Fear no more.

When I was in my early twenties, I suffered from nightmares. The dreams were very vivid, very graphic and very specific. I would often have the same dreams.  The one that I seem to remember the most was about Jesus. I dreamed that I was the caretaker of his hands and feet. Severed hands and feet at that. I had carefully buried them in my backyard so that I would know where they were and no one else.

My nightmare started out with me walking to the back yard and gazing down at the big, black empty hole where I thought they were in safe keeping. I started crying and running around the neighborhood screaming, "Who took Jesus' feet and hands?"  "Where are they?"  "Who has them?" I would spend the rest of my dream crying and searching for his severed limbs believing that the devil had taken them.

 I knew there was much symbolism in that dream. I spent many days, weeks and months thinking about the true meaning of it and what it was that my subconscious was trying to tell me.  The horror of the dream and the fear ran deep.  This was one of many dreams where I felt great evil was at the center. And I was in constant fear. (Having watched "The Exorcist" didn't help any.)

It was my deep fear of the devil and the power that I thought he had over me or the power that I thought he wanted that haunted me the most.  I struggled with the meaning of it all until one day I woke up and made the revelation that he couldn't harm me, hurt me or control me if I didn't believe in him. If he didn't exist, he had no power over me.  As simple as that statement was, it was effective. The realization that I was giving him power through my beliefs changed everything for me at that point. I have had fellow Christians argue the point that I could not believe in one without believing in the other....a judgment I have never felt was theirs to make.

I don't live in fear and that liberation has made me more open, more loving and more accepting of people. 

I figure where there is love, there is God. And I'm good with that.

Bring back to America her heart

The end of a year and the beginning of a new one brings hope and inspiration for me. I usually spend the days after Christmas cleaning out drawers and closets. Well, maybe not every year but it is usually spent going through tall stacks of papers and magazines in an effort to start the new year with somewhat of a clean slate.

Today I am cleaning out one of my drawers that had not been sorted through for years. I carefully went through every scrap of paper and re read every old Christmas card, birthday card, keepsake notes and the like. I enjoyed finding some of the old cards and laughed while sorting through the written memories.

I found old newspaper clippings of mine, Rick's and Ben's. I found old poems, old drawings and old notes of ideas I had long forgot. I also found an old newspaper with a letter to the editor by Sister Helen PreJean. "What's become of compassion for the poor?" was the title. As I began to read the first few paragraphs, it seemed obvious to me that this had to be current. So much of what I read certainly reflected today's view of current conditions.

As I read the article, I realized that it followed Sister Prejean's observations of the Republican Convention held in New Orleans. Not that I remembered when that was, but it did become apparent that this was not as current as I thought. Then I became curious as to the date on the publication. I had to unfold the paper to see that it had been published in The Shreveport Journal in August of 1988. I gasped. It was hard for me to believe that the thoughts and concerns of this New Orleans activist stated nearly twenty five years ago still ring true today.

Sister Prejean writes: "Perhaps now that more of us in the middle class are feeling the crunch of economic policies that have not served us well (job lay-offs, two wage earners per family "to make ends meet",) we can feel more compassion for the poor and forge a new political will for social change in this country.

Somehow, in the swirl and rhetoric of the '80s we bought the package that the poor were to blame for our economic ills, that the so-called poor, most of them, were not poor at all but lazy, shiftless, crime-prone..."

It was Sister Prejeans next statement that rang true with me and it was then that I understood why I held on to this piece of paper.

"After working and living close to poor blacks these past seven years, I believe the heart of the problem of anger at the poor is that we Americans live isolated from each other. We cluster in our still highly segregated neighborhoods, churches and clubs with others who are 'one of us.' This isolation breeds stereotypes, flaming prejudices and fears. The direction for life and healing as a nation lies, I believe, down roads that helps us cross our own brand of Berlin walls, Gaza strips and black townships."

In 1988, when I tore this page from The Shreveport Journal and tucked it away, I had not yet started my own advocacy. The Children's Center was just a couple of years old and it's continued existence was in question mainly because I had made the decision that I wanted to be one of the first integrated programs in town. I would become one of the founders of Cultural Crossroads in 1992 and in 1999 I would accept the challenge of creating a cultural arts center in a black neighborhood.

It saddens me to think that we haven't moved any closer as a nation to understanding each other. Sister Prejean goes on to explain a program she was involved with called "Bridges." It allowed for young participants to live with the poor, to hear their stories, eat their food, play with their children, and attend their church. They came away humbled she said and shocked by the insanity and complexity of the human beings they had met. And the poor black residents also expressed shock that 'those young white folks care about us.'

Sister Prejean ended her long letter to the editor with a statement that I too believe.  "This cross-pollination of rich and poor, black and white, is the magic stuff written about in our civic books. It is, I believe, part of the magic that can bring back to America her heart."

I am definitely interested in cultivating a more compassionate community. I had always been taught 'when we elevate others, we elevate ourselves.'  As we all usher in the New Year, it is my hope and my prayer that we can be more compassionate and understanding, less judgmental and more eager to extend a helping hand to those in need. And in Prejean's words...' be a part of the magic that will bring back to America her heart!'

Happy New Year.

I ALMOST MET SANTA.

It was Christmas Eve. We were living in Okinawa at the time. I had just celebrated my fifth birthday a few days earlier.   My sister, Pam, was a year younger than me. My brother, Bill, was just a toddler and my baby sister, Terry, was just a few months old. 

My Dad had us all in the bedroom reading a story to us. I guess trying to get us into bed was a real challenge.  I heard my Mom yell from the living room, “Chris…Pam…hurry…it’s Santa Claus!”  We scrambled from the bedroom and ran out to the living room. My Mom was at the backdoor holding the screen door open while motioning for us to hurry.  My sister Pam had lost her sock and stopped to pick it up. I waited for her while hollering, “hurry Pam. Hurry.” 

We got to the other end of the living room where the Christmas tree was all lite up. I didn’t notice the presents. I was on a mission to see Santa Claus in person.   My Mom called for us to come to the back door.  “Santa was leaving,” she said.   We ran to the back door and looked up, searching the starlit sky for Santa’s sleigh and reindeer. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. You just missed him,” she said  with great disappointment.  All I could think  about was If I hadn’t stopped to help my sister with her stupid sock, I would have seen Santa Claus.

We came back inside to see that Santa had left us so many presents under the tree.   Mom and Dad guided us back to bed with instructions that we could open them in the morning after a good night’s sleep. Well, who could sleep after that?  All I could think about was next time Santa came, I was leaving Pam behind.  She wasn’t going to slow me down every again.  I was going to see that big fat man in the red suit without her.  

My Christmases after that didn’t compare to that one. I always remembered the time that I almost got to see Santa in person.   It was an incredible memory and I carried the excitement of that close encounter with Santa with me for years after that.  

The Christmas Tree

Finding the ultimate Christmas tree was of particular interest to me one Christmas. I had decided that I would put my creative juices to work and create the ultimate Christmas tree experience.  Ben was probably 10 or so, if I remember right.

We live in the middle of the woods, so finding a tree wasn't going to be hard. I decided that I didn't want just any old tree. So, I cut down a small sweet gum tree.   I spray painted it white and strung white lights all over it. I wrapped it in white tool and carefully placed white snowflakes all over it. I set it up without any guidance or direction from anyone because I wanted to surprise Rick and Ben with this new and lovely white Christmas tree creation.

I had it all set up and lights turned on and ready for that 'ah ha'  moment when we would all gasp at it's loveliness.

Ben entered the room first and just looked at it and didn't say a word.  Rick entered the room and didn't notice it at all. And if you know anything about Rick, you know this was not uncommon.  So, I had to bring it to his attention.  "So, what do you think about our tree?" There was a long pause as Rick studied it. And then he said, "What the hell is that?"

My ego was deflated. "It's our Christmas tree. What do you think it is?" I said.

I can't write what he said at this point but needless to say, he didn't think much of it. I thought I had created a masterpiece and he thought it was the tackiest thing he had ever seen.

It was too close to Christmas to start over. So, we lived with our tacky Christmas tree and around the end of December, we added it to our outdoor fire pit. ....never to be seen or enjoyed again. 

We have laughed about that tree. While Rick and Ben may not have enjoyed the 'true beauty' of it, we have enjoyed the memory of it and our individual memories of it's beauty or lack thereof.

I guess it's true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  And I say I am the artist and what do they know! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Merry Christmas.

 

How to start a movement

While going about my business of teaching children the joys of art and trying to open their minds to creativity, I wasn’t expecting them to create a movement.

Upon returning to school after the Thanksgiving holidays, I was greeted by children who had spent their days off creating items to sell.  They had made ankle bracelets, duck tape wallets, hand drawn cartoons, and anything else they could think of that would bring in a buck. They had strategically collaborated on a scheme to generate funds, not for themselves but for a cause that they had decided deserved their attention.

While working for a cause is not unusual, the way they collaborated and organized their little team was. Hannah Mosley, a shy and extremely intuitive young fourth grader, had listened intently to some of my rants about their responsibility to keep the arts alive……that they were our future …and of course, I added my own involvement with The Farm into the mix.  What I didn’t realize that out of those rants, I gave Hannah the impression that The Farm was going out of business. 

That notion that the Farm would not be there for her and future generations obviously spoke to her. She had an idea.  And she shared her idea with a friend, Sarah Parnell. The two of them took on the mission and the task of ‘saving the Farm.’  They met with their fellow classmates and began making notes and brainstorming on what things they could do to generate funds.   Lilly Spiller, Katharyn Woodard, Cristalyn McDaniel,  Evie Walker,  Camile Simonton, Avery Myers, and Emily Ramie joined the team.  Then others signed up to work and sell their wares.  Before you know it, they had their entire fourth grade class involved.  They each made long list of items for sale in their notebooks.  They shared their lists and their talents with each other.  They campaigned during the holidays and hit up anyone they could with their idea and their mission to ‘save the Farm.’

What makes this all so incredible to me is that I saw them create a movement.  A movement to save the arts. The idea that the Farm was going out of business was not true. While our revenue streams have dried up and grant dollars for the arts have been drastically cut, we’ve managed to come up with ideas to generate funds to keep the Farm open.  But none so moving as theirs.   The fact that the Farm could go out of business without the continued support of the community was definitely true. 

And while I’ve been waiting and hoping that the community would rise up and realize the importance of the arts and all those things that encourage creativity…. a little girl did!  Hannah and Sarah shared their vision with their friends and classmates and this week handed me an envelope with $55.90 for The Farm.  It took everything I had to hold back the tears.  And with their proud little smiles, they declared there was more to come.  And Hannah, taking the lead, picked up a pen and said “We need a goal.  How much do we need to raise for The Farm?”  “You all will need to decide that,” I said.  “Will $1,000 be enough?”  she said while writing the amount on the board.

At 50c per cartoon and $1 for each ankle bracelet, they were confident that they could do it.  This little army of art warriors had put it all in perspective for me. 

That $55.90 was worth more than a $1,000 to me.  And these two little girls who recruited an army of followers now own my heart. I’m not worried about the future of the Farm or the future of the arts in Minden.  I have Hannah Mosley and Sarah Parnell and an army of creative thinkers who started their own movement.  Power to the people! Power to the creative thinkers!

December 21st

It was December. Four days before Christmas.  We were living in a little subdivision in Doyline, Louisiana. I was 8 years old.  My grand parents had arrived from East St. Louis, Missouri just in time for the Christmas holidays. We didn't get to see my grandparents that often, so it was so nice to have them with us.

I woke up feeling pretty excited. I could smell oatmeal cooking in the kitchen. I thought maybe this is when they're going to notice. I went to the kitchen and my sweet grandmother offered me a bowl of oatmeal. I ate it slowly and remember it being the best bowl of oatmeal I had ever eaten. I don't know what made it so great. Maybe it was just simply that my grandmother, whom I didn't get to see that often, made it for me.

The morning passed and I thought maybe they're going to wait until lunch to say something. Lunch came and went and I went about my day.  Supper. That's it! They're going to do it at supper time. Well, supper came and went and still not a word.

I went to bed that night and fell asleep still not believing that no one noticed. I'm not sure sure what time it was when my mother woke me up.  She sat on the edge of my bed and whispered "Oh Christine, I'm so sorry."  She then walked over to the closet and above the hang ups, she pulled out a box. It was  "Easy Money," a knock off of Monopoly.  She handed me the unwrapped game and said, "Happy Birthday, hon."

I fell back asleep but not without thinking how could my entire family have forgotten my birthday. I was so young and inexperienced in these matters. So, I didn't know to be mad or sad. But I do remember thinking that I would never set myself up for this kind of disappointment again. I would figure that this was going to happen again. And if it did, I would be ready.

I haven't thought about this that often in my life but I have realized for whatever reason that I have spent my life downplaying my birthday. Giving excuses like, it's so close to Christmas, Everybody is so busy with the holidays and whatever else I could say to lower my expectations.

But this year is going to be different. And it's going to different because I'm going to make it different. This year December 21st is significant. Some believe it's the end of the world. Others believe it is simply the end of the Mayan calendar. But either way, it's my birthday. It's my 61st birthday and I plan on making a big deal about it!!! So brace yourselves because December 21st is my birthday!

Rediscovering Vincent

From the time I was twelve years old and stood in front of one of Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings, I have been in love with this man and his art.  As a preteen, I had the unbelievable privilege of being able to see his art at the center of the art universe….Paris, France.

And now nearly fifty years later, I have rediscovered Vincent.  A few months ago, I was standing in front of one of my little kindergarten classes at Glenbrook when Jonathan said, “Mrs. Chris, when are you going to tell us about Vincent Van Gogh. You said you were going to tell us about him.”  I’m sure some of the parents of my Glenbrook students will tell you that no one escapes the story about my favorite all time artist.

So, I set out all my props….the painting of Vincent’s Starry Starry Night, the storyboard…everything I needed to begin my story about the world’s greatest artist.  Halfway into the story, Jonathan comments, “You know his birthday is March 30^th!” To which, “I replied, how did you know that?”  I certainly hadn’t shared that and actually, I didn’t even remember that.   I turned to Jonathan and the other kids and said, “You know what?” …. And almost as if it were rehearsed, you could hear them all say “Let’s have a party for Vincent.”  

I went home that evening and got out my book about Vincent and began to admire his work for the millionth time. And it occurred to me that the little guys might have come up with the best idea yet.  A party for Vincent.  It had merit. It has possibilities. By golly, we’re gonna do it, I thought.

I’ve spent this summer reading up on Vincent life including reading the hundreds of letters he wrote to his brother Theo. My love for Vincent and his devotion to his art has grown even more.  I am fascinated by this man’s drive to create and paint his world.  His letters to his brother are incredible. He describes the colors in his landscapes in such detail that you begin to understand why he chose to paint  in striking colors and with such passion.   While his life was cut short, his vast collection of paintings and the more than 700 letters to his brother chronicle his life and leaves behind one of the most important legacies of painting ever to enrich the world.

I’ve rediscovered Vincent and this coming spring, with the help of a lot of volunteers and a faithful core of board members, Cultural Crossroads will be celebrating Vincent Van Gogh’s 160^th birthday on March 30^th at the Farm.  A little class of kindergarteners had a great idea and thanks to them, we are having a party for Vincent…and you are invited!

 Spring Arts Festival #19

CHICKENSTOCK

"A Party for Vincent"

 at the Moess Center for the Arts & City Farm,

March 29 & 30, 2013 in Minden, La.