Well, it happened again, this time to my Cousin Nester who called us all up this morning to say that Jesus had appeared on the side of his garage - not in the flesh, or even in the vapor, but in a distorted image on wood apparently made from rust, sap, and an unidentifiable white substance most likely blamed on birds and the adjacent cherry tree. Nester didn’t believe in Jesus but was willing to bet his lottery ticket that this was in fact the Holy of Holies who had taken residence above his trash cans, staring down with a look of disdain at the collection of assorted hubcaps and the discarded recliner bearing the imprint of Nester’s butt. Nester took this sighting to mean two things: the recliner should stay, and here was the new business opportunity he’d been waiting for. And with more ambition than he had shown in his combined forty-five years, he notified the press, alerted the neighbors, slapped up a sign that said “$10 to see Jesus,” set up an EBay account, and put his son Dudley to work scraping pieces of wood off the side of the garage to sell to the highest bidders.
So if you walked past Nester’s house this morning, that’s why you saw all the cameras and the large gathering of curious faces cocked to the side in rapt attention, intent on getting their full ten dollar’s worth. It was the first time Jesus had been sighted in their town (outside the stained-glass and shrink-wrapped variety and excluding the time Granny Jean mixed up her medications) so it was not something to be taken lightly. People gave it the piety deserving of a savior, no matter where they fell on the scale of belief, for even the most critical unbeliever figured it prudent to be respectful, just in case. They were all eager to speak about the miracle to the TV cameras shoved in their faces, happy to be asked about something other than a tornado or beauty pageant queen gone bad.
It was Vyrnetta who first brought into question the authenticity of this spiritual sighting, pointing out that she saw in a magazine that he was just spotted yesterday in a grilled cheese sandwich in Idaho and this magazine should know, being as they were the first to show pictures of J’Lo’s babies. And Booker Diggs made a very good argument that while the image could be perceived as Jesus, it bore a more striking resemblance to Sonny Bono. And how come whenever images appeared like this, people immediately assumed it was Jesus? And if Jesus was coming back, why would he pick the side of the garage? Why would he pick that town for that matter? Good grief, they didn’t even have a McDonald’s. To which Mildred Jenkins pointed out that the first time he came it was as a carpenter born in a stable and nobody argued with Mildred who’d been teaching Sunday school since she was five.
Pastor Fern came over and dramatically announced that it couldn’t be the real thing because sightings of this nature only appeared to those who attended church, Sunday school, and served on at least two committees. He was followed by Father Jim the Priest, who wasn’t really a priest, but had started out to be one before he got a calling to go into country music, and he said that it couldn’t be considered real until somebody sprinkled some holy water on it. Bitsy offered up some of the special tonic she carried in her purse that despite her protests smelled an awful lot like moonshine. She said it was to help calm her nerves and that should count as holy because nothing could work a miracle like that stuff. Ernestine claimed that was downright blasphemy and didn’t it just figure, coming from a Presbyterian. This resulted in a verbal assault on the Baptists, which resulted in a hit on two Methodists, four Mormons, and one suspected heathen, which opened the door for the other denominations present until no one was left unscathed. Bucky said this was a sure sign that they were all going to hell and he started confessing a list of sins that, while entertaining, were probably better left private. The Tucker twins were singing and throwing their hands up in the air hoping to signal up a revival when things turned from the verbal to the physical as Buster punched Nester and both of them fell back against the garage. And in one fell swoop the Jesus image was gone – smeared like a child’s finger painting which now looked more like Courtney Love. They all froze, pondering the ramifications of having erased Jesus. This couldn’t be good. If his appearance was a sign – imagine what erasing him could mean. And they found themselves standing in a moment equivalent to that of a frat party when the keg’s run dry.
And so they went their separate ways, some giving this Jesus thing a little more thought and others quickly distracted by the yard sale two doors down. It was Mildred Jenkins who stood there a little longer than everyone else, staring at the side of the garage and shaking her head at the mystery – not the mystery of a face made out of rust – but the mystery that so many would go to such great lengths to find him, when he’s been right here all along.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Who Hijacked My Fairy Tale
Who hijacked my fairy tale? How to hang on to humor when life doesn't go as planned.
Do you have a fairy tale that didn't go the way you planned? How were you able to hang on to your sense of humor? Send your stories to kelly@kellyswanson.net. Best stories win a free Kelly Swanson CD.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Staying on the funny side...of Spontaneity
Today I decided to have a moment of spontaneity with my toddler, which is unusual for me to engage in things I can’t spell. Usually I like my spontaneous moments to occur on weekends - not during those precious work hours when I could be sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring. But when Junior asked me for the 147th time if he could do bubbles, I stopped typing, looked up, and much to his surprise and mine said yes, and we ran outside before I could change my mind. No coats. No shoes. No sunscreen. We just ran out into the glorious sunshine and, despite that moment where I tripped down the stairs, it was like a scene right out of a movie. Until we started arguing over the bubbles – who was going to hold the jar – who was going to blow – who would get to eat the half-eaten candy bar we found on the ground. And what started as a sweet mommy-and-me project of love and togetherness that belonged on the cover of Good Mommy Magazine, quickly spiraled into a devil-mommy-spanks-kid-in-the-front-yard moment that belonged on the cover of Moms Who Shouldn’t Be Magazine. So much for my sweet-lady-next-door image which, according to my husband, disappeared a long time ago somewhere between the time I threw a pot roast at him as he ran to his car and the time I accidentally posted my labor pictures on MySpace.
And so our bubble blowing fiasco ended as quickly as it had begun when Junior spilled the entire bottle of bubble liquid on the ground which left us with nothing to do but just sit – at least that was my plan – to lounge under the oak tree while he lay his head on my lap and I read him excerpts from articles I had written. His plan was to sprint down the driveway and collide into the car in rapid succession (yeah, I’m thinking trade school), see which bricks on the side of the house were loose, dig for worms, and lick bark – all of which he found great delight in while my rear end lost feeling on the cold cement porch, my eyes itched, the wind kept blowing my hair into my lip gloss, I got a bug in my teeth, I was reminded of everything in the yard that needs to be done, and I swear I could hear the whisper of missed opportunities on the breeze. Then the rabid squirrel jumped out of a bush and sent both of us running into the house in a fit of hysterics. I probably shouldn’t have pushed Junior down on my way to the front porch.
We were both sticky with bubble juice and had to break routine and take a bath in the afternoon (no, not together, they won’t let me do that anymore) and I was so worn out that I crawled into bed with him at naptime - the rest of my work day ruined. No emails answered, no phone calls returned. And as he was curled up against me, his hair still wet from his bath, his arm thrown around my neck, he whispers, “That was fun Mommy” and fell asleep. And my heart great three sizes that day. And somehow I knew that even in my wrong way, I had done the right thing - that years down the road I wouldn’t remember the lost hours of work. I would remember him laughing and running in his bare feet. Before he stubbed his toe on that rock.
You probably don’t have a toddler. You probably don’t work from home. But I’d bet you, like me, miss some of the precious spontaneous opportunities to jump up and go blow some bubbles. Let’s don’t do that anymore. Okay?
(PS Who decided a thirty-seven piece, multi-faceted, battery-operated, monogrammed bubble set with retractable pieces and a matching keychain should be fifty-nine cents at Target – but toilet paper costs me four dollars? I guess the same people who decided to charge us for air at the gas station.)
And so our bubble blowing fiasco ended as quickly as it had begun when Junior spilled the entire bottle of bubble liquid on the ground which left us with nothing to do but just sit – at least that was my plan – to lounge under the oak tree while he lay his head on my lap and I read him excerpts from articles I had written. His plan was to sprint down the driveway and collide into the car in rapid succession (yeah, I’m thinking trade school), see which bricks on the side of the house were loose, dig for worms, and lick bark – all of which he found great delight in while my rear end lost feeling on the cold cement porch, my eyes itched, the wind kept blowing my hair into my lip gloss, I got a bug in my teeth, I was reminded of everything in the yard that needs to be done, and I swear I could hear the whisper of missed opportunities on the breeze. Then the rabid squirrel jumped out of a bush and sent both of us running into the house in a fit of hysterics. I probably shouldn’t have pushed Junior down on my way to the front porch.
We were both sticky with bubble juice and had to break routine and take a bath in the afternoon (no, not together, they won’t let me do that anymore) and I was so worn out that I crawled into bed with him at naptime - the rest of my work day ruined. No emails answered, no phone calls returned. And as he was curled up against me, his hair still wet from his bath, his arm thrown around my neck, he whispers, “That was fun Mommy” and fell asleep. And my heart great three sizes that day. And somehow I knew that even in my wrong way, I had done the right thing - that years down the road I wouldn’t remember the lost hours of work. I would remember him laughing and running in his bare feet. Before he stubbed his toe on that rock.
You probably don’t have a toddler. You probably don’t work from home. But I’d bet you, like me, miss some of the precious spontaneous opportunities to jump up and go blow some bubbles. Let’s don’t do that anymore. Okay?
(PS Who decided a thirty-seven piece, multi-faceted, battery-operated, monogrammed bubble set with retractable pieces and a matching keychain should be fifty-nine cents at Target – but toilet paper costs me four dollars? I guess the same people who decided to charge us for air at the gas station.)
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Staying on the funny side...of Weight Loss Secrets
Staying on the funny side…of Weight Loss Secrets
I would like to thank TiredOfYourWeight@WhosTheNextIdiot.com for the email you just sent reminding me that I’m overweight. How did you find me? Were you there when I used emergency money to buy girl scout cookies? When I dove between the sofa cushions because I thought I saw a French fry? When I ran past you in my bathing suit at the pool and took out three toddlers? How do you people know that I want to lose weight, need money transferred from Nigerian royalty, and have been looking everywhere for a fake Rolodex? Baffling.
So, Mister TiredOfYourWeight, I appreciate that you took time in the middle of the night to send me this urgent email to share your weight loss secret that is sure to revolutionize the world and to give me the opportunity to buy into it before anyone else. I am flattered that you spend so much time and energy caring about strangers. I wish you would spend the same amount of time learning to spell and removing the strands of gibberish in your heartfelt message which, until I speak in tongues, I am unable to translate. I’m sure you mean well, but I don’t need the revolutionary answer to instant weight loss. You see, I already know the answer, and have known it for years. In fact, it really hasn’t been much of a secret since 4th grade biology. Eat less than you are, exercise more than you are, and you will lose weight. Shocking I know. Knowing what to do isn’t the secret. It’s doing it.
You see, I would rather drink lumpy shakes made out of goat’s urine, strap thirty pounds of spandex to my body, and spend thousands on hairdos, clothes, and accessories guaranteed to make me look a size smaller. I would rather have my colon flushed and take diet pills that cause hair loss, fainting spells, and the unavoidable explosive diarrhea. But don’t make me eat vegetables – that’s just gross. I want those programs where you actually pay more to eat less. I would rather spend hours reading manuals from experts claiming it’s not the quantity but the combinations of foods– just don’t mix the brown Snickers with the tan French fries and you’re fine.
I want to sit around perplexed saying, “But I don’t eat that much” and convince myself that I must have some rare thyroid condition and that everybody’s order contains the word Supersize. I want to buy exercise tapes that I’m too lazy to open and fancy treadmills to hold my plants, rather than park at the back of the parking lot and take the stairs. I am not interested in the kind of exercise where I am involved. I don’t even want to get up to change the TV. I once watched a twenty-four hour Valerie Bertinelli marathon because I couldn’t find the remote. I would rather sit around with a group of other overweight people and have them tell me size doesn’t matter and look at skinny people in disgust and hope they’re miserable.
So I do know the secret to weight loss, Mr. TiredOfYourWeight. Perhaps if you could come up with a revolutionary way to do the things we don’t want to do. Now that I would read. So thanks but no thanks. I would, however, be interested in a way to earn a million in a week without ever having to get dressed or leave my house. Do you have a cousin who does that?
I would like to thank TiredOfYourWeight@WhosTheNextIdiot.com for the email you just sent reminding me that I’m overweight. How did you find me? Were you there when I used emergency money to buy girl scout cookies? When I dove between the sofa cushions because I thought I saw a French fry? When I ran past you in my bathing suit at the pool and took out three toddlers? How do you people know that I want to lose weight, need money transferred from Nigerian royalty, and have been looking everywhere for a fake Rolodex? Baffling.
So, Mister TiredOfYourWeight, I appreciate that you took time in the middle of the night to send me this urgent email to share your weight loss secret that is sure to revolutionize the world and to give me the opportunity to buy into it before anyone else. I am flattered that you spend so much time and energy caring about strangers. I wish you would spend the same amount of time learning to spell and removing the strands of gibberish in your heartfelt message which, until I speak in tongues, I am unable to translate. I’m sure you mean well, but I don’t need the revolutionary answer to instant weight loss. You see, I already know the answer, and have known it for years. In fact, it really hasn’t been much of a secret since 4th grade biology. Eat less than you are, exercise more than you are, and you will lose weight. Shocking I know. Knowing what to do isn’t the secret. It’s doing it.
You see, I would rather drink lumpy shakes made out of goat’s urine, strap thirty pounds of spandex to my body, and spend thousands on hairdos, clothes, and accessories guaranteed to make me look a size smaller. I would rather have my colon flushed and take diet pills that cause hair loss, fainting spells, and the unavoidable explosive diarrhea. But don’t make me eat vegetables – that’s just gross. I want those programs where you actually pay more to eat less. I would rather spend hours reading manuals from experts claiming it’s not the quantity but the combinations of foods– just don’t mix the brown Snickers with the tan French fries and you’re fine.
I want to sit around perplexed saying, “But I don’t eat that much” and convince myself that I must have some rare thyroid condition and that everybody’s order contains the word Supersize. I want to buy exercise tapes that I’m too lazy to open and fancy treadmills to hold my plants, rather than park at the back of the parking lot and take the stairs. I am not interested in the kind of exercise where I am involved. I don’t even want to get up to change the TV. I once watched a twenty-four hour Valerie Bertinelli marathon because I couldn’t find the remote. I would rather sit around with a group of other overweight people and have them tell me size doesn’t matter and look at skinny people in disgust and hope they’re miserable.
So I do know the secret to weight loss, Mr. TiredOfYourWeight. Perhaps if you could come up with a revolutionary way to do the things we don’t want to do. Now that I would read. So thanks but no thanks. I would, however, be interested in a way to earn a million in a week without ever having to get dressed or leave my house. Do you have a cousin who does that?
Saturday, March 8, 2008
On Passion...
PASSION CAN'T BE BOUGHT, GIVEN, ACHIEVED,OR FAKED. BUT PASSION CAN BE FOUND.
I quit my job to follow my passion - professional storytelling a career path that offered no money, no ladder to climb, and no books telling me how to do it. But I was lucky because I had something more important than talent. I had passion something that can't be bought. But it can be FOUND. In every single one of us there burns that blue flame of passion. It's just buried deeper in some - underneath life's obligations, fear, insecurities, and negative forces. So how do we get to that inner flame?
FIND THOSE THINGS THAT MAKE YOUR HEART SING
Get away from the noise. Sit down and think. What brings you joy? What do you love to do more than anything? In what can you lose all sense of time and surrounding? Is it shopping? Is painting children? Is it food? Is it reading about Greek mythology? Don't think about what this would mean or what it should be. This is about you. And know that it probably won't be one thing. Passions are often a culmination of many desires.
DON'T LOOK AT THE WORLD AND ITS BOXES
So often I hear someone state their passion and immediately discard the thought because they see it in only one box. You make a mistake if you cut your dream off at the pass. I would dare to say that ANY passion can be turned into a lucrative career if you are willing to see outside the box that the world has created. I once knew a guy who really wanted to juggle. That's right - balls up in the air. That was his passion. But he kept hesitating because there's no money in juggling. What would his parents think? And he didn't like kids. He felt it was a lost cause and many would probably have agreed with him. But he didn't stop. He had passion. Now he has put together a program for corporations on how to deal with the many balls we juggle on a daily basis. He gets paid very well. He loves what he does. And guess how he spends the majority of his time at work? Juggling.
IT'S NOT ABOUT TALENT
Too many people ignore their flame because they think they're not good enough. Chances are strong that you are, and if you aren't, then you'll deal with it like a grownup and find another way to do what you love. It just takes some creative thinking. I've seen example after example of people who excelled at their business - not because they were the most talented - but because they were the most passionate.
SEE IT
Don't just say it. See your dream unfolding. There is tremendous power in visualizing.
SAY IT OUT LOUD
There's something about saying it out loud that makes it real, even if there's nobody to hear it.
DEVELOP A SUPPORT NETWORK
Tell people you trust. It makes you accountable. Keep in mind that there are many people who, knowingly or not, will try to sabotage your dream. Many people are secretly afraid or even jealous of your courage. They want it so desperately themselves and are so afraid to find it, that they make themselves feel better by diminishing yours. That's why it's so important to find that network of people who will support your dream, and hang on to them for dear life. They will get you through those many moments when the negative forces overwhelm.
EMBRACE THE REJECTION
Use what is constructive and learn to let the rest roll off of your back. Learn to get back up. True success doesn't lie in those moments when you finally reach the finish line. Success is in every one of those moments when you have the courage to get back up.
TAKE A BREATH AND JUMP
Just close your eyes, have faith in the unseen, and jump. You may not have anything to lose. You may have everything to lose. But you will never regret the jump.
I quit my job to follow my passion - professional storytelling a career path that offered no money, no ladder to climb, and no books telling me how to do it. But I was lucky because I had something more important than talent. I had passion something that can't be bought. But it can be FOUND. In every single one of us there burns that blue flame of passion. It's just buried deeper in some - underneath life's obligations, fear, insecurities, and negative forces. So how do we get to that inner flame?
FIND THOSE THINGS THAT MAKE YOUR HEART SING
Get away from the noise. Sit down and think. What brings you joy? What do you love to do more than anything? In what can you lose all sense of time and surrounding? Is it shopping? Is painting children? Is it food? Is it reading about Greek mythology? Don't think about what this would mean or what it should be. This is about you. And know that it probably won't be one thing. Passions are often a culmination of many desires.
DON'T LOOK AT THE WORLD AND ITS BOXES
So often I hear someone state their passion and immediately discard the thought because they see it in only one box. You make a mistake if you cut your dream off at the pass. I would dare to say that ANY passion can be turned into a lucrative career if you are willing to see outside the box that the world has created. I once knew a guy who really wanted to juggle. That's right - balls up in the air. That was his passion. But he kept hesitating because there's no money in juggling. What would his parents think? And he didn't like kids. He felt it was a lost cause and many would probably have agreed with him. But he didn't stop. He had passion. Now he has put together a program for corporations on how to deal with the many balls we juggle on a daily basis. He gets paid very well. He loves what he does. And guess how he spends the majority of his time at work? Juggling.
IT'S NOT ABOUT TALENT
Too many people ignore their flame because they think they're not good enough. Chances are strong that you are, and if you aren't, then you'll deal with it like a grownup and find another way to do what you love. It just takes some creative thinking. I've seen example after example of people who excelled at their business - not because they were the most talented - but because they were the most passionate.
SEE IT
Don't just say it. See your dream unfolding. There is tremendous power in visualizing.
SAY IT OUT LOUD
There's something about saying it out loud that makes it real, even if there's nobody to hear it.
DEVELOP A SUPPORT NETWORK
Tell people you trust. It makes you accountable. Keep in mind that there are many people who, knowingly or not, will try to sabotage your dream. Many people are secretly afraid or even jealous of your courage. They want it so desperately themselves and are so afraid to find it, that they make themselves feel better by diminishing yours. That's why it's so important to find that network of people who will support your dream, and hang on to them for dear life. They will get you through those many moments when the negative forces overwhelm.
EMBRACE THE REJECTION
Use what is constructive and learn to let the rest roll off of your back. Learn to get back up. True success doesn't lie in those moments when you finally reach the finish line. Success is in every one of those moments when you have the courage to get back up.
TAKE A BREATH AND JUMP
Just close your eyes, have faith in the unseen, and jump. You may not have anything to lose. You may have everything to lose. But you will never regret the jump.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
How to lose a friend in ten days or less...
How to lose a friend in ten days or less…
We have enough articles and cute little coffee table books that sing the praises of friendship. But what about that friend we are dying to get rid of? You know the one - don’t deny it – the one who at the very mention of her name your eye starts to twitch. The very sight of her car pulling into your driveway actually has you considering faking your own death. The one who bugs you so bad you can’t stand her children just by association. Help is on the way. I have come up with some surefire ways to get rid of unwanted friends.
Ask her if she’s gained weight. Look closely at her hips and her rear end as if you are trying to solve a mysterious math equation. Tell her it’s okay, that we all let ourselves go when we get to that age. And would she consider botox?
Ask her to host a scrapbook party at her house – every time you see her. Then tell her exactly how you want it done and offer to clean her house for her, with a look that says you remember the last time you were there and your kid tripped on one of her dust bunnies. The key here is to look at her like she’s a dog with three legs.
Call her every day and leave really long messages on her answering machine that always start with, “Oops, the machine just caught me off, let me finish up. I’ll be really quick.” Then leave a new phone number at the very end of the message and say it real fast and mumble it so she can’t get it and has to listen to the entire message again.
Pop up in her bushes on Thursday morning when she comes out to get the paper. Tell her you were just hanging out.
Send her spam emails at least three times a day, with videos and pictures attached, with messages telling her to light a candle and pass this on to twenty-five other people in the next twenty-four hours. Accuse her of being the devil’s spawn if she doesn’t answer. Attaching a virus always helps.
Tell her you want to sit down and talk about where she stands spiritually. This one is particularly effective as it will not only get rid of her, chances are good it will get rid of everyone she knows too.
Loan her money or keep her children as a trade-off deal. You’ll never see her again.
Fake your own death. This can be tricky to pull off, but it’s a permanent solution.
Show her your childbirth video and pause on the placenta while you go answer the phone.
And last, but not least, give her a second chance. Take the love-your-neighbor thing seriously. It’s easy to love the lovable. But it says even more about your character if you’re able to love the unlovable. And, for the record, there’s nothing wrong with loving her from far away.
PS If you’re reading this, you are the good kind of friend - just ignore my picture in the obituary section.
We have enough articles and cute little coffee table books that sing the praises of friendship. But what about that friend we are dying to get rid of? You know the one - don’t deny it – the one who at the very mention of her name your eye starts to twitch. The very sight of her car pulling into your driveway actually has you considering faking your own death. The one who bugs you so bad you can’t stand her children just by association. Help is on the way. I have come up with some surefire ways to get rid of unwanted friends.
Ask her if she’s gained weight. Look closely at her hips and her rear end as if you are trying to solve a mysterious math equation. Tell her it’s okay, that we all let ourselves go when we get to that age. And would she consider botox?
Ask her to host a scrapbook party at her house – every time you see her. Then tell her exactly how you want it done and offer to clean her house for her, with a look that says you remember the last time you were there and your kid tripped on one of her dust bunnies. The key here is to look at her like she’s a dog with three legs.
Call her every day and leave really long messages on her answering machine that always start with, “Oops, the machine just caught me off, let me finish up. I’ll be really quick.” Then leave a new phone number at the very end of the message and say it real fast and mumble it so she can’t get it and has to listen to the entire message again.
Pop up in her bushes on Thursday morning when she comes out to get the paper. Tell her you were just hanging out.
Send her spam emails at least three times a day, with videos and pictures attached, with messages telling her to light a candle and pass this on to twenty-five other people in the next twenty-four hours. Accuse her of being the devil’s spawn if she doesn’t answer. Attaching a virus always helps.
Tell her you want to sit down and talk about where she stands spiritually. This one is particularly effective as it will not only get rid of her, chances are good it will get rid of everyone she knows too.
Loan her money or keep her children as a trade-off deal. You’ll never see her again.
Fake your own death. This can be tricky to pull off, but it’s a permanent solution.
Show her your childbirth video and pause on the placenta while you go answer the phone.
And last, but not least, give her a second chance. Take the love-your-neighbor thing seriously. It’s easy to love the lovable. But it says even more about your character if you’re able to love the unlovable. And, for the record, there’s nothing wrong with loving her from far away.
PS If you’re reading this, you are the good kind of friend - just ignore my picture in the obituary section.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The Masterpiece by Kelly Swanson
By Kelly Swanson
My grandmother knew the true art of biscuit making. How I used to love watching her work in the early hours of winter in that tiny kitchen with the checkered curtains. I remember the way the sunlight used to stream down on the lines in her weathered face. The way her gnarled fingers would knead the dough with the tenderness and strength that had come from years of faith and hardship. The smile on her face as she took her time sifting the flour, humming about Jesus and bringing in the sheaves. The tears that fell into the flour when Grandpa Jimmy died. The fierceness with which she pounded the dough when they told her that she was too old to drive. The way her body moved with the rolling pin as if it were a long time dance partner. Each step precisely coordinated. Each ingredient measured with an exactness and precision as natural to her as breathing. A process that changed in tune with the world around her and yet stayed as familiar as the look on her face when my daddy walked into the room. Years of tweaking and fine tuning created biscuits that were as a personal to her as the scent that clung to her fingers throughout the day. I used to try to make biscuits like hers but I could never come close. I was never willing to put the sweat and the tears into them that my grandmother did. Those biscuits were her masterpiece just as your speech is your masterpiece. If you want your speech to stand out in the sea of familiarity, you have to be able to put the sweat and tears into the process. For it is only when we push ourselves that we find the buried treasure underneath.
Where the spirit does not work with the hand there is no art. Leonardo Da Vinci
I know that to paint the sea really well, you need to look at it every hour of every day in the same place so that you can understand its way in that particular spot and that is why I am working on the same motifs over and over again, four or six times even. Claude Monet
If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn't seem so wonderful at all. Michelangelo
My grandmother knew the true art of biscuit making. How I used to love watching her work in the early hours of winter in that tiny kitchen with the checkered curtains. I remember the way the sunlight used to stream down on the lines in her weathered face. The way her gnarled fingers would knead the dough with the tenderness and strength that had come from years of faith and hardship. The smile on her face as she took her time sifting the flour, humming about Jesus and bringing in the sheaves. The tears that fell into the flour when Grandpa Jimmy died. The fierceness with which she pounded the dough when they told her that she was too old to drive. The way her body moved with the rolling pin as if it were a long time dance partner. Each step precisely coordinated. Each ingredient measured with an exactness and precision as natural to her as breathing. A process that changed in tune with the world around her and yet stayed as familiar as the look on her face when my daddy walked into the room. Years of tweaking and fine tuning created biscuits that were as a personal to her as the scent that clung to her fingers throughout the day. I used to try to make biscuits like hers but I could never come close. I was never willing to put the sweat and the tears into them that my grandmother did. Those biscuits were her masterpiece just as your speech is your masterpiece. If you want your speech to stand out in the sea of familiarity, you have to be able to put the sweat and tears into the process. For it is only when we push ourselves that we find the buried treasure underneath.
Where the spirit does not work with the hand there is no art. Leonardo Da Vinci
I know that to paint the sea really well, you need to look at it every hour of every day in the same place so that you can understand its way in that particular spot and that is why I am working on the same motifs over and over again, four or six times even. Claude Monet
If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn't seem so wonderful at all. Michelangelo
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