Not Another COVID-19 Post

I bet it sucks to be a caterpillar.

Welcome to my COVID-19 insomnia.  No, I don’t have it.  I haven’t tested positive. 

By the way, for a child of the 80’s like me, testing positive for a virus feels an awful lot like testing positive for HIV/AIDS—it feels like a death sentence of social out casting disguised as social distancing.  I’m 100% sure there are a bunch of 40-somethings running around with COVID-19 right now refusing to get tested because “testing positive” has was too much stigma attached to it.  The cases of COVID-19 drop off sharply for those 50 and younger because we’ve been traumatized by getting confirmed medical diagnoses and we don’t trust the system enough to seek treatment anyways.  So why get tested?  I’ll pass on medically based exile, thank you.

By the way, there is zero scientific fact behind any of those statements—it’s 4 AM.  I’m rambling.

But yeah, caterpillars.  Think about it.  Not a great lifestyle.  They probably are developing some sort of self-awareness at that stage in their life: they know their body is stupid and awkward looking.

By the way, awkward is an awkward word—in any font.  Now graceful, that is a graceful word in every font.  Is there a term for this visual onomatopoeia?

Photo by Karina Vorozheeva on Unsplash

As far as caterpillars go, though, they can’t do anything about their awkwardness.  They can’t go to little caterpillar gyms, or get caterpillar plastic surgery, or even use filters for their caterpillar Instagram selfies.  They completely have to “wait it out.”  Which is even more stupid because existentially they know they are going to turn a corner some day and become a butterfly, but who believes that actually happens?  That has to feel like the same unfulfilled promise of the kid who fails every math and science class they ever took yet still swears they are going to be a doctor someday.  Could it happen?  I guess.  Is it likely?  Nope.  Same with the caterpillar. 

But no really, ALL caterpillars become beautiful butterflies. *deep eyeroll* How about moths?  Still Lepidoptera.  Still caterpillar.  NOT beautiful butterflies.  Or sawflies?  Which are wasps, not flies, and their larvae look so much like caterpillars that often experts even mistake them for butterfly larvae despite the fact that they aren’t even Lepidoptera material.

A caterpillar can literally do nothing about its stupid awkward self but swear it is going to be a model one day and eat itself into a calorie-induced coma.  Please tell me we’ve all been there…

And the indignity of that calorie-induced coma is where is gets really weird.  At least before the coma, the caterpillar could interact with other caterpillars; now it’s just stuck in this coma chrysalis phase.  Physically stuck.  All the young bucks, of course, are thinking, “Yeah, it said it was a butterfly, but now just look at it.  Hanging there.  Doing nothing with its life. OG in the club. Rando Townie.”

Photo by Anna Cherdantseva on Instagram

Did you know there are 750 species of butterflies in the United States but 11,000 species of moths?  So, chances are, that chrysalis hanging there—defenseless and silent, while the Lepidoptera public throws shade—was in fact gassed up about that whole butterfly thing and is going to emerge as a moth afterall.  A few moths get lucky and do this semi-butterfly, Queen of the Night, Luna moth thing.  But let’s be honest, silk moths are the Drag Queens of the Lepidoptera world.  And don’t forget, underneath all that make-up, a silk moth is still a moth.

Caterpillars have it SO easy.

EGG, CATERPILLAR, CHRYSALIS, MOTH/BUTTERFLY.

Even in not knowing where they are going, they know the route.  And the route doesn’t change.  It can’t change.  No one can throw in an extra chrysalis phase with a career change and an extra forty pounds (or sixty, but who’s counting).

Unless you’re a person.

And then, as a chrysalis, you just open up to find you’re a different caterpillar.  Or sometimes, as a butterfly, you get hold of the wrong kind of flower and wind up eating yourself back into a calorie-induced coma.  But this time your chrysalis demotes you to a moth because you screwed up being a butterfly.

Photo by William Warby on Unsplash

Maybe you get lucky.  And one of those times, as a defenseless, silent chrysalis, the Homosapien public sends positive vibes your way.  When you open up from that chrysalis this time, you finally figure out that:

A moth is just a nighttime butterfly.

A butterfly is just a daytime moth.

And you’re a skipper—with a love for the sun, butterfly-like colors, moth-like fur, and a quick graceful flight all your own.

Cheers to all those skippers out there!  One day soon, I hope you find yourself, I hope I find myself, and I hope we can all respect each other’s realities.

By the way, all of this random metaphorical thinking was brought to you by my own self-loathing and self-doubt. A few weeks ago, I was asked to do an interview for Polk Government TV’s Out and About Art hosted by Yasmeen Ali. She did a great job interviewing me and, besides my own self-inflicted bodyshaming, I love the video. Don’t rush to validate me. I’m working on being a skipper. That was the whole metaphor thing. ;) And here’s the video. I hope you like it.

Meet Alice Absolutely: a self-taught artist who transforms emotional turmoil into arresting works of abstract art. Born and raised in Polk County, Alice discovered her passion for creating art while working as an educator. She also exercises her talent by creating stunningly graphic portraits, which comment on popular culture and convey themes of identity and memory. Here is a look at the emotional, meaningful artwork of Alice Absolutely.

The Unpublished Blog

So here's the thing, I don't know if I'm ever going to publish this post or not, but I know I haven't written anything in almost a year and a half because I have needed to write this post. I would like to say I have a story worth telling, or at least a story I need to tell. That isn't the case though. I just have baggage I need to sit down for a little while so I can collect my strength to carry it again.

The truth?

I'm hurting.

Alot.

Less now than I was before, but still alot.

You know that meme going around… ———->

…well, it's true.

If you know me personally, you know I love teaching. My students are amazing--even the ones who other teachers thought weren't so amazing. They were lights in my life for sixteen years--they were my drive, my motivation, my reason, my calling. There is not a single day of my career as an educator that I am willing to trade or give back. But I had to leave to survive.

There is a sociological theory that your tribe, your sociological collective, can only grow so large (around 200) before members of the tribe have to begin to split off. This split is necessary for everyone's mental and emotional well-being because the brain can only manage so many interpersonal connections. It's almost as if your soul can only manage to care for so many other hearts before the soul begins to cave in on itself. I saw more than 200 members of my sociological collective every day before lunch.

My soul was wilting.

I did this five days a week for more than six years.

It made me a shell. I didn't have a coping mechanism to help me care for that much pain, anxiety, anguish, guilt, shame, vulnerability, love, pride, joy, or laughter. Everyday was a rollercoaster. One day on the job, a favorite student found out he was receiving the financial assistance necessary to attend the dream college he had been accepted to earlier in the school year. We worked hard together to find him the money and I felt like I won that battle with him--an enormous weight was lifted from me. That was during third period. In fourth period, on the same day, I sat in the same seat crying with a young man who’s father was killed in a car accident that morning. The boy came to school because his mother couldn't look at him, “he looked too much like his dad.” A different but equally heavy weight crashed down upon me and I felt as if my entire body was broken.

Few days in my professional context were “normal”. There was never much calm between storms. I lived in a constant state of flux and anticipation. There was never a way to plan or anticipate what would walk through my classroom door with the nearly 800 students I saw each day. Each day I dealt with whatever came in; saying, “Not right now, tell me later,” was not an option in my class. And I would not give a single one of those days back. However, I realized I didn't have anymore of those days left in me to give.

My fellow teachers would love a rousing post about quitting because of dwindling wages.

My Union would love for this post to be an indictment of the corrupt political system wreaking havoc on public education.

Some would expect this to be an accounting of poor administrative leadership which drove me out of my classroom.

Honestly, I could offer up those excuses. They were all factors in my calculus. But really I was just tired and burnt from caring so much, so deeply, for so many others who were hurting so badly that I began to hurt that badly, too. A hurt I didn't know how to stop. And one day I decided the pain was too much and I had to do something different for myself.

So I quit.

I didn't give a two week notice.

I just quit.

And then I took a two month vacation to clean my house and cry. Mainly cry. I grieved the life I walked out on…so hard. Some days I thought, “I'll just set my alarm, get up, get ready, and go back to work like nothing ever happened and it will all go back to 'normal'.”

I cried over students who graduated, students still in school, and students I had not yet even met. I cried about missing orientation. I cried about my step team. I cried as I threw away lesson plans. I cried as I re-tooled my home work space from “teacher” to “artist”. I cried about my Master's degree which I felt was now wasted. I cried over my resume every time I applied for a new job.

I cried.

I still cry.

I'm crying now.

A friend of mine said I was born to be a teacher. (Another friend of mine said she couldn't believe I was wasting my life teaching—so I guess that sort of balances out). I don't know what I was born to do, but what I had been doing wasn't it. I was not born to suffer as I had been suffering.

People keep expecting me to go back. I won't say never, but I am going to say not likely. I have moved on because that is what I had to do. I was looking for something that was no longer in my classroom, so I had to move forward and start looking for something else.

I'm still not a complete person--there is a ginormous hole in my soul I don't know how to fill.

AND I'M STILL CRYING OVER MY STEP TEAM!

But right now, I know my humanity is healing because I can look at the future and smile with possibilities. Education will always be a dominant theme in my life. And now I'm finding ways to make my visual artwork intersect with that theme. One day, maybe soon, performance arts will walk back into my life and tie it all back together again.

How do you give your entire soul to something?

That's easy. You just fall back, arms outstretched, eyes closed, the sun on your face, and smile with joy.

How do you get your life back after giving up your soul to something you love so much?

I don't know.

But I do know that I am moving forward. I am happy. I create. I write. I love. I smile. I laugh. And yes I cry (often about missing my team).

Zen and The Art of Pressure Washing

I admit it: I am an addict.  My fix is mindless coloring.  “Adult” coloring has become a widely accepted stress reliever lately.  Adult coloring books and “advanced” markers can be found anywhere from the local bookstore to the grocery store checkout lane.  Like many adult colorists (color-ers? I have mixed feelings on both terms), mindlessly shading in the empty spaces between the lines with the back and forth strokes of color is soothing for me.  Adult colorists come in several hues: some prefer colored pencils, others crayons; some will color any blank page, others want intricate patterns wrought with fine lines; some need the feel of heavy weight paper, others can work with any dime store recycled stock they come across. 

Me?  I want markers gliding to and fro across heavy weight paper filling in the spaces of cartoon characters and Disney princesses.  My stress relief comes from escaping into the simplicity of my childhood to moments when my mom was taking care of me while I was sick (so a new pack of markers and a new coloring book came back from the pharmacy with mom and medication), when we were taking a long road trip (so mom made sure good markers and an adequate supply of coloring books were in the back seat of the car to keep me busy for the drive), when a holiday came around (so mom wrapped up my favorite candy with a holiday appropriate coloring book and markers for a gift). 

I think my obsession with coloring goes all the way back to before I was even born!  SURPRISE! My mom is an adult colorist, too.  She was bed-ridden for an especially difficult pregnancy and spent her days coloring to keep her occupied.  I think the fruity scents of the Fiddlesticks Markers (by Mr. Sketch…this is not a sponsored post) were probably the first smells I ever knew.  They are still my favorite markers, even though Mr. Sketch brand changed the shape of their marker caps (yes it matters and yes I am bitter). 

I still have the coloring book, Ruth Heller’s Designs for Coloring: Snowflakes, she colored in while she was pregnant and now have my own copy of the coloring book, too.  Par for the course, the book is filled with deliciously heavy weight, smooth textured pages all printed single-side only to optimize the book for densely pigmented marker ink.  The paper absorbs ink without spreading marks outside the lines and stays wet long enough to allow the back and forth marks to blend together seamlessly.  When a page is finished it looks perfectly, commercially printed rather than shaded by hand.  Replicating that coloring experience is #lifegoal!

But this blog post is about pressure washing…

I shamefully admit that I found another addiction.  As much as I may love the stress relieving escape of adult coloring, it is not productive.  As a newly-minted “Stay-At-Home Wife,” I have founding a mounting to-do list of house projects all with heightening senses of urgency.  This week pressure washing rose to the top of that list.  Previously, my D.I.N.K. (dual income, no kids) household did not have time to entertain projects like pressure washing—I was doing great to get laundry and grocery shopping done each week.  My how times change!  I bought a pressure washer.  I donned my DIY work clothes.  I set aside two days to pressure wash the driveway, house, gates, shed, and pool deck.  Clearly, I was a noob to think that was all going to be done in two days, it took me four days of back and forth swinging across three-inch swaths in blistering hot September-in-Florida weather to finish the work.  I braved wasps, mud, sunburn, and thundershowers to clean more than thirteen years of yuck off the concrete around my home.  (Don’t judge…remember…D.I.N.K.) 

Pressure washing is GOAT!

Most people will focus on the negatives in this situation.  I’ve been slathered in aloe to calm the sunburn and each of the four days felt more and more like stepping into a blast furnace melting my skin off.  I have several bug bites and stings.  My fingers AND the space BETWEEN my fingers hurt—how is this even possible???  The steady left-right rocking twisted my back and shoulders into a posture at least forty years my senior.

But, PRESSURE WASHING IS GOAT!

Pressure washing is mindless erasing!  It is 100% Zen. It is the erasing Yang to the Yin of coloring.  A friend of mine tried to convince me of this a few weeks ago which is how pressure washing ended up on my to-do list in the first place.  I was absolutely embarrassed that an aspect of my home was so dirty a guest would offer to clean it up for me.  At the time, he insisted he wanted to do the pressure washing as stress-relief.  I frankly questioned his sanity.  Hot, grimy outside work is stress-inducing!  For the record, he was right.  I was wrong. And I’m very glad I did not give in to my own desire to pick up the phone to dial Heller’s Pressure Washing to let an expert handle the work. Although, I’ve been told they do an excellent job.

The Zen of the experience is about self-discipline, order, and forgiveness.  Lofty principles for pressure washing, right?  There is quite a long list of reasons to never even think about pressure washing in the first place and yet only one real reason to start: a clean driveway.  Beginning the task requires self-discipline.  The process seems designed to make a person stop at every turn: electricity and water don’t mix, anything requiring two water hoses should be an automatic no for all parties involved, the soap has be diluted before it gets diluted again by the pressure washers, special soap for different surfaces, choosing the correct wand attachment (color-coded, but not labeled on the machine—labeled, but not color-coded in the user manual), hoses and cords have been drug all around the property to reach the dirty spots and related marks.  I had to develop the mindset that this machine was not going to defeat me: I had the self-discipline to be focused, patient, and persistent with it.  Nature is against pressure washing requiring self-discipline to overcome the elements.  I kept repeating, “Wax on.  Wax off.” channeling my inner Mr. Miyagi to find purpose in the tedious back and forth sway of my body extending into the wand.

Overcoming the elements quickly began to require order.  I had to develop a system to optimize my time in the shade rearranging my schedule to get up earlier, work in this spot, then move to this spot, change to another activity in the garage for these hours, before taking advantage of growing shade over there.  I ordered my work to the sun and carved out patches of concrete to trace back and forth. When this block was done, I took a water break.  When that block was clean, it was time for a snack.  Tuning in to the slopes of my property in new ways ordered my progress as much as the sun—always washing the dirt away from the house towards the boundaries of land and along the downwards slopes to work in harmony with the flow of water.  Complex order arose from two simple principles: stay out of the sun and water runs downhill on the path of least resistance.

The lessons of self-discipline and order were taught in the first day.  Only after mastering those concepts could I see the lesson of forgiveness and embrace it as motivation.  Forgiveness is the ultimate result of self-discipline in that one must forgive the obstacles along the path in order to overcome them and the ups and downs of life.  Cleaning is about forgiving the dirt, forgiving the mess, forgiving the person who made the mess, forgiving the accident that caused mess, forgiving the passage of time that ushered in the dirt and the transgressions which occurred during that time.  Forgiveness is about spiritually washing away the emotional mess attached to the dirt washed away by the clean pressurized water.

Pressure washing is Zen because it restores balance.  It brings the Yang back in place of the Yin which in turn gives way for Yin to arise needfully searching again for Yang in the comforting back and forth sway of the Universe.

Sunshine on a Florida Road Trip

I can certainly say that lately the pressure to create has been immense.  I decided in March that I wanted to work towards getting my artwork shown in galleries.  I did not realize what that process would entail.  The demand to write in ways I’ve never written before was intense: a CV, a bio, an artist statement, piece descriptions, and exhibition proposals.  I felt like I was in a spiral of nonsensical words trying to analyze the philosophical and psychological nature of my life; moreover, the future of my artwork swung in the balance.  Soon after finishing that work, now well into April, with several proposals floating out in the world, I thought, “an art residency would be pretty cool.”  I started May out researching these mythical unicorns and gradually found myself buried in that same cave of words again.

Well, now it has been two full months since my last blog post.  I needed a break from all the words!  Today, sitting down to embark on the writing process again, I cracked my knuckles, wiggled my fingers over the keyboard, and bit my lip searching for a topic.  Looking out my front windows at the Florida landscape, reflecting on my week, my work, and what I want to say about life I could only think about how much the sunshine makes me smile. This seems to be a fitting topic for mid-June in Florida.

I traveled to Kanapaha Botanical Gardens this week for a beautifully hot and humid Florida road trip.  While working on preparing my portfolio and proposal for Flying High At The End Of My Rope, I realized how lacking my photography skills were.  A break from the stress of writing and painting would be welcomed and I could passively enjoy what Florida laid out for me to photograph.  It was a new Florida landscape for me presenting new artistic challenges.  What was most beautiful to me while I was there was the sunlight filtering down through the oak and royal bamboo canopies blessing the undergrowth with life while still protecting it from the scorching heat—an elegant dance.  I stood sweating in the sunbeams playing with shutter speed, aperture, and ISO to capture the wilderness around me.  I reflected on a painting I finished in the cold of winter, a painting expressing a longing for this very moment, I titled it Sunshine.  I don’t often explain a specific work in too great of detail—this distracts viewers from developing their own feelings about a work, but in this case, I will offer a bit of insight into this piece.

Sunshine is happiness.  The warm glow of sunlight pumping the body full of vitamin D after it has been sick for too long in bed.  Sunshine is the embrace of the first warm Spring afternoon after being shuttered up for a cold winter. Sunshine kisses the skin as it dries the droplets from playing in the water. Sunshine shouts hello in bright white orbs looking up at the sky after being inside at a work desk under florescent lights.  Sunshine stretches bright halos lazily across the soul like a slumbering cat.  It is beach days and blooming flowers, cool dips in the pool, yard work, vacation, and summer—all shown in blotches of color.  Sunshine is happiness rushing forth when there has been too much cold darkness in life.

With a front door view like this, it is easy to feel like you have been transported to the slow paced Florida life of the early 1900's.

The next morning, sitting on the swing of the second-floor balcony of Herlong Mansion in Micanopy, photographing the first cool rays of sunlight for the day, I remember the quiet slow days of my childhood in Florida.  I am not a transplant, I am a Florida Native—there aren’t very many of us around.  Tourism is part of our daily lives in Florida.  We are surrounded by traffic, big box stores, chain restaurants, and name brand hotels.  Many Floridians spend their entire professional lives catering to the whims of tourists.  We wind ourselves tightly in stress in order to help others relax in our hospitality.

But when I seek out respite from the daily grind, I don’t run off to Disney.  I try to get off the Interstate and find a back road.  Another guest at Herlong said it best, “You make time on the Interstate, you make memories on the blue highway.”  Personally, I like to take the first unfamiliar exit and keep turning until I find a road encased in live oak boughs curtained with Spanish moss.  I know I won’t be long on that road before I find a little shop with rocking chairs out front—that’s how I know I’ve found the perfect place to rest and unwind in the Sunshine.

Herlong Mansion is a bed and breakfast in Micanopy.  The mansion dates back to approximately 1845 and has twelve rooms.  It is an absolutely beautiful place!  It is impeccably clean and well-maintained.  The Inn Keeper, Heidi, was friendly, attentive, and knowledgeable!  She started the stay off with a tour of the property--I felt like I had my own personal curator!  The service was incredible!  Heidi makes fantastic snicker doodle cookies!  Water, wine, coffee and sweets were always available on the downstairs sidebar.  The only television on the property is in the common room parlor on the first floor, but with the views from the rooms, porch, and balcony, I cannot imagine anyone wanting to watch television.  The first floor porch and second floor balcony were cozy--perfect for enjoying the Florida weather!  The Housekeeper, Alexandra, was every bit the great hostess!  And Dee made a delicious breakfast; her coffee is on point!  I cannot wait to stay here again!  Thank you, Herlong, for a great stay!

Kanapaha is a beautiful botanical garden on the outskirts of Gainesville.  The property is expansive and hosts the largest collection of bamboo species in the state.  The garden's staff members were friendly and helpful.  There are drinks and pre-packaged snacks available for purchase in the garden's lobby.  A well-stocked, reasonably priced gift shop featured Japanese keepsakes (in keeping with the pseudo-Asian themed garden) as well as other garden regalia.  As I understand it, the Kanapaha botanical gardens do annual fundraisers including a Kanapaha bamboo sale and an annual winter bamboo sale. Both are ideal ways to acquire your very own XL giant Kanapaha bamboo species for your garden. There is a small children's garden to keep young ones occupied, but this was not so much of a centerpiece that the entire establishment catered to children.  While I was there, I crossed paths with other visitors a handful of times, but it was by no means "crowded".  Pathways are clearly marked, but very winding.  The garden staff provided a map I was reluctant to use, preferring instead to get lost along the way and be surprised by what I found during my visit.  I easily spent five hours here before a Florida thunderstorm sent me to my car.  I do plan to road trip back to this place again!