tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35493387056740324042024-03-13T23:40:43.570-07:00The Midnight OrangeWhere high emotion runs wild.The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-33682500193338617052015-09-19T08:08:00.000-07:002015-09-19T13:21:57.792-07:00When You Can't Can't - the story of Natasia's custom family sculpture<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let's get real about customs. Do you like straight talk? I hope so, because I'm committed to it. I am always honest about my abilities when approached with custom orders. I take on pieces within my style and skill sets, and I agree to them when I know I can confidently get to the end result within a predictable amount of time that won't bottleneck my capacity. That said, there are many instances where I have to graciously decline custom requests because they fall within my "Achilles heel" so to speak. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My darling, lovely, wonderful friend Natasia wrote to me this summer with a custom request that, paraphrased, went something like this. "I know you said you aren't comfortable sculpting men in the new clothed style like your babywearing pieces, but a family sculpture would mean the world. I want all of us together with Josh sitting on something playing guitar and Gavin touching his knee with me holding Liam behind him and Faith and Skye twirling together". </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I read that and thought... </span></span><i style="color: #141823; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Natasia is cray</i><span style="color: #141823;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">. That is not a paraphrase, in my mind I literally said cray. You know the shoulder-sitting devils and angels of conscience that whisper wooingly into each of your ears? Artists have them as well, but they have nothing to do with our consciences, just our consciousness. Our *self* consciousness, to be blunt. Let's call them Bravery and Fear. I'm going to pass the buck quickly and say it was Fear that called my precious Natasia "cray". I would never say that, that's friendship blasphemy! And Fear didn't stop there either, he just kept running that mouth. In my mind he whispered,</span> </span><i style="color: #141823; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"She's seen what I can do, heard me say so many times that I can't sculpt men in this style, I don't do clothing other than gowns really, and for real - a guitar??? !! I don't know where she ever got the idea that I could sculpt a guitar, props aren't my thang. Can we talk about the twirling? It's not a ballerina music box, these pieces are motionless. I don't know how I'm supposed to show them dancing like that.. Way, way, way outside of my comfort zone. She's craaaaaaaaayyyyyyy."
</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I love Natasia, she has been such an avid supporter of me and my artwork through the years, and I of hers, and more meaningful to me than that, she has been the sincerest of friends. Sometimes I can't tell if it's her face or her heart that makes me think we must be soul-sisters. See all these nice things I'm saying about her? None of this came from Bravery, I get to take full credit for my sweetness. These thoughts were all my very own. Bravery, that came from somewhere else entirely. Bravery was 100% Skye. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I met Natasia, at the same time I had the honor of meeting the memory of her baby girl, </span>beautiful angel Skye<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Josh and Natasia's firstborn daughter, who came into this world so special that the doctors, in all their knowledge and research, had never met anyone like her with her condition before. Skye who lived for 17 days. Skye whose name and legacy so many of us know, and we have come to love her fiercely. I encourage you all to read <a href="https://natasiachampion.wordpress.com/2012/07/26/skyes-story/" target="_blank">Skye's story</a> where we learn the true meaning of bravery and see it portrayed so incredibly by this uniquely special baby girl. When Natasia had written to me, she asked me for something else she'd never asked me to do before. She wanted to see Skye age progressed in honor of her upcoming 7th birthday. She shared that she believed Skye had shoulder length auburn curls. I never sculpted Skye outside of infant form, and I needed to see this through for Natasia, for her family, and ultimately for Skye. I may not have been able to see Josh and his guitar, or twirling dancing sisters, but I could see the vision of her that Natasia gave to me, and Bravery encouraged me gently and told me not only that I should do this, but I that I <i>could do this as well.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I wrote back to Natasia and reeled it in. I told her what I thought I could do (sculpt everyone standing together holding each other) and gave her an I-wish-I-could on the guitar. She understood, agreed we could leave it out, and gave me what every artist loves to hear, full artistic liberty over the design. We settled on a standing family all grouped together, so at this point the challenge was muted down to just sculpting a guy with clothes and hair. Again, though I wish it were, it's not my thing. I explained that to Natasia and she understood and said she trusted me and that my best was good enough for her.
The pressure was off, kind of. I started to get excited. The time came to work on the project and I began with what was comfortable to me and made Natasia holding baby Liam and her two daughters standing on each side of her gown. Skye had auburn curls just like Natasia asked for, and it amazed me to now be able to see her as a 7 year old, the same age as my youngest daughter. I felt so close to her, what a precious thing to see her unfold before me no longer frozen in time as a perpetual baby, but as a bursting 7 year old. Just... my heart. I can't even explain and I know that I don't need to.
Next I needed to add Josh and Gavin to the sculpture, and that was the challenge point for me. I could make Josh standing, but the thought came that it would be easier to bake him without issue if he were seated in some way, and then I could add Gavin in without his toddler self getting lost in the crowd of his family. Oh Gavin, you little big boy, where oh where do I put you? The thought - "Okay, I'll sit Josh down for now, once they're all sculpted I can come back to it and figure it out."
Once I had him seated it just became so obvious to me that there had to be a reason for it, and clearly the reason was musical. I've been following Josh's musician heart and all the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/joshchampionmusic?fref=ts" target="_blank">exciting things he's been working on</a>, and I knew that despite whatever Fear may have assured me I couldn't do, Josh really needed to be playing that guitar. I started to play as well. I looked up a clay guitar tutorial on youtube and one of the steps was to print out the shape of a guitar and use it to trace its outline into clay. To find the right shape, I used one of Josh's guitars, found a master image of it, and printed it out on photo paper so it'd be easier to outline. Once I did that, I had the wonderful aha moment of realizing I could just skip all the other steps in the tutorial because I didn't need to paint on the details, the frets, the strings - I had an overlay right in my hands that I could use and it *was* Josh's guitar. Pulling it all together wasn't effortless, but it wasn't nearly as impossible as I thought and I decided on using the image I had on top of thickened clay to make his guitar. Ouila!
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As for the hair, well, again - hard for me. But I threw myself into it with Bravery poised angelic on my shoulder and I did what I always do - my best. My best is not perfect, my best did not make a replica of Josh, but my best is what I always commit to with all of you, and here is what my best looks like for Josh.
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At this point my confidence was reinstated, and I thought "Take that Fear, I punched your nose!". There was no more room for fear here, I pulled off the scariest part of what Natasia first described for me, and it was time to rethink her other requests. Here mini-Josh sat before me, guitar in hand, and why the heck should I think I couldn't make his daughters dancing in the midst of his song? How beautiful is the thought of that? I took them from holding their momma's leg and joined them together, waltzing their arms. They just looked so darling. To add some movement to it, because after all, this still is not a ballerina music box, I rolled some clay sheets very thin to make fabric gowns and played with the flow of them. So, so special!
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I haven't taken the time to talk to you about Faith, but I have watched this little sparkplug blossom over the years and become a big sister twice-over. For the first time I was able to actually see a tangible portrait of her before me as a little sister. Though they've never met earthside, Faith has the very real knowledge and understanding that she has a big sister, and Faith misses her. She <i>cries </i>for her. The thing I am always aware of with my sculptures is that not only are they so poignant for parents to be able to see their whole family as a unit, but they allow siblings to recognize their family structure and see everyone together. Where they fit in. Foresight dawned on me and I realized that in the near future, Faith herself would be sitting with her family and given the opportunity to hold this in her tiny palm and see a portrait of her and Skye dancing. I cried at the preciousness of it all. What a beautiful gift for Faith to have this experience and this visual of seeing herself, proportionally, as a little sister. It is going to bless her little heart, and the privilege for me to be a part of this is inexpressible.
I finished up Natasia's gown last - the colors were mine to choose and I went with an earthy ombre and added some deeply colored crystals to the bottom of her gown. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At this point I couldn't wait to see it complete, the rest of the project came without challenge and just needed Gavin and glazing. I was so eager to finalize it and be able to situate them all together in different contexts, I couldn't wait to photograph it and show it to Natasia for the grand crescendo! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is the portrait of a family who loved, lost, loved more and more. Whose legacy would not be what it is today without the absence yet enduring presence of their beautiful firstborn, Skye. The Champion family has 6 members, and this is all of them together finally, in tangible, touchable form. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank you Skye, for standing in as my Bravery, and thank you Natasia for letting me sculpt your blessings for you. </span></div>
The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-33419713061093192302014-06-28T19:54:00.000-07:002017-03-26T19:16:53.146-07:00It. Is. Unforgettably. Personal. <span style="font-size: large;">Last year I saw one of my kindergarten classmates in line at the grocery store. Easily I recognized her face, filled out by womanhood, and I asked if her name was Krista. We had light and awkward conversation. Though she didn't remember me, I remembered her and especially the button she swallowed in gym class. I walked her down to the nurse's office that day because she was scared, but otherwise fine. A mother now, Krista laughed and said she didn't recall the wayward button either, or what she had for breakfast that morning.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have always had a knack for remembering things that didn't matter. Things that weren't even mine to remember. A second grader named Jill had the best, best handwriting in my class. It looked like a fourth grader wrote it. In high school, my best friend's license plate was CK9 13M, and the only thing memorable about that is perhaps the fact that it is long gone and I still remember it. Also, there's Bill Clinton's birthday, which whether you like him or not, is August 19th and I know that forever because my class celebrated it the first year of his presidency. Now every year on that day, I indifferently recall that he is, in fact, another year older.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">While none of this is seemingly important, I share it with you now because I need you to understand something sacred to me. Since 2008, I have had the extremely sobering and humbling honor of <a href="http://www.themidnightorange.com/" target="_blank">sculpting for families whose children have died</a>. I just typed two words that no one ever wants to see in the same sentence, and these families are living it. I have to get the trigger warning out of the way because this post is going to turn very, very sad right now and if your heart is not in a state where you are able to read about children dying then I need to strongly urge you away from this blog entry. I'm about to describe what my job is really about, and it's not about clay. It's about wobbly first steps that will never be taken, unwipeable noses, laughter that will never chime but bells hung over gravestones do. I work in real, palpable, contagious heartache every day and let me tell you... It. Is. <i>Unforgettably. </i>Personal. <i> </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are families I've sculpted for over and over again, so many times that they've filled entire curios and bought second cabinets to keep up with their expanding collections. I've never met them in person but I've felt their hugs over and over again, and they've felt mine. There are others who have come to me only once, maybe twice and shared the fragility of their hearts, the names of their children, and the quiet longing for ways to keep a legacy alive. My inbox is a treasure chest unpryable to the faint of heart. The messages I receive are heavier than gold, private as pearls. They are silver linings peeking from storm clouds. And among my favorite, the brightly colored jewels of rainbow blessings. What parents share with me about their babies that touch the stars too soon is the most beautiful and tragic pain that they will ever experience. Again I'll say it. It. Is. <i>Unforgettably. </i>Personal. <i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Not everyone who orders from me returns, but many do, and sometimes it's years later. I'll open my inbox and see a message that begins with something like "My name is ___________ and a couple years ago you made a sculpture for me of my angel, who was born still." What you don't realize is that as soon as I see that name in my inbox, even before I click nervously to open it, my heart is pounding as I wait to read how I can help this mother again. My thoughts whisper "Please let these years have treated her gently. Please let her not have lost another child. Please let Cullen have sent his mommy a rainbow."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's right. <i>Cullen. Gracie. Aidan. Tayler. </i>Twins <i>Emma and Chase.</i> There's <i>Wyatt</i>, whose mommy can never see an elephant without thinking of him<i>, </i>and because I know that, neither can I. There's <i>Declan</i>, who I sculpt for every year as his angelversary approaches but I think of him so much more than that. How often? Every time I pass a playground. There's <i>Rylan</i>, his eyes were clearwater blue and he's the reason that at a swimming pool I don't take my sight off not only my own children but everyone else's, because I know his mother never wants another family to experience the depth of loss that her own family staggered through, and I owe that to her for giving the gift of <i>Rylan </i>to me. For sharing her precious child with me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Spring arrives yearly, not lacking the usual cliches. "March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb." So did <i>Joshua</i>, who's mother pained through 36 hours of labor to finally hear him roar, but then later that month he slept like an angel, so deeply he became one in the silence of the night. His mother wept uncontrollably when someone cut the butter lamb that Easter. I know you're probably crying reading this. I'm sorry about that. I'm crying too, but honestly I cry all the time - even when people say simple things like "April showers bring May flowers" because inside my heart I know that for babies like <i>Aurora</i>, April showers are really mommy's tears as a birth date approaches and Casey continues to mourn the day she said hello and goodbye in the very same breath. And I know that like <i>Molly</i>, some of May's flowers never fully bloom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Daffodil's also come with Spring. They are yellow. They are <i>Alexander</i>. Purple? Nothing short of royalty. Purple is <i>Carleigh</i>. Purple is <i>Michelle</i>. Purple is baby after baby, same color, all different lives and legacies. Just like every other hue in the entire rainbow. Your babies have colors, and I remember their colors when I remember their names.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Peanuts</i> are not a food to me. Sure I eat them, but that's not what I think of when I hear the word. I think of the parents I've sculpted for that suffered early losses, and how they've named their child after the tiny treasured shape in their sonogram picture. The cute little nicknames parents give their babies in womb become their names forever. I know babies named <i>Poppy, Tadpole, Jellybean, Blumpy, Ricecake, Kix, Cubbers</i>. And speaking of cubs? A mother bear on average only has 2-3 per litter, but the Mother Bear I know has <b>six</b> cubs. Six pink and blue <i>Baby Bears</i> that she never met outside her womb or knew the genders of, and I cannot see a mother bear on television without imagining six little bears trailing behind her. Ever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Independence Day is coming in just a week's time and people will be lighting up sparklers. All I think of when I see them is the brightness in <i>Addison's</i> eyes, how vibrant it dazzled. While everyone is enraptured with the fireworks each year, my thoughts are very, very far away, still stuck on the little sparklers and how quickly they go out, before anyone holding them is ready or expecting them to. So instead my thoughts stay on <i>Addison's </i>family, and how<i> </i>her Nana loves her bigger than the world. There is no month that approaches, no place that I go, where something doesn't remind me of an angel along the way. I'll be in the costume aisle in the children's department and next to wands and glittering crowns I see fairy costumes and immediately think of the pictures Selina shared with me. <i>Mazzy</i> wearing her butterfly wings. <i>Mazzy</i> wearing her hula skirt. <i> Mazzy</i> wearing her mommy's eyes. Selina and I have not chatted in years, since I made her first and only sculpture for her. I don't think she will ever see this blog but if she does I want to say... Selina, please don't be surprised that I remember Mazzy in her fairy wings. Mazzy is not only memorable, she is never-forgettable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I know a darling dog named Mickee. The only time I met her is when I sculpted her, but because I sculpted her, I can say comfortably that I feel I know her. Like Mickee, I've sculpted her owner as well, whose name is <i>T'Keyah</i> and she was only 7 when she ended her brave and beautiful stay on this side of earth. Mourning alongside her family was this little copper dog who loved her so deeply and fretted her passing so severely that on <i>T'Keyah's</i> birthday 4 month's later, Mickee crossed over to join her in Heaven. Because <b>that </b>is how heart stopping child loss is. Mickee's picture is saved to my computer, and every time I see this face, these eyes<b>, </b>I am brought to tears with my heart so high up my throat that I cannot even swallow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have sculpted sisters <i>Lily</i> and <i>VernaAnn</i> time and time again. Their mommy Allison once said to me "It is so special to me that you always remember their names and how to spell them." I read that and thought, if only she knew what an honor it's been to remember her daughters, to know their names. If only she knew that I kissed their little clay baby feet every time I've ever sculpted them. If only she knew how I quietly followed her on Facebook throughout her entire rainbow pregnancy, and while she was in labor I waited hardly able to breathe until I knew Micah did too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ohhhhh the rainbow babies. How I hope and hope and hope they come for those who are dreaming for them. How I follow these pregnancies with every update though their families hardly know it. I have watched parents like Katlyn and Andrew's hearts break over and over again while Heaven earned star after star after star and then... a positive pregnancy test. A belly that keeps growing. A miracle incarnate, Jonah was born. And now??? Oh. My. Heart. Jonah is not only in a big boy bed, Jonah is a BIG BROTHER. Double rainbows! Rainbow babies thrill me to the core. Just like when <i>Vayden</i> sent Varen, and <i>Aiden</i> sent Nygel, and <i>JoJo</i> sent Zyon, and <i>Valentina</i> sent Sammie, and <i>Jasper</i> sent Samuel, and <i>Joshua</i> sent Acacia and then Sophia tagging along right after. The list goes on and on, I cannot name them all in a blog post but I carry them in my heart. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I sit to work in the morning, I start my day with rainbow babies because I need that. I need to see them before I can mentally prepare for what will come to me throughout the day. My first stop is almost always baby Abby, nothing goes better with my hazelnut coffee than the look of awe and wonder that never leaves this child's face. I am telling you, her expressions are the faces you'd make if you just saw an angel, and I know every day she sees two of them. Two seraphim sisters are shining on her, of course her mouth is a cheerio and her eyes full of marvel. Of course I need to look at her before I dare look inside my inbox, where I know what's coming. Where I am personally on a permanent trigger warning every day and with the pain of that burden I am also brought the extreme privilege of learning your childrens' names. Their stories. That they once were.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is what a regular shipment looks like for me before I start packaging. Don't count the wings, your heart will break. These all belong to families that are watering flowers at grave sites with their very own tears. If that is not sobering then nothing else is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I never <b>want</b> to make another angel sculpture in my life. I never want you to need me in that way, no one should have to need me in that way and yet thousands have and thousands more will as time crawls slowly among us bringing tragedy in its course. When you need me, I am so extremely sorry for that. So deeply honored. So indelibly touched. And if you needed me before, and need me again, and nothing feels comforting, please at least come with the reassurance that you won't need to remind me who you are, that your child has died, and that I've sculpted for you before. I know many of you live every day in a silence of disenfranchised grief and some of your losses are minimized or unacknowledged but that does not happen here. Not with me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If I can remember the useless things that never were mine or even important to me, like Krista swallowing her button or the birthday of a president I was too young to vote for, then with extreme reverence I assure you that far greater is my memory of you and your child, and the experience of watching your baby form in my hands. Because sculpting for you isn't my job, it's my life calling, and when you share your child with me I remember, because... It. Is. <i>Unforgettably</i>. Personal.</span>The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-56689024914401363972012-07-25T11:58:00.000-07:002014-06-29T19:39:03.102-07:00About Spiders<span style="font-size: large;">In the pool I</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">don't discriminate. <br />Big ones, little ones,<br />any spider I find<br />I scoop and throw it</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">at my sister. <br />There is satisfaction<br />in the scatter.<br />It's not her I'm after,<br />but that moment of laughter.<br />It doesn't survive</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">its own echo though.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Later we ride bikes</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">under the illusion of peace.<br />The Spanish moss plays me<br />like a song I'll always remember,<br />whose rhythm I never cared for<br />and I know I am<br />all out of tune.<br />We pedal slowly, a<br />dance to old memories,<br />shake our heads at how<br />we lived them like lyrics,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">from mediocre to tragic.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I ask out loud how we</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">survived this world</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">and Lauren says<br />"It was either that or succumb."<br /><br />Day drones on</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">and finds us again<br />nearly naked by the pool,<br />where Lauren asks what<br />I'm thinking and says "Me too."<br />when I say "Mom..."<br />I say "...where she is now<br />and why she couldn't</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">love us enough."<br />and Lauren says "That she's a dick."<br />Her words, not mine. <br />My words are all used up<br />like forgiveness. <br /><br />Mother, my Mother<br />you seep into everything<br />bitter like that cinnamon stick<br />which I wanted to believe</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">would last its refinement<br />and become something</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">good for me. <br />I would have even settled<br />for something</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">not bad for me<br />but you just can't help yourself. <br /><br />I cannot help you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There are any unguessable</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">number of miles between us</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">and I cannot even </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">get away from you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I am supposed to be <br />on vacation from<br />all of your <i>you</i> <br />and this poem<br />was supposed to be<br />about spiders. </span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FGQJTvgNawg/UBBBaPwqUSI/AAAAAAAAAK0/IpwqwSFQKPk/s1600/IMG_7595.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FGQJTvgNawg/UBBBaPwqUSI/AAAAAAAAAK0/IpwqwSFQKPk/s640/IMG_7595.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a>The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-53585791810638521822012-04-13T05:52:00.000-07:002014-06-27T10:22:43.042-07:00I Say <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Glory green this grass</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">and I am angry </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">or in love with you.<br />As mad as the lesser flowers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">are wild, simple</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">extraordinary things. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I crush a buttercup,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">say <i>"It proves I am strong..."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">and </span><span style="font-size: large;">pretend I don't care</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">whether it will glow a golden sun</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">on the chisel of your chin<i>.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I throw it on the ground and</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">defy your cholesterol to matter any less</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">just so long as you are</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">taking your vitamins at least.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"Confound you, I do not care."</i> I say.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Just like this feeble daisy,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I plucked you out of nowhere and </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I swear I'll put you back there. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"It is only a weed,"</i> I say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"<i>white and plain,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>and it does not matter."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But it droops its head and</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">reminds me of you sulking so I </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">stick it in my hair</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"Just to get it out of my face."</i> I say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">but as well as I know anything </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I know why it's there. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">There, scentless,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">feather heavy it woos me,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">whispers the dangling maybe </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I ask every day. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Finally I say <br /><i>"It doesn't matter anyway,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>these childhood things</i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">need </span><span style="font-size: large;">innocence and I do not</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">believe </span><span style="font-size: large;">anymore.</span></span></i><br />
<i style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But then. . .</span></i><br />
<i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;">. . .if it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter</i><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>and I'll only pull the petals</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>out of spite,"</i> I say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"to make it vulnerable and</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>naked like me."</i> I say. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So I pick and I pluck,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I say "N<i>o one's keeping track."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">but I get to that last and long</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">and milky leg,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">that smooth exclamation point</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">which trembles in my hand</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">and I exhale</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">sunshine</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">and butter</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">and wishes,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">bluebell</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">and chicory </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">and </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">cherish the lesser things,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">the tender ones,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">the forget-me-nots </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">filled</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">with all our tiny forevers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">which I say <i>"Once we meant to keep..."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">which only ever bloom</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">in Spring,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">in clusters,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">in blue and humble promises. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />Later the petal glows warm</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">and white, as innocent as anything</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">floating in my tea</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">and I say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"On this day only,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>if I drink it I'll believe."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EcsLYSD_TWo/T4ggprU9qgI/AAAAAAAAAJo/JSNFUCozmMc/s1600/glory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EcsLYSD_TWo/T4ggprU9qgI/AAAAAAAAAJo/JSNFUCozmMc/s640/glory.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a>The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-44344305937386508222011-06-20T22:09:00.000-07:002011-06-21T05:23:18.437-07:00Marking the Quiet Passing of a Day - In Memory of ChristopherThose who are familiar with my work are familiar with a very bright and brilliant little boy who left our earth much, much too soon at the dawning age of 8 years old. Christopher died unexpectedly on the first day of summer in 1990 and both his life and death left an immeasurable impact on my own life and how I would later deal with learning to grieve my childhood friend and creating <a href="http://www.themidnightorange.com/">artwork which could honor his legacy</a>. To learn more about our story, go <a href="http://themidnightorange.blogspot.com/2010/04/why-i-sculpt-child-angels.html">here</a>. <br />
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While I've shared with Chris's family what has unfolded in my artistry and how through Chris I've been able to connect with thousands of grieving families and offer a message of comfort and healing, I have not yet made them a sculpture as it seemed it would be somewhat of a magnum opus for me. I came up against artist's block when trying to conceptualize a design, and for that reason up until this last week I had not committed to sitting and creating this important legacy piece for them. I felt in my heart that when the time was right I would be led to create.<br />
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With Christopher's angelversary up and coming, I knew the timing had come upon me to present his family with this gift but I still could not climb over my own artists block to create the "right" sculpture. Finally it came to me that I needed a closeness to him where I could sit in his quiet and feel his inspiration, so on Friday I journeyed to his graveside with my journal, blanket, clay, and camera. <br />
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Christopher's grave site is under the canopy of a large conifer. While sitting with him it brought a very profound and favorite memory to the forefront of my mind, and it is truly my most cherished memory of us. Chris and I had the most chemistry when we bickered usually, but reflecting on this memory I know that it is one that God set aside for me to later relive and reflect on. Our class went on a field trip to go apple picking at the orchards. That day Christopher sat with me on the bus and he did something unexpected and tender. He put his head on my shoulder, right on my shoulder cap and so it was bony and very uncomfortable for both of us to sit like that but he left it there and I sat as still as possible so not to discourage him. It was a moment that solidified to me how close we were and I hoped we'd never reach the farm so we could stay like that all afternoon. On that bus ride I felt that we loved each other in the purest way that two children could, gender disregarded.<br />
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Later Chris stayed near me in the orchards. Christopher was so very small, and I pulled the branches downward and he reached up for his apples to pick them. When I close my eyes, I can still see the memory of his hands splayed with the sun behind them. The moment I learned of his death, that was the exact image that I thought of. Christopher, in his smallness, reaching for his apples with sunlight glowing in his fingers. Despite the bittersweetness of the memory, when I think of that day I refer to it in my mind as the Harvest because I think it redirected and redefined what had grown between us. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-spEc4L0KAso/TgAiALDqahI/AAAAAAAAAFc/kEc8sys9uhk/s1600/chris%2527s+site%252C+esther+031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-spEc4L0KAso/TgAiALDqahI/AAAAAAAAAFc/kEc8sys9uhk/s640/chris%2527s+site%252C+esther+031.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UAK1BMLtBwM/TgAjt3xIZPI/AAAAAAAAAGE/aq7yQNlsVyw/s1600/chris%2527s+site%252C+esther+036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UAK1BMLtBwM/TgAjt3xIZPI/AAAAAAAAAGE/aq7yQNlsVyw/s640/chris%2527s+site%252C+esther+036.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>When I went to Chris's gravesite for inspiration, I genuinely had thought I would be sculpting a family sculpture for him. Being there with him, underneath his tree, and thinking of our defining memory together, a much different piece came to unfold in front of me. Above are some photographs of my quiet time with Chris. Below is the actual sculpture that I created and shipped to his family today, along with an album containing 30 letters from friends that Christopher has made all across the world. His family will be floored to read them and see how far reaching Chris' legacy is. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Harvest</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O76ZIU-eGak/TgAioEWbJOI/AAAAAAAAAFg/-0YoD1mM5AY/s1600/harvest1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O76ZIU-eGak/TgAioEWbJOI/AAAAAAAAAFg/-0YoD1mM5AY/s640/harvest1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q7sKf5nszsU/TgAi1M-TvzI/AAAAAAAAAFs/5mdRoFOZgo4/s1600/harvest4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q7sKf5nszsU/TgAi1M-TvzI/AAAAAAAAAFs/5mdRoFOZgo4/s640/harvest4.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y97XJK-55hA/TgAisnTkL9I/AAAAAAAAAFk/D6XScV3fk1U/s1600/harvest2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y97XJK-55hA/TgAisnTkL9I/AAAAAAAAAFk/D6XScV3fk1U/s640/harvest2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Today we remember Christopher. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></div>The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-74452973564803099792011-05-31T22:05:00.000-07:002011-05-31T22:16:13.884-07:00Surprise! I am back!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Most of you are completely unawares to the fact that I have been away on vacation these past few days! We don't advertise an empty house over the internet until we are back home and safely occupying it. Anyhow, we went away, spread our family magic in the Adirondack Mountains, and literally walked back into our palace (whoops, did I say palace? I meant place. tee hee) just a little bit ago.<br />
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Vacation for me is likely much different than it would be for someone holding a non-portable job. I LOOOOVE long road trips, not only for getting to sing off key with my family most of the way, but because I am confined in one place and I get a TON of sculpting done. We are talking a total of 12 hours drive time. ! I bring a conventional oven with me as well as all my brushes, powders, and wings, and each night I finish off the drive's pieces and then bake them in our hotel room. Laptop gets a lot of action at night too as well as in the morning before we leave for the day's activities. During those time frames I catch up on communication and play with you guys a little on my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Midnight-Orange/105314011660">fan page</a>. <br />
Here is a shot of all the pieces that are pending shipment (in various stages of creation, some awaiting powdering and some awaiting glaze still). If you have an order pending, you just might see it in here! <br />
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I know you folks are shaking your heads at me for working consistently throughout vacation. I just can see you all doing it in my mind's eye! But the nice thing about my job as a <a href="http://www.themidnightorange.com/">professional sculpture artist</a> is that this is my heart's work. I am passionate about sculpting and could not imagine going a day without doing it. My 3 year old twirls her hair for comfort. I play with clay. It soothes my mind and my art soul!<br />
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Worky stuff aside, we had so much fun lost in the greenery of the Adirondacks. For those who've never been there, I hope one day you get this true pleasure. I have some highlights to share with you and then I need to get started on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150206861006661">Wee Creature Week</a> which is upon us.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x7VkMfvUSKs/TeXFl2nxvKI/AAAAAAAAAFU/D39vunUrz5I/s1600/vacation+2009+272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x7VkMfvUSKs/TeXFl2nxvKI/AAAAAAAAAFU/D39vunUrz5I/s640/vacation+2009+272.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
This photo is from our prior trip to Lake George. I have to mention this quickly because I can't not be immature about this so let me just have at it and then move along. We could not go to beach along any part of the lake because of the current... <i>Invasive Asian Clam Elimination Project</i>. (insert maniacal giggle at the phrase Invasive Asian Clam. Those who have heard my laugh know just what this specific giggle sounds like, and I reserve it for just such an occasion!). I did do my homework on this once I leveled my immaturity, and learned that despite being nominally funny, this is serious stuff. These are very tiny clams that can each reproduce up to 70,000 offspring per year. They literally pave the lake bed and the native species can't compete with them because of their staggering population. It's crazytown. I wish the project much success and that they can bring balance back to the many area lakes, canals, streams, and rivers that are affected by this. Eradicate the Invasive Asian Clam once and for all! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HN55e1CDjXg/TeXEbhsKG4I/AAAAAAAAAFQ/m5Dg2puBRUI/s1600/ClamPileWithRuler.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HN55e1CDjXg/TeXEbhsKG4I/AAAAAAAAAFQ/m5Dg2puBRUI/s640/ClamPileWithRuler.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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And now, for the grand finale, the highlight of our trip every year is the visit to <a href="http://www.magicforestpark.com/">The Magic Forest</a>. I cannot accurately describe this amusement park that is self proclaimed as being a place for young children and families. Sneak peeeeek... Click on any of these images to enlarge them. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iCJRl_3WlA0/TeW9otOSmWI/AAAAAAAAAFE/o55DfWzUw2k/s1600/train3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iCJRl_3WlA0/TeW9otOSmWI/AAAAAAAAAFE/o55DfWzUw2k/s640/train3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
This theme park is set wholly within a forest and dates back 47 years, although some of the rides and attractions date back almost a century. It is literally like stepping back in time and is genuinely and wonderfully creepy. The rides are rickety as well as the marvelous elders who conduct them. Acorn shells crack under your feet as you walk the pathways and inchworms hang suspended invisibly in little glowing patches of sunlight. The statues bewilder at their own decay and chipmunks linger unstartled by them. <br />
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I cannot accurately describe this place except to say I do believe there is a magic in it which lights in the heart as you walk through it. For me, as a sculptor, I am absolutely mesmerized by the artistry that abounds in this place, albeit overwhelming and perhaps terrifying when the sun begins to set. The statues have plaster pulling away from the armatures and many are covered in dust and cobwebs. I love that they do not try to defy time. Here are some more photos to help you understand what I cannot do justice with words. <br />
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To begin, the ferris wheel is actually in the trees.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My little Natasha seemed to want to like this pup but couldn't decide whether to trust her better judgment. This was as close as she would go for the picture. <3</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aALAfHjwvRM/TeW9KVQjsTI/AAAAAAAAAEs/L5elYdfiRRg/s1600/tashi+and+scary+dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aALAfHjwvRM/TeW9KVQjsTI/AAAAAAAAAEs/L5elYdfiRRg/s640/tashi+and+scary+dog.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A small army of fairies flocking the roof top of one of the novelty shacks. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--nuJaw8nmUA/TeW8vNN_IZI/AAAAAAAAAEU/EEQoEeG8_hM/s1600/fairies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--nuJaw8nmUA/TeW8vNN_IZI/AAAAAAAAAEU/EEQoEeG8_hM/s640/fairies.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Inchworms hung unevenly in every area imaginable, like green and glowing forest ornaments. My daughters could not commit to whether they appreciated this. Still a worm after all, and they didn't like the sneak approach.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yoiS844G5tU/TeW84YGbXkI/AAAAAAAAAEc/1Mypbg_2neo/s1600/ipnern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yoiS844G5tU/TeW84YGbXkI/AAAAAAAAAEc/1Mypbg_2neo/s640/ipnern.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This just looks like a big old Uh Oh to me....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PtRlHz2AzlA/TeW8qTINAaI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/CxgmAQAt56g/s1600/uh+oh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PtRlHz2AzlA/TeW8qTINAaI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/CxgmAQAt56g/s640/uh+oh.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Throughout the forest there are these giant cages which I am pretty sure were for large birds of prey at one point. I have seen these cages at zoos, but here they only house set ups that I believe are supposed to be charming but could likely make a jumpy child cry.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-opRZS85kHTI/TeW892oCGoI/AAAAAAAAAEg/WhHVthhmbDc/s1600/monkey+boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-opRZS85kHTI/TeW892oCGoI/AAAAAAAAAEg/WhHVthhmbDc/s640/monkey+boy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WkDn7ip79-g/TeW9B2NdEII/AAAAAAAAAEk/_7WH7m6l7xc/s1600/monkey+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WkDn7ip79-g/TeW9B2NdEII/AAAAAAAAAEk/_7WH7m6l7xc/s640/monkey+girl.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Watching my children wandering down this path had a very Hansel and Gretel feel to it. I like this photo because it shows the sheer size of some of these statues. Some are well over a hundred feet tall. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1yfyDJZKbOo/TeW9bMfqrVI/AAAAAAAAAE4/8Nqq8TFtFcw/s1600/trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1yfyDJZKbOo/TeW9bMfqrVI/AAAAAAAAAE4/8Nqq8TFtFcw/s640/trail.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A row of sentinels that had a Robyn Hood feel to them. Each looked suspicious yet unsinister. You cannot tell from this photo because we were passing on a train track, but these are very, very tall. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6CENGwIuw8k/TeW9fT1OXRI/AAAAAAAAAE8/poqN9mHAMVc/s1600/train1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6CENGwIuw8k/TeW9fT1OXRI/AAAAAAAAAE8/poqN9mHAMVc/s640/train1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">When you pass these giant hens, a very old audio track blares through equally old sound equipment. The chickens sound as haunting as they look and I whispered to my husband that it sounded like a slaughterhouse. I am sure this was not the case except my mind runs away on me when we visit this attraction each year. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wkVUHYE2EQ0/TeW9lXQ497I/AAAAAAAAAFA/htHaW2roH7s/s1600/train2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wkVUHYE2EQ0/TeW9lXQ497I/AAAAAAAAAFA/htHaW2roH7s/s640/train2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I cannot help but see these sculptures and wonder their purpose. What inspiration led the artist to create the piece and is there a story behind it? This may very well be an accompaniment to a children's story that I don't recognize because I was distracted by the peeling eyelids and the thought of whether, even when newly created, this was meant to be inviting or intimidating. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z-KKDdsfq8/TeW9s2ZPMXI/AAAAAAAAAFI/AiTuBbCV_Sw/s1600/two+creepies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z-KKDdsfq8/TeW9s2ZPMXI/AAAAAAAAAFI/AiTuBbCV_Sw/s640/two+creepies.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I find it all alluring because it <b>is</b> slightly intimidating, although I know many of you will think this forest holds the stuff nightmares are made of. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u0UOEz7kUTM/TeXDwYZAoEI/AAAAAAAAAFM/HApO5nKEVNk/s1600/IMG_3391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u0UOEz7kUTM/TeXDwYZAoEI/AAAAAAAAAFM/HApO5nKEVNk/s640/IMG_3391.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Okay, so wolves aren't your nightmare. How about giant clowns? For size perspective, take a look at his shin and you will see my 5 year old standing down by the boot. M-A-S-S-I-V-E!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-em71XzdOc7k/TeXFngDxTWI/AAAAAAAAAFY/XnPqo-Lz7fM/s1600/vacation+2009+266.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-em71XzdOc7k/TeXFngDxTWI/AAAAAAAAAFY/XnPqo-Lz7fM/s640/vacation+2009+266.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I cannot wait to go back again next year and I fear my children turning the age where they ask instead to go to Six Flags which is just up the road. I hope their childhood imaginations become as timeless as this magnificent forest. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-47740950150274920022011-04-22T22:56:00.000-07:002011-05-01T16:52:43.375-07:00Results from the Just As I Am charity auction!!I am continuously amazed and encouraged at the outpour of kindness and sweet spiritedness of both friends and strangers. I was looking through my studio shelving this week and realized that throughout the past 3 years, I have accumulated a large quantity of sculptures that I considered unsaleable due to minor imperfections. The thought came to me that others may like the opportunity to own these pieces at a very reduced cost, and so I posted it on my<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Midnight-Orange/105314011660"> facebook fanpage </a>and asked what others thought of this. The response was immediate and I could see there was a demand for these pieces. One woman, Natalie, recommended an auction and I thought it was a wonderful idea! However, truly I was not looking to profit off of these pieces and so it was decided that if we were going to do an auction, the money raised would all be donated to charity of the winning bidders choices. The results are, in this artist's mind... shocking and wholly uplifting!!<br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/fbx/?set=a.10150168965751661.314239.105314011660">62 pieces were listed</a> and a total of ... BIG DRUMROLL .... $1300.51 was raised for charity! It is unbelievable to me that together we have done this and I am just so stunned, touched, and humbled to have been able to be a part of this and watch it unfold in a matter of 3 days. I also loved reading the metaphors so many of you found in these imperfect pieces and how they all spoke to you in different ways. As humans, we are all flawed and I can see now how easily you all related to these sculptures and found a personal connection to them. In reading your posts, I have found a connection to each of you as well and I look forward to friendship continuing to bloom with those I do not already have the pleasure of knowing. If you had hoped to win a piece but were not able to, please take comfort in knowing that most of these pieces are available without flaw in my <a href="http://www.themidnightorange.com/">online shop</a> and I would be happy to make them for you in your own custom colors. If you can't find something, just let me know. If you had your heart set on making a donation, I would still encourage you to do so!<br />
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And now, for the specifics! If you are listed below, you are an auction winner. Congrats! <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"> See details under this list for the next steps... </span></b><br />
<br />
Lisa Crownover Mickle - $87 - <a href="http://christodaro.eventbrite.com/">Memorial Fund for Chris Todaro</a>,<a href="http://www.stjude.org/stjude/v/index.jsp?vgnextoid=f87d4c2a71fca210VgnVCM1000001e0215acRCRD"> St. Jude Children's Research Hospital</a><br />
Sheri Copeland Darge - $18, $23, $7, $16 <a href="http://www.sealedstrength.org/">Sealed Strength </a><br />
EmilieVergon Miller - $23, $2 <a href="http://www.stjude.org/stjude/v/index.jsp?vgnextoid=f87d4c2a71fca210VgnVCM1000001e0215acRCRD">St. Jude Children's Research Hospital</a><br />
Audrey Rogers - $20 - <a href="http://www.pandys.org/intro.html">Pandora's Project</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"></span><br />
James Sessions - $30, $46, $30, $20 - <a href="http://www.sealedstrength.org/">Sealed Strength</a><br />
Dani Franklin - $15, $25<br />
Jennifer Gordon Baker - $30 <a href="http://www.sudc.org/">http://www.sudc.org</a><br />
Sarah Grandfield Connors - $22, $6 <a href="http://stringofpearlsonline.org/donations/">String of Pearls</a><br />
Emily Rose Hughes - $36, $22 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 15px;"><a href="http://www.metrodetroitsharegroup.com/">Metro-Detroit SHARE</a></span><br />
Katlyn Hudgins - $25<br />
Allison Miller Johnson - $65 <a href="http://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/">Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep</a><br />
Melissa Rebello Pachecho - $20 <a href="http://heartwalk.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=428057&lis=1&kntae428057=54AED126A2DD4E768B3E221AC7537418&supId=3012155">American Heart Association</a><br />
Angel Bre - $26 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Susan G. Komen</span><br />
Annette Hopkins - $25 <a href="http://www.unyts.org/">http://www.unyts.org/</a><br />
Sheila Simpson - $35<br />
Jennifer Murray - $37, $17 <a href="http://promiseforethan.org/">Promise for Ethan</a><br />
Angela Chrzanowski - $17, $30 <a href="http://www.salvationarmy.org/ihq/www_sa.nsf">Salvation Army</a><br />
Rikki Donkin - $30 - Donation made to the <a href="http://www.teddyloveclub.org.au/index02.php?id=14">Teddy Love Club</a><br />
Kirsty Broderick - $12, $10 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><a href="http://www.mentalhealth.org.nz/forms/show/donate-online/new/1/">Mental Health Foundation New Zealand</a></span><br />
Kim Giger Hart - $12 - <a href="https://www.gentlebarn.org/donate.php">The Gentle Barn</a><br />
Jeanie Nelson - $7<br />
Lauren Wolff - $15 <a href="http://www.compassionatefriends.org/donate.aspx">Compassionate Friends</a><br />
Lisa Hunter - $30, $15, $27 - <a href="http://www.acrf.com.au/?s_kwcid=TC|12779|research%20stomach%20cancer||S|b|4341090476">Australian Cancer Research Foundation</a><br />
Sara Mizzi - $26 - <a href="http://christodaro.eventbrite.com/">Memorial Fund for Chris Todaro</a><br />
Holly Haas - $92 - <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: blue; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><a href="http://rosesfromrosalynn.blogspot.com/" style="color: #0000cc;" target="_blank">http://rosesfromrosalynn.<wbr></wbr>blogspot.com/</a></span><br />
Jennifer Thiel - $23 <a href="http://www.yourspca.org/page.aspx?pid=291">SPCA - Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals</a><br />
Joy Carter - $5<br />
Jenna Lynne Allen - $15 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/donate/" target="_blank">http://www.<wbr></wbr>nowilaymedowntosleep.org/<wbr></wbr>donate/</a></span><br />
Ashley Wood - $11 <a href="https://mollybears.com/">MollyBears</a><br />
Karen Morales - $14<br />
Hope Wood - $15, $15, $12.50, $21.01 <a href="http://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/">Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep</a><br />
Ginny Slamka Prince - $41 <a href="http://www.sufficientgrace.net/">Sufficient Grace Ministries</a><br />
Lisa Lapierre - $20 - <a href="https://www.biddingforgood.com/auction/AuctionHome.action?auctionId=125172667">Girl Scouts</a><br />
Margarita Garcia - $6<br />
Alyssa Burrows - $7<br />
Erin Foster - $32<br />
<br />
The next steps will be me collecting payment and determining what charity I will be donating to on your behalf. I will be invoicing each of you via paypal so please email me your email address (you do not need to have a paypal account in order to pay the invoice, but if you do have a paypal account please send me the email you use with your paypal account). You will need to email this info to me at <a href="mailto:themidnightorange@gmail.com">themidnightorange@gmail.com</a> and please<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"> ***</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #741b47;"><b>attach a link to the donation page of your charity's website</b></span></span>, as well as including your shipping address in the email so I can send you your winnings. Once I receive your email address I will invoice you via paypal, and once I receive your payment I will make the donation (minus the shipping charge) and forward the receipt to your email so you have record that the donation has been made. Your sculpture will be packaged and shipped to the address you provide. All payments will be collected in US Dollars (it is okay if you are international, paypal will convert) and donations will be made in US Dollars. <br />
<br />
Thank you again for taking part in something wonderful which evolved quickly and unexpectedly! Once I have the details on all the charities supported I will post an update. Very excited to be able to share that info. Thank you all for blessing my heart through your actions, you do not know the warmth you've given me and I can only hope to be able to give it back to you in some way.The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-17954885406397249152010-12-17T00:02:00.000-08:002010-12-17T00:02:08.222-08:00Jackie Paper ReturnsA letter to my father, who will never read my blog:<br />
<br />
My darling Dad, <br />
I will always, always hold dearly the memories you've given me growing up, and especially the thousand songs we've sung together while you played your guitar for me. I love that we still do this very thing. When I was a little girl you used to sing Puff the Magic Dragon to me, and I remember you singing the lyrics but somehow it never occurred to me how very sad the end was. Perhaps because as a child I still had the wonder of my imagination and the possibility of dragons. The other day I played this song for Starry and cried for the first time when I heard the ending.<br />
<br />
<i>"A dragon lives forever but not so little boys</i><br />
<i>Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.</i><br />
<i>One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more</i><br />
<i>And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.</i><br />
<br />
<i>...His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,</i><br />
<i>Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.</i><br />
<i>Without his life-long friend, Puff could not be brave,</i><br />
<i>So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave."</i><br />
<br />
Once in a while Dad, I like to change an ending. Great song and I love that you sang it to me, but I can't accept Jackie growing up and not believing in dragons anymore. Out of countless things you've taught me, the first was to BELIEVE. I believe in the power and limitless borders of the mind. And I believe that Jackie Paper does come back and find Puff, and that he never doubted the wonder of his own imagination.<br />
<br />
This is in honor of you Dad, and all that you've given me and taught me to believe.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYAah6eYI/AAAAAAAAADs/TC8Typ9TqYU/s1600/puff.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYAah6eYI/AAAAAAAAADs/TC8Typ9TqYU/s640/puff.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYBah39sI/AAAAAAAAADw/DIuOvdarGb0/s1600/puff2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYBah39sI/AAAAAAAAADw/DIuOvdarGb0/s640/puff2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYCCllddI/AAAAAAAAAD0/ziTCkx9Pzw0/s1600/puff5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYCCllddI/AAAAAAAAAD0/ziTCkx9Pzw0/s640/puff5.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYCmqaH7I/AAAAAAAAAD4/2s3Hb6sxMNA/s1600/puff6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYCmqaH7I/AAAAAAAAAD4/2s3Hb6sxMNA/s640/puff6.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYDOusCWI/AAAAAAAAAD8/g5REt5_N-2A/s1600/puff8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYDOusCWI/AAAAAAAAAD8/g5REt5_N-2A/s640/puff8.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYDxDdHZI/AAAAAAAAAEA/C-WxWrndKbk/s1600/puff10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TQsYDxDdHZI/AAAAAAAAAEA/C-WxWrndKbk/s640/puff10.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-41314629424761627112010-09-28T08:15:00.000-07:002010-09-28T08:15:20.529-07:00Tonight I Am Thinking About ChristopherAmidst a half dozen partially finished sculptures, loose blocks of clay and luminous powders in little jars, tonight I am remembering very vividly my tender inspiration behind all of this. In moments like this despite a large to-do list and bed time slipping beyond me, I do what I am led to do. I share my heart. And tonight I share Christopher.<br />
<br />
When I was 8 years old, I (along with the world) lost my childhood friend Christopher. He died unexpectedly in a very sudden and tragic accident. To read about that experience and my journey into adulthood without him, you can visit this link: <a href="http://themidnightorange.blogspot.com/2010/04/why-i-sculpt-child-angels.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://themidnightorange.blogspot.com/2010/04/why-i-sculpt-child-angels.html</a> Tonight I am not here to talk about his death and how it impacted me, but his life and the very profound imprint it had on mine. Last night I fell asleep murmuring to my husband the dozen or so memories that I can recall of Christopher. It has a stinging effect, that limitation of my adolescent mind and the things it didn't hold onto. Had I known that was all the time we would be given together, I surely would have collected our moments like carefully netted butterflies and tried to delicately hold onto all of them.<br />
<br />
Of my limited list, I remember that we were learning about palindromes in class and Chris thought of the word "Aha". I never say that word out loud but think it all the time. It is a private word for me, he gave that to me. I remember on Valentine's Day he gave me two Valentines and I knew he buried me in his heart. I recall beating him in the 2nd grade spelling bee. He spelled "believe" wrong and I didn't know how to spell it either but somehow the letters found their right order. How ironic and meaningful. Believe. And I do, Chris.<br />
<br />
I have one saved that is so touching to me that it glows. We went on a class field trip to Becker Farms and he sat next to me on the bus. Chris and I had the most chemistry when we argued and teased each other but this day I think God set aside a quietness for me to hold onto. On this day Chris put his head on my shoulder, and with each bump in the road I thought how uncomfortable it was because of how hard his head felt on my bony shoulder, and I hoped we never reached the farm so it would stay there all afternoon. It was a moment that defined to me how close we were, because I knew it wasn't comfortable for him either but he left it there to retain that closeness with me. We were at an age where boys and girls didn't like each other but I felt on that bus ride that we loved each other in the purest way that one child can love another. Later, he stayed near me in the orchards and I helped him pick his apples because he was so small. I pulled the branches downward and Christopher reached for them one by one. That was the exact image that recoiled in me when I learned of the accident and his death. Christopher, in his smallness, reaching for his apples. How very, very little my Chris was; the nature of his death so unfair.<br />
<br />
Within seconds or minutes of learning he died (time and shock have a deceitful partnership) a second image came to me. It is the only memory of us that I wish I could burn. In my mind's eye I see Chris standing in the aisle of the school bus getting ready for his stop. It was the last day of school before summer vacation, and it would be the day before he died. Energy radiated from his core, it always did, and his vibrancy coupled with the excitement of the summer he thought was ahead had him over the moon. Christopher was doing kicks and spins in between the seats. The last thing I ever heard him say was "I am Rafael!". The last thing he ever heard me say was "You're too much of a shrimp to ever be a Ninja Turtle". That was it. With round eyes that harbored surprise and a shadow of hurt he just looked at me and the bus stopped. I saw his body sway forward slightly and then upright again from the inertia, and then he turned and got off the bus.<br />
<br />
Final words, and at that time I felt clever for saying them. Tonight I feel as wrecked thinking them as I did the day I learned he died. In the blissful ignorance of childhood, I did not know the high price of a moment or the cost of my own words. Each year follows the next and thoughts of my sharp tongue prick the colorful ballooning memories I have of him and let out some of that sweet air. And when you grasp at air you come up empty handed. Sometimes I think that is where all my other memories of him wept away to.<br />
<br />
A woman wrote to me a few months ago because she was touched by a blog entry I had written about him. She said that for me to have carried him with me all these years and have spread his legacy so tirelessly was something remarkable to the extent that she wondered whether destiny meant for us to be soul mates. It was a darling concept except that I always associate that term for partners and lovers and it does not capture the innocence and purity of what Christopher and I had. He is truly, deeply, my forever friend.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Chris, a thousand times I have gone to bed wishing I could bury those last words in place of you. There is not even the scent of doubt in my heart that you have not forgiven me, and yet I am so indebted at times I feel I could never climb out of this guilt to reach you. Tonight I want you to know that sharing your legacy is my gift back to you. From the very first angel sculpture I made of you, and the hundreds I have made since for others, you have been the round eyes behind my own and the true inspiration for me to follow a path leading me to the joy and sorrow of others. It is because of you that others have found both comfort and a sense of peace. You were special to the point of bursting and when I don't have any more words to describe the wonder of you, I mould them with my hands. God wrapped the most extraordinary being in the package of an 8 year old boy and tonight I want you to see how different my life is because you were and are in it. Two decades ago we picked apples in an orchard, and I now realize that we truly had no idea the depths of what we were harvesting. Always I miss you.</em>The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-34943227076354345732010-07-28T05:26:00.000-07:002010-07-28T05:29:18.206-07:00Almost MythicalUnresponding love<br />
is a beast of its own species.<br />
Yearned and untouchable<br />
it glows kingly<br />
and grows wings.<br />
<br />
If I knew you now<br />
I could find faults to flaw you,<br />
dull your mane to something more mortal<br />
less dreamlike<br />
make you human again.<br />
<br />
Time betrayed me<br />
when I surrendered you to it<br />
relying on its restless course<br />
to pave gray over all the colors<br />
you made me feel.<br />
<br />
Out of decency you should have<br />
punctured me with hurt<br />
so I would withdraw to some dark place<br />
and let the soft skin scar privately<br />
while I learned not to love you.<br />
<br />
Heartsick and eager I beg<br />
the severing of the anchor<br />
vying for freedom's sweet release<br />
the moment you become<br />
unspectacular.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TFAiW8AL2kI/AAAAAAAAADc/sery-l-jIys/s1600/vistapostcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/TFAiW8AL2kI/AAAAAAAAADc/sery-l-jIys/s400/vistapostcard.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3549338705674032404.post-24355962918001708662010-04-23T22:30:00.001-07:002012-11-05T12:18:58.076-08:00Why I Sculpt Child Angels<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/S9KCGh3_GhI/AAAAAAAAAC0/AmfccJ5FcQ4/s1600/chris.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463572346637851154" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9FB755hsbDY/S9KCGh3_GhI/AAAAAAAAAC0/AmfccJ5FcQ4/s200/chris.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 136px;" /></span></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Christopher Brown was really little. In a class of third graders he was teeniest among all of us. He was also the most spirited. I adored him, so we fought constantly. I was a masochist for those bickerings and used to stare at the small gap between his front teeth as his mouth moved around them proving me wrong in little bursts of animation.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is not a story about childhood love. It is not a story about friendship. Despite the presence of these things, this is pure ache and a lesson that broke my heart to learn. I will not go into sharing the details of what made Christopher a spectacular being wrapped up in the package of an 8 year old boy. I trust you find me credible and will believe this. I also ask that despite the longevity, in Chris' honor you read this.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On the first day of summer in 1990, Christopher was playing baseball with his brother, sister, and babysitter in his back yard and the ball went over the fence into a neighboring construction site. He climbed his swing set onto his father's shed, then jumped from the shed roof over the fence to get the ball. I cannot picture this in my head (either because the logistics are not clear or because my mind is protecting itself from this visual) but when Christopher jumped the fence his hand hit a latch on a crane which released two cement highway dividers. He fell and they fell on top of him. A very cherished 8 year old lost his life that day.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There was no closure. My mother felt that attending the services would be too traumatic and kept me from saying goodbye in person. I understand, but still. I agonized for years about this, even into young adulthood. So many blanks I could not fill in. I did not know where he was interned, when his birthday was. The specific day he died. Every milestone I had, I wished for him. On first days of school I would find his seat in class and then mentally spite the child who sat there. On last days of school I would be sick at the excitement around me. I'd imagine Chris's thoughts as the final bell rang and he dreamt of ponds and trails and popcorn at the drive-in, not knowing he would die by next nightfall. For years I just carried him with me. The night before my high school graduation I dreamed of him approaching through the crowd, as grown as I, and hugging me. In tears I type this.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In my second year of college I became desperate, not for closure, but for closeness to Chris and wanted so badly to connect with his family. With such a common last name they felt impossible to find. All I could do was speak of him often and hope someone connected. One day this exact thing happened, and by fate a woman scrawled an address on scrap paper and sent me away with it. I finally had a portal to his family and despite years of longing for contact, I had no idea how I could begin to express my heart to them. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Honestly I do not recall the specific details of the sentiment that I poured into 7 handwritten pages, but my message was strong and clear. I missed Christopher, I loved him still, and I REMEMBERED. Always I remembered him. The letter I received back I held with trembling hands, but never could I have been prepared for what Christopher's mother would share with me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She spoke of the myriad of emotions that my letter brought forth, and I expected that would be the case. She broke me down entirely when she went on to write that receiving my letter was a true miracle that had breathed new life into their son. She shared that tragically, the loss of Christopher was so painful for others that he became rarely spoken of.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">To hear that Christopher not only lost his life but also his legacy was the greatest shame imaginable. My small but bursting childhood friend had become lost to the world. Was truly buried. I cried for days. She later wrote that the greatest gift I had given them was sharing his memory with other people and allowing him to live on in this way.</span>. Mary and I stay in touch and I am smiling this moment over the profound friendship I found in Christopher's mother.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I visit his grave when I am happy and seek to share that with him. I go there when I am hurt so I can have solitude but not be alone. My husband and I picnic with our young daughters there and they like the bells that softly chime in the fir overhanging his grave site. He is truly my forever friend, and my gift to him is ensuring that despite his life being stifled, his legacy never will be. Now you know Christopher. He was small, mighty, and magnificent. I would be beyond humbled should anyone repost his story as daily I fear that in his 8 short-lived and bittersweet years of childhood, not enough people had the chance to know his name.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">This was a gift I could not stop giving to Chris and his family, and with it I achieved the opposite of closure. It burst open a door for me and truly inspired fire in my heart, because it was then that I saw a very clear window into the lives of bereaved parents. One of the things that stood out profoundly to me was need. The need for their children to be acknowledged, celebrated, spoken about. The need to know others remember. The need for a LEGACY.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Sculpting the ever-present bond between parents and children who touch the stars too soon is truly my heart's work and daily I startle at the extreme honor of being so blessed to be able to do this. My goal was to create something for parents to display for others which would then evoke conversation. I really wanted to be able to create some tangible way for parents to show others that it is okay to talk about their children and for my sculptures to be a “starting place”. </span>In my heart of hearts I pray that people see these pieces and realize that despite the overwhelming pain in losing a child, there is healing for parents to simply know people remember.</span><br />
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</span></span>The Midnight Orangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07699466843320552311noreply@blogger.com55