girls then thought I was a pariah because not only had a BOY kissed me, but he was a ROACH! I was mortified. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. I have no idea why he did this and I hated him for it.

I was taking swimming lessons at the local YMCA and discovered I cannot float.

My violin playing was improving, but only very slowly. But I didn’t care as it was fun to bug my brother while ‘practicing’. It must have actually hurt him to listen to me; the looks that would cross his face were at once horrifying and mesmerizing. I hope he has forgiven me.

We lived in Bellevue, Washington. Slugs would show up in our garden and on the patio stones. We learned to sprinkle salt on them. Over a period of a day or two, the poor little slugs would shrink into a hard little chip of matter, no longer fat or slimy. I feel bad that I killed so many. But why would God make a creature that is so defenceless? They were creepy and slimy. Thank goodness I am no longer afraid of them.

A stray cat adopted us and fell in love with me. I named him “Tinker”. He came and went as he pleased, but had a real passion for me. Once, when swimming in the apartment complex pool, he wanted to be with me so badly he actually jumped into the water! He used to walk me to the bus stop, and he would be waiting for me when the bus delivered me back home at the end of the day.

My brother and I loved to sing "Kung Fu Fighting" and "I Shot the Sheriff". We would ride our bikes until darkness fell and the street lights came on.

Sometimes we had to go to the lady next door to be ‘babysat’. Her son, Richard, was such a brat. She weighed about 300 pounds and loved to watch professional wrestling. She would make the worst meals. Finally, after much pleading, my mother agreed to leave us on our own when she went out.

Speaking of meals. My mother went through a real ‘health food kick’. Brown rice casserole (perhaps the 70’s was the casserole decade?). She would add onions and zucchini, and cover with some shredded sharp cheddar cheese. It was positively disgusting to my fourth grader sensibilities. But now as an adult, it is one of my favourite comfort foods! Another entry from what you might call the “Gallery of Regrettable Foods” was her goulash. It sounds disgusting, and it was. But then I was only 10 years old. I wanted Cheeze Whiz on white bread. But she insisted on feeding us whole wheat bread (Roman Meal- ugh!). That bread was a dry and as tasteless as a pair of old Roman sandals.

Other foods she liked to make: homemade granola- it did smell wonderful while it was being toasted. She also loved to cook with sesame seeds, honey, and carob. We made Christmas decorations out of marzipan that year... it was weird stuff and tasted like almonds.

This was the year I discovered the poetry of Rod McKuen. I loved his albums “The Sky” and “The Sea”. His voice was so soothing, the music was so beautiful, and the content of his poems was so incredibly romantic. I would listen to these vinyl records for hours on end.

So I suppose 1974 was a pretty good year for me. What would be on your list if you were to spend some time thinking about your life in 1974? I would love to read it sometime…

Vincent Van Gogh...

Much of my time is spent travelling for business. It has its ups and downs, but I try to make the best of it. Sometimes I am very lucky and land in a place where I can make the time to step out of the ordinariness of my life and see something truly amazing. When I found myself in Columbia, Maryland, for an intensive Tinnitus Retraining Therapy course and realized how close I was to Washington DC, I made plans to visit the National Gallery of Art. My main goal was to see the paintings of my art hero, Vincent Van Gogh.

I have been lucky enough to see his Irises at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa, Ontario. I have seen his painting, The Bedroom, in the Art Institute of Chicago, and even visited the Van Gogh Museum when in Amsterdam a couple of years ago. And now I was able to see one of his many self portraits at the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. I had anticipated seeing these works and deliberately made my way through the other areas of interest in the museum, saving his paintings for last. I wanted to have time to look at and reflect upon them, without being rushed. And I was not disappointed.


When I entered the gallery where his paintings were hung, I found it was a shared space with his friend, Paul Gauguin. The entire experience was a bit surreal. The room was paneled in rich, dark wood. Along one side hung Gauguin’s vibrant island girl paintings, those he completed when living in Panama and Martinique. His colours were royal purples, scarlet reds, and deep greens. On the other side of the gallery hung Vincent’s paintings. These particular works were pale and brilliant all at once, if that is possible. His colours were of pale greens, deep blues, a stellium of grays, and light pinks. The two artists could not have been different in their colours, compositions, or subject matter. But at one time, they were friends.

The main painting I was interested in was a self portrait he painted at a very difficult time in his life. I walked up to the Vincent in his self portrait and simply stood there, looking at his eyes. So deep and penetrating was his gaze; he held in his hand a painters palette and his thumb was large and awkward. I am not sure why I feel such a special kinship with Vincent. But standing there, looking at him, the beauty and depth of the colours, the texture of the brush strokes, it all was suddenly too much. I felt my throat tighten; my eyes began to burn as I tried to keep the tears at bay. His paintings always move me so. I wanted to reach out and touch the paint, to travel back in time, to feel what he placed on the canvas. Then I went to each of his other paintings in that gallery, and looked at the colours, the brush strokes, and thought of his difficult life. In the end, the tears came; I could not help it.

The self portrait was painted when he was hospitalized while in Arles, France. He did end up in an asylum in Saint-Remy, where life was not easy. But he could see the stars in the night sky from the small window in his room. He painted many paintings from memory. I believe that Vincent’s life was not ever easy. He was alone and misunderstood. I will never forget standing in the museum in Amsterdam, looking at his very last painting, Wheatfield with Crows. It is massive, filled with intense colours, with an ominous feel, as if the painting were an omen of his last days. And it turns out it was just that. When he shot himself in the hay field, and then died two days later, while in his brother's arms, a light in this world was extinguished forever. How ironic that it is the colours in his paintings that personify his style. For years his internal world was bleak and lonely, yet his later works were bold, alive, beautiful, and filled with passion.

Earlier in the day, I was feeling very lonely. The kind of lonely one feels in a crowd. Maybe it was the kind of lonely Vincent had felt in his lifetime. It seemed I was the only person traveling solo; each person was paired with another. I was wishing I had someone to share my thoughts and ideas with, someone to talk with while I ate lunch, and someone to share dinner with at the end of such an amazing day. But then, after seeing Vincent, I simply was moved beyond words. I could not have talked if I had wanted to. When I finished viewing his works, I made my way to the garden and fountains where I could sit and simply take in the experience. I sat still for about half an hour, simply thinking about Vincent and his life. I still want to touch the paintings, but I know I never will. And someday before I die, I want to see Starry Night in real life. But for that painting, I will have to visit the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. I can hardly wait…

The Secret of Kells...

When was the last time you were enchanted? When was the last time you looked at a film through the eyes of a child, with wonder and awe? I was fortunate enough to see such a film at the National Gallery of Art while in Washington DC recently. The Secret of Kells is a story about a boy named Brendan who is growing up in Kells Abbey under the supervision of his stern uncle, Abbot Callach. The Abbot is interested in building walls to keep the people safe from the invading Vikings. But Brendan has no interest in building walls; he has fallen under the spell of a legend of a famous illuminator, Aidan from Iona, who once worked with St. Colmcille.

One day there arrives at the gate of the walled Kells Abbey an old man with a white cat. The cat has one blue eye and one green eye. Brendan is beside himself with curiosity when he learns that the old man is Aidan, who has fled Iona which had been taken over by the Vikings. He has brought with him the illuminated book and is looking for someone to help him finish the key pages as his eyes are old and his hand is no longer steady. Through a turn of events, he enlists the help of Brendan to get the job done.

The animation style of this enchanting film was overwhelming at first. The characters were large, ill-proportioned, and very stylized, but soon they became familiar and upon closer inspection, juxtaposed against graphics of the Celtic figures in illuminated texts that were shown, it was easy to see where the shapes of the characters came from. The artwork looked to be watercolour or perhaps coloured pencil technique, so there was a soft, ethereal quality to the film. It was a sharp contrast to the Vikings, who were bold and black, with evil red eyes and lolling tongues. I imagine if I were a young girl of five or six these dark creatures would be most frightening.

What I enjoyed as much as the visual aspect was the bold soundtrack. It was rhythmic and visceral. The recorders, the flutes, and the drums were mesmerizing. When added to the visual animation, the music simply swept me along this fantastic tale. When this magical film ended, I went to the gift shop, hoping to purchase a copy to take home with me so I could relive the magic, but alas, there were no copies for sale. I hope to someday find a copy of this film for my private library; it is one I would like to see several times over. I have long been fascinated by Celtic history and this little animated film has rekindled my interest in this time period of history, so it looks like I will need to do a bit of research and see what I can learn.

Someting sparkly...

For a very long time now I have been in love with the moon and the stars. I love to read poems, stories, and folklore about these heavenly bodies. I also love to read scientific articles about them as well. And for a very long time, I have wanted a piece of jewelry that sparkled as brightly as the stars themselves.

While travelling to Maryland on business recently, I finally found a few pieces that I fell in love with. And of course, I could not decide which pendant necklace to get: the moon or the star. So, I decided to get them both. And of course, I had to get the star earrings. I reasoned that a girl can never have too much sparkle, especially when it comes to the moon and the stars.

So, if you see a little sparkle from across the room, it is only me. Of course, I could never compare with the light and brilliance of the moon and the stars themselves. God has done a fine job with his wonderful celestial creations. I am just happy that I can see them each day and night. And now I have captured them in a special way, to wear around my neck and to adorn my ears. I am very, very lucky.