when the museum was empty : a dance {photos by britt chudleigh}

there's only one thing to do in an empty room filled with light...dance.
sometimes i just can't help myself. my body starts moving, and i find
that i really don't care if the cameras come out and shutters start clicking.
i am completely awkward when someone is trying to take my portrait,
but oh how i don't mind at all if they snap a few photos of me if i am moving,
dancing, laughing, breathing, living.

when i was in elementary school i was quite the tomboy--
in fact, for years i mistook a picture of myself for a picture of my brother.
yep, turns out that was me in my chicago bulls hat, all black t-shirt and b-ball shorts
holding up my quilt (made by my sweet mom) standing near the garden.

i prided myself on the fact that i usually got picked at recess for the b-ball games before many of the boys.
i was good at basketball, and boy was i competitive. i was out there to prove i was stronger, better, faster.
after basketball my interests moved to soccer. and i worked hard at my halfback position, priding myself that i did the most running, the most assisting, and some goal-making as well.

then one day at recess i noticed all of my girlfriends practicing their tour jete's...
and i wanted in.

thankfully my mom agreed to sign me up for ballet lessons almost immediately.
so this 11-year-old tomboy began to try to catch up with her friends who had
been tendu-ing and pirouette-ing since the age of three or four.
perhaps this is when i first began to learn that you're never too old to start something.

however, i was well aware of my lack of skill, and tried hard to advance.
eventually i was placed in a class with some of the older girls
which was a joy to dance with them, and simultaneously agony as i tried to match their skill.

but one of my most favorite things about my dancing years was the atmosphere of the classroom:
our elegant, yet stern, teacher always wore a black leotard with a drapey sweater, and pale peach shoes.
her hair was long, and her movements were exact and graceful.
and then there was our pianist. he could play anything. his classical repertoire was impressive,
and i loved barre exercises thanks to his accompaniment.

nowadays i do wish i would have continued dancing after high school.
i try to find classes here and there to attend, and lately i've been enjoying a
"yoga at the barre" class every tuesday night. it feels good to be graceful and strong.


{photos by britt chudleigh}

the proof:

remember my little story about bringing in

piles and piles of wood during cold winter nights?

well, here's the proof!

all that wood, sitting there.

don't you find this a bit humurous?

i do.

now i like piles of wood...

piles of wood did not always conjure up thoughts of
warm fires and hot cocoa on a winter's night.
piles of wood meant work.

it seemed as if every night for an entire winter
years and years ago we were making our
own pile of wood...in the garage...

those dark winter evenings grabbed us as we
dragged our feet outside to meet my dad who stopped by on his way home from work, well, who knows where, to fill the back of his wood-paneled jeep with scraps of 2x4's.
it was our job to unload it,
and my dad was a man of assembly lines.

we'd line up at the back of the car,
our elbows squeezing the sides of our ribcage,
forearms straight forward at a ninety-degree-angle,
palms up...creating a shelf for wood to be piled.

our smoking cold breath burned our lungs,
and the wood made its impression on our arms:
red stripes on the skin,
muscles and joints turning to rubber.

carrying the wood to the garage was a blind act...
we couldn't see where we were stepping,
the crooked sidewalk tripping us here and there,
hoping we didn't drop our load.

we built a huge wall of wood in that garage.
twenty years later,
it's still there.
not a dent in our supply.
strange indeed.

but i guess you could say
we're prepared.

for the first time this fall,
i like the idea of a small wood pile.
just enough to keep you warm through
a couple cold months...maybe three.

{photos by me. october 2009}

monday manifesto: becoming like a child

i remember asking for art kits when i was very young...the nice rows of colored pencil, pastels, and chalk within a black book were oh so pretty to my 7-year-old eyes. those art kits were always on my birthday and christmas lists (along with a puppy and a pony, of course). i remember getting one. maybe i got more than one. but i would have liked to get even more than that, i'm sure.
my older sisters were artists. good ones too. they won awards, and i remember going to see them on display. i wanted more than anything to have them show me how to use color on a canvas...how to paint pretty things (probably a pony). but, they were soon busy with college and marriage. though i desparately wanted art lessons i tried to understand that my sisters were very busy women, carving out their futures and their own beautiful lives independent of family.
with my chance for free art lessons out of the house, i stopped drawing. i had forgotten all of this until yesterday.
yesterday cj gave me my first painting lesson. my first strokes like colors on a playground: blue, red, yellow, green. very simple. then i started mixing paint...not knowing what colors i would get. then i just started painting. why was i so shocked when i painted what i did?
it was a tree. with birds in the sky and grass on the ground. at first i thought i was drawing a tree because i love them more than anything. but as i continued painting and i realized exactly what i had done i was overcome with tears. i used to draw this scene all the time when i was young and hoping for art lessons: tree to the left side of the paper, m-shaped birds in the sky, blades of grass at the foot of the tree. i went right back to my 7-year-old self. i unkowingly picked up right where i had left off.
i cleaned out my brushes, watching the colors wash down the drain. cj showed me where everything goes when painting is over for the day. i stepped back into our "studio" and looked at my painting. i slowly walked over to ceej, gave him a hug, while still looking at my reddish tree against a greenish sky. its spirit brought my heart's tears through my eyes. i had to tell him. "i love my painting. i think it's really good." and i do. i am well aware that it is no great work of art, but i love it because i'm still painting my childhood beauty. trees. grass. birds. i'm going to frame it and hang it in my bedroom where i will awake each day to its simple beauty, and a reminder that i can do whatever my good dreams have shown me.
we often hear that we should become as little children because they are humble and meek. but i think that to become like a child also means to let go of fears, let go of judgement (especially of ourselves), and to put your heart out there. this i believe.