The Plan

    “If you fail to plan, you plan to fail,” I said to my oldest son as he vividly recreated a scene from his future life. A day where he would want for nothing; be creatively challenged; give his mother a paying job; and have a PPO plan to stay healthy. (No, I didn’t add that last part, it’s actually a concern of his.) The scene my son recreated was a plan which I can relate to. I had those same kind of plans. They are not just the plans of a dreamer, they are the plans of artists. All artists have a vague plan of how their life will go, without really figuring out how to get from one step to the next. That would be against their spirits… against the grain of what true artistic freedom is all about. Living life without a net.

       I have friends who are able to do their art, or craft, at their own pace. They never hold down regular jobs, or work regular hours, and they get to take dream vacations I can only swoon over. I always wonder… are they trust fund babies, or do their parents fund their dreams, believing their child is unique in their creative endeavors? My parents were artists, but gave up their dreams to raise a family, buy a house, and pay bills, with a little left over for the annual family and friends pilgrimage to Laguna Beach in the summer. They didn’t save for their kids to go to college; or help get started in careers; or in my case, to fund my artistic dreams. They didn’t believe in life insurance, or inheritance for they were still artists at heart, and that never came into focus.

       In my second year of college at California Institute of the Arts, I had to struggle to eat. Going to college for lack of a better path in my life at the age of 22, I funded my education with loans I had taken out on my own through my father’s credit union. My parents believed if you really wanted to go to college, you’d support yourself, which in turn would make you value the degree more. After my first year of commuting to and from my parents house, I decided it was easier to sleep on the dorm room floor of one of my buddies. They helped me out when I couldn’t afford to eat with peanut butter sandwiches, and the occasional splurge of jelly.

       I remember going back to my neighborhood for a party at an old friend’s house. Her family was more financially stable than mine, and she was on her way to a sensible degree in a sensible field. We were all sitting around drinking, listening to music, and reminiscing when she said “Wouldn’t it be fun to be a starving artist, living out of your car? Free to live off the land, and create art? I think that would be so fun!” Really? You’ve got to be kidding me, is what I thought. You have no idea.

       Within my first year of college, I met my husband, whom I married a year before graduating. After five struggling years, I was able to walk across the academic stage with a Bachelor’s Degree in Music, and the realization that it wasn’t going to put food on my table, nor money in my pocket because I didn’t love it that much. I went into the business side of the music industry, and my husband, who was also a musician, became a struggling artist. Although I was able to maintain a meager lifestyle as he attempted to make a name for himself in an unforgiving industry, it wasn’t my idea of the romantic artist’s life. I soon fell out of love with the industry, and went to work in the business side of advertising. With this job, my husband’s gigs, and borrowed money from both of our parents, we were able to buy a house, and have children.

      Soon my husband became the professional musician he had always dreamed of, and was well on his way, performing in front of thousands. But with all this notoriety, the financial picture never changed much. It was feast or famine, as the artist’s life so often is. As he toured, we agreed that I would stay home with the kids to give them some stability. I was busy, and he was busy, and we worked hard at keeping our little family close. There was no plan, just to keep doing what it was we loved to do, and keep the family united.

       The other night I asked my husband of 27 years if he really envisioned our life like this. Did he think we’d still be struggling financially; living in a house that was way too small for us; wondering where our next paycheck would come from; and still borrowing from our parents? Did he know that by the time we hit our 50’s our income would dip so low, our insurance would be cut off? “No”, he said, “I didn’t think there was a timeline.” No timeline? No plan.

       I’m not sure what the answer is if you’re an artist who has yet to hit the creative and financial jackpot. Do you keep plugging away at your craft, daring to fight those windmills that threaten to drag you into the 9 to 5 life of the average human being? Do you wake up every morning with the rose-colored glasses that enable you to convince yourself that life is still keeping you in the pink, and it‘s only a matter of time? Or do you put your art in the “hobby” category, and leave it for the day you retire from your sensible job which allowed you to live a life free from financial worry? 

   
       Author Wendell Berry said, “It may be when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work, and that when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey.” I am at that crossroads now, and with this in mind, I shall begin a new plan. A new timeline for the second half of my life, and it will involve being that artist I have always envisioned. I will create with the love and passion I once had before college, and perhaps somehow this will bring with it the financial freedom I so desperately crave. But if it doesn’t, I resolve to accept that this is the path I chose to take simply for the love of my art, and the peace it brings to my soul. My plan, I guess, has always been to be at peace with my choices, and not tormented by them. As an artist, and creative spirit, the timeline has not been as important.

Me and My Ducks Aren't All in a Row

          Ever since I can remember, my ducks have always had to be lined up before I could even think of starting down a path. The “i’s” had to be dotted, and the “t’s” had to be crossed; the lists had to be written and re-written with the proper priorities straight; and the path from point A to point B had to be clearly defined. Then, and only then, could I begin whatever it was that was so important it needed ducks.

          This was the logical realm I entered each time I felt inspired and passionate about a dream. It was also the realm that killed it. At first I was energetic and creative with my idea, bungee jumping into the unknown with every fiber of my being. But by the time I got to the third or fourth re-write of my priorities (the idea being, “If you fail to plan; you plan to fail); the passion fizzled, and all I was left with were lists and lists of unfollowed trails.

          There have been times when I didn’t have everything thought out, and I just went for it. Thrilled at the prospect of taking a leap of faith without my ducks. I’d step off that proverbial ledge, and look back to see my ducks look longingly at me.

          “You can do it!” they seemed to say.

          Yet, I always came back…  not quite sure where to go without my ducks. Like I said, these ducks and I go way back.

          As I get older, time slips by faster than I’m comfortable with, and these ducks are beginning to work less and less for me. The things I thought I’d have time to do no longer look like prospects, but regrets. The days are filled with paperwork, errands, and miscellaneous chores which leave me unfulfilled. They need no ducks. They are performed with mindless abandon, offering a safety net where I take no risks, nor any leaps of faith. My youth has been swallowed up, and although I am not old, I don’t feel I have the time to keep lining these ducks up in their proper order. I’m desperate to shed them, with the intention of igniting a lost passion, and having it take a life of it’s own.

          Earlier this year I found myself in a position I never thought I’d be in. I found myself having regrets for wasting so much time on my ducks. Having regrets is supposed to be for people whose lives have gone horribly astray, and in one moment of epiphany they realize the error of their ways. But I was realizing that my ducks had gotten out of hand. I had let them run with wild abandon over my plans and lists, and in the end, I felt I had nothing to show for it. Yes, I raised two wonderful boys who were independent, passionate, and creative, but… was that it?

          This week my oldest son went on his first real “road trip” with friends. He waited to pack an hour before he left, and didn’t know exactly where he would be sleeping, or what he would eat. He knew “ballpark” figures for the money he needed, and approximately how long it would take to get to his destination.

          He had no ducks lined up. No lists written out. No “i’s” dotted, nor “t’s” crossed. Nothing to indicate that he was following in his mother’s footsteps. He reminded me of the scene in “Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade” when Indiana has to take a leap of faith and step off the cliff into thin air, only to find it’s an optical illusion in which a ledge appears for him to walk across simply because he believed he could.

           And just then, I had my epiphany. I didn’t want my son to follow in my footsteps with all those ducks getting in the way of his adventurous life. I wanted to follow in his. If he could step out into the world without ducks, perhaps I could do the same. Although I have more responsibilities than a younger version of myself, I could take baby steps in following my passions. I decided from now on I would only make one list without re-writes; have a “ballpark” idea of my path from point A to point B; and not worry about the “i’s” or the “t’s” because no one will see them anyway. But most importantly, I would leave the ducks. There could be no negotiating on this because I’d just talk myself into taking them all, and I’d be back where I started. So, as I step off that ledge for the first time, I’ll look back at my ducks, and say to myself, “You can do it.”

To Blog or Not to Blog

“You should blog,” a friend of mine says, in all sincerity.
“What?”
“You should write a blog,” she repeated.
“Why?”
“Because you’re funny, and give good advice.” Yeah, good unwanted advice.
“Besides, you have something to say.”

Well, who doesn’t? In this day and age, quite frankly, who doesn’t? Every where you look, someone’s blogging about something. Everyone has something to say about everything and anything. But really, who wants to read about my daily musings regarding my cat, dog, turtle, or iguana? About the latest amazing feat my child performed, or passed, or achieved. I like reading some of the blogging stories because I can relate. Also, it wastes time when I really should be concentrating on something else in dire need of my attention. However, as a professional procrastinator, I must keep up on my game.

Blogging is the latest fad. Some blogs are really quite good. Filled with information about products, and things you never knew. Things to scare you into living a healthier life. Things you’d rather not know. Things you’re sure will lead to your imminent doom, creating a giant chasm in your thoughtful journey for enlightenment. Things like meat glue. Touted as wonderful by celebrity chefs, but poison by every other governmental group except the USDA. All the more reason to be a vegan. Confidently stated by my vegetarian and vegan friends.

Some blogs are vlogs. Video blogs. Short little vignettes of entertainment… just enough to amuse, but not enough to make you change the channel. Some are just for your friends, or relatives, or for you to relive at a later date. Most are throw aways, but there are some keepers that go “viral”. Posting on Youtube has catapulted some of the most annoying video filmmakers into online sensations. It has also alerted us to the extremely talented, and wonderfully imaginative human beings on the planet. Bringing them out of their small bedrooms, and into the viral world of entertainment. Saving homeless men from their dire dregs, allowing them to rejoin society, or bringing to light the beautiful voices of nine year olds.

Blogging is the new way we connect. Although it’s a great big world out there, and we’re millions of miles apart, we will always find some way to make it smaller. “Small World“, we often comment. It’s a comforting thought. We are connected. We are one. In some loving, simple way, we can find others who think like us. Some are weird; some are destructive; some are beautiful and enlightening; and some make us feel less alone as we make our way along this path we call life.

So do I want to be one of the millions who throws her two cents into the ring, commenting on life’s little musings, and possibly subjecting herself to the criticism or praise of strangers?  I believe I do.

My Youngest Boy

         My oldest son is a colorful, creative 17 year old, who has been acting on film, television, and the stage since he was five years old. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or do drugs, and he’s made the transition from child actor, with few battle scars. He’s creative, compulsive, and sweet, with the narcissistic tendencies of any working creative artist. I’m glad he’s my first born, because my second son is quiet, retrospective, and difficult to read.

          At 13 years old, my second born is constantly shooting and editing films, which he has done since he was six. At 12, he was asked to edit some videos for a foreign magazine company, and when he got paid for the job, decided that was a great way to make money. He plays both acoustic and electric guitar, and picked up on the drums after years of watching his father make a living at it.  My two boys are best friends... as best as one can be at four and a half years apart, and my oldest can light up his brother's face like no one else. My first has worked with moody directors, actors, and authoritative figures his whole life, and speaks to all with a soothing voice beyond his

years. He can draw my youngest out of his shell, and understand where he's coming from when my husband and I are at a loss.

          My youngest has a learning disability known as a processing problem. We could tell something was different when he was in the third grade, and his comprehension of things began to wane. When you spoke to him, he began to "zone out", and at times his response to something would be delayed. VERY delayed. Once when we were on the freeway, my oldest made a comment about a billboard. We all saw it, and laughed. No less than five minutes later, my youngest said, "What billboard?" We laughed because we thought he was trying to be funny. He wasn't, and he became hurt and withdrawn, not knowing why his reaction would cause us to laugh.

   The fourth grade was by far the most difficult for our entire family. My oldest had lost his mentor, and first theater director to diabetes. It was devastating for him, and he wore black for several years.

         My youngest was attending a very small, private school meant to bring out the best in every student, allowing him to achieve greatness at his own pace. However, this was not the case, and instead it gave him many sleepless nights; many humiliating moments made public by a teacher who deemed him her target; and too many hours tutored by people who had no idea what he really needed. It was frustrating, and excruciating for us all. “He’s just not trying hard enough”, his teacher would remark, as if he was trying to make her look bad among her teacher compadres.

          My youngest son had stomach issues, and seemed to do nothing but school, homework, studying, tutoring, and worrying. He never slept. He worried constantly about being made an example of, and wondered why he was so stupid. I assured him he wasn’t, and finally my husband and I borrowed money from our parents, and had him tested by a professional educational therapist.  

          After weeks of testing, she came back to say that he had the “King of all Disabilities”. He had processing issues. The information that was coming into his brain was jumbled, and he was having difficulty figuring out what it all meant. He also had auditory dyslexia. If he heard things too quickly, he couldn’t disseminate what was being said, and as a defensive move, his brain would shut down. That’s where the “zoning out” came in. He also had an IQ that was extremely high, so if you spoke to him in a demeaning fashion, he felt ridiculed.

          We felt relieved to hear all of this, and thought we were on the road to recovery. The therapist suggested a new tutor to help him learn how to categorize the information his brain was receiving, and an eye doctor who specialized in “light therapy”. This “therapy” would train his eyes and brain to work together.

          The eye doctor said he had a slight stigmatism, and prescribed glasses, then gave us a “light box” for our son’s therapy. The glasses didn’t seem to make a difference for him, he read just fine without them, and never had a problem with reading things close or far away. As for the therapy, he had to sit in a completely darkened room for half an hour, staring at a black box with a little colored light shining out of a small circular hole. He couldn’t look away, or be distracted, but he could talk on the phone. So we’d call his best friend up, and they’d sit chatting while my son was staring at his green light. (That was the color he needed, the doctor said). Diligently, my little guy sat, watching that light every night for two months without whining, or complaining… convinced this was the cure. Everyone would finally see how smart he really was. Most of all, his teacher would stop criticizing him.

          Armed with all this information from the specialists, we set up a meeting between his teacher, the principal and owner of his school, and his educational therapist. She explained how his brain functioned, and what would work best for him. We were all in agreement as to how he should be taught; how his tests should be designed; and what his homework should consist of. His therapist explained he was extremely intelligent, he simply had processing issues, which could easily be gotten around with proper teaching for his disability. We all walked away from that meeting satisfied that tomorrow would be a new day for all.

          Tomorrow came and went, just like all the other days. At first the teacher

spoke kindly, and attempted to adjust her teaching of him, but after a week or so, she quickly tired of that, and returned to her old ways. Soon, she informed me that it looked like my son would have to repeat the fourth grade. A few days after receiving this news, the day for statewide testing came, and she called me in the morning to ask if I wouldn't mind keeping my son home for the next few days because they didn't want him to lower their testing results. I can't say I wasn't relieved that he wouldn't have to endure another day at the hands of her abuse, but I was angry that they would consider him a liability.

               The final straw was on the day my son came home in tears, and asked me if it was true he wouldn't get to be a film director. He went on to explain that the teacher had asked all the kids in class what they wanted to be when they grew up, and he proudly said he wanted to direct. Hearing this, she promptly dashed his dreams by telling him directors had to be clear when speaking to actors, and he just didn’t seem to have that ability. He asked me if that was true, and I told him, “No, your teacher is wrong.”
          The next day I contacted his therapist, and she told me she would recommend transferring him to another school, but it was too late in the year. Still, she told me of a school that taught kids just like him. Kids who were autistic; who had processing problems; who had high IQ’s; who were creative; and who, if they had the desire, could attend college. After taking a campus tour, and speaking with the administrator, I set up an appointment for my son to be evaluated. 
 
On the day of his evaluation, my son was nervous, and kept asking what would happen if he wasn’t accepted. I told him there’d be no way they wouldn’t accept him. At the end of a very gentle, and loving evaluation, the administrator asked him why he’d like to attend their school. After a long pause he said, “Because I’m smart, and I want to go where other kids are like me, and the teachers are nice.” A week later we received a letter welcoming him to their school saying, "Welcome to the 5th grade".