Practice, practice...

Mom enrolled my sister and me in ballet classes when we were ages 7 and 5.  Both of us vowed we'd practice after we saw the skirt we'd be wearing for our first recital.  It actually looked like something an elementary school child would design with more yardage than our combined height and over-sized polka dots of aqua, green, red, and orange.  Our interest waned quickly and practice soon became drudgery.  It also became apparent that there would be frequent recitals, which meant purchasing outfits at regular intervals. Mom reconsidered and thought the investment more than she could afford for two little ones that found riding bikes more appealing than practice. 

We were enrolled in tap and jazz classes in our early teen years.  After three months of lessons my sister firmly announced she had no interest in dance and bowed out -- so to speak.  I agreed to persevere, but later regretted my decision when it came time for me to present "our" dance routine at the upcoming recital.  Terrified when I stepped out onto the stage alone,  I exerted too much pressure on the cane I was swinging about and then watched in horror as my prop broke in half and rolled across the stage.  At that dreadful moment every step was completely wiped from my memory and my only desire was to retrieve the damaged prop and exit the stage.  The music played on to an empty stage.  The teacher and I both agreed after my performance that dance wasn't quite my calling. 

I'd like to say drawing ballerinas is easier than my brief encounters with dance, but then only slightly.  Each pose was to last no more than 15 minutes then the ballerinas changed positions.  The last few minutes of the drawing session the class requested a more relaxed moment with the ballerinas in conversation at the barre.  It's a bit more comfortable to be on the other side of the ballet barre with a pencil in hand, but it's still all about practice.  And looking over my sketches, it's obvious you can't escape practice, practice, and ...

Father's Day

A gift of a beautiful morning and a constantly changing sky.  Add a cup of coffee and you have the start to a perfect Father's Day.

Sun gave way to clouds by the end of day and more wet weather is due tonight.  Rather than watch the peonies disintegrate in the rain, a few were brought inside to grace the table for Father's Day and our 38th wedding anniversary. 

Remembering

It was consoling to find my great-grandmother's grave site two years ago.  My grandparents took me with them to place flowers at the various cemeteries where family had been laid to rest, yet I was so young at the time I couldn't recall whose grave sites we visited, or their locations.  Information disappears over the years and then it's difficult to trace down people that may be able to add another piece to the puzzle. 

Walking a little further along the cemetery grounds this past Memorial Day, we found another family member whose grave remained unadorned. It could be his family have moved away, or there were no successive generations, or like my family, the information was inadvertently forgotten. Knowing how much it meant to me to finally find a loved one, I wondered about bringing more flowers next year to place on some grave sites that have nothing.   I would have been grateful if someone had done it for my great-grandmother.

Family is so mobile today: you have to go where the jobs are, or someplace other than the area you grew up in is an adventure.  And then there's family that have been called home.  Because time and circumstance have set some of us apart, I consecrate myself and my family each morning to the Blessed Virgin Mary. I know no one prays like a Mother!