The Bard

Tonight I hear the barred owls calling and cackling to each other. Perhaps they are talking about the Bard, William Shakespeare. I am with them. I hoot with congratulations to yet another year of elementary school kids at SunFlower School who have made Shakespeare their own. They have produced "Julius Caesar", this year, these kids who are not yet in middle school!

More than twenty years ago, as a teacher, I had the idea that elementary age kids could do Shakespeare (way before it was popular). Our first play was "Macbeth" and we went on to the tragedies and the comedies. We never did the Shakespearean history plays (too bloody!) Some years we had extraordinary child actors, but as every year's production went by, we saw kids stepping up to the plate and letting fly with wonderful performances. Parents volunteered to help with costumes and sets, music and lights. But the entire production was up to the kids!

There have been so many favorites! How could I forget "Romeo and Juliet"? Hey-Soon, limp and dead on the funeral bier, not a dry eye in the audience? Or the Macbeths, Danielle and Stephen who made you believe in their love and collaboration and eventual tragedy? Or so many kids in "The Tempest" who were funny and stellar? And the kids who soldiered on in those awful 'twin' comedies? I loved them all!

Shakespeare helps the brain! These modern kids first look at a Shakespearian script and can barely understand the language. Six weeks later they know their parts and all the language. They have become a team on stage. They began with little, it grew, they worked hard, and they began to appreciate not only the English language in its ancient permutations, but the problems of the plots. (Why was Lady Macbeth so incredibly forceful in making her husband do such dastardly deeds?) They learn about stagecraft and they have many ideas. The process is amazing, and the final product satisfies everyone. While we did this, other Florida kids prepared for fcat. After the play was over we took the standardized tests for two days and with no prep, the kids do famously. Thanks be to Shakespeare!

The Play! It is probably the most important and remembered part of every kid's elementary school years. So, tonight, the first time I have not been a part of producing it, I rejoice that it is going well. This is my legacy. Tomorrow night I will go and see this year's production, "Julius Ceasar". I will see many SunFlower graduates there and we will hug each other and remember their roles in so many other Shakespearean plays.

Finally gettng the garden in

The weather has been auspicous after the last week of freezes. I had my little seed starts by the swimming pool so they wouldn't freeze. Today I planted these special cauliflowers, broccoli and tomatoes in the vegetable garden. The peas are up, and the radishes. Lettuce is ready to be picked. Beans are still sleeping under the compost. The peppers and eggplants are still in the nursery, growing on until they are ready to go into the garden.

My vegetable garden has been our delight. There has never been a day when there was not something for dinner: lettuce, arugula, collards, broccoli, peppers, eggplants. We had tomatoes until well past Christmas. There is something so great about the routine of asking of the cook, "What would you like me to gather for dinner?" Any day it could be broccoli, spinach, peppers, ten kinds of lettuce? Andy, the cook, deals with whatever is fresh today.

I love gardening, especially vegetables. I love to see them grow and I love to eat them! I spend time every day doing major work in the garden tweaking the weeding, pruning things, planting new vegetables, turning over the compost pile. I am so happy to be outdoors, sometimes looking at the sky, hearing the red shouldered hawks, occasionally a bald eagle or a pair of swallowtailed kites, and the cacaphony of the sandhill cranes coming in to land nearby. I love to hear the snort of the gopher tortoise emerging from his burrow at the end of the garden. I bend to inspect a monarch butterfly caterpillar on the milkweed I allow in the garden.

This is so homely, so ordinary, a person growing food to eat. My life.

Notes From the Fashion Challenged

Yes, something has happened to my neck- and my knees, upper arms and cheeks both north and south. I am getting used to these things and I can accept it. I am still relatively fit and am the same size eight I was in college.

But knowing about what to wear and what my style is has always eluded me. At the ranch I am happy with a clean pair of jeans, a tee shirt, and Arizona Birkenstock sandals. I have never had a professional manicure or pedicure. For the years I was teaching everyday, I wore the same thing mostly. I never had to think about style or fashion. The most I have ever done in the way of personal style was to adopt the habit of wearing earrings and necklace with everything. My only fashion statement is CLEAN.

Almost all my female friends and kin have distinctive fashion styles. There is tiny Nancy whose closet contains at least twenty denim skirts and a dozen of those long slim knit dresses. I'd know her without her head, always tailored, casual just so, some color in the tops, always right for the occasion. There's my sister-in law Nancy, taller but slim, who wears well fitting dark pants and those drapey silk shirts in bold true colors and tiny flat expensive sandals. There's the other tall Nancy who shops the sales for the perfect thing. She put me on to pure white nightgowns in exquisite light cottons that get softer as the years go by. There's my sister, the artist, who has developed the most unusual style of dress of anyone I know. She is tiny and athletic, a masters swimmer, and she wears clothes she makes herself. She starts with polartec leggings in four different colors, a self-knit striped sweater, striped sox and different colored shoes on each foot. She wears a knit beanie on top of her blue-dyed pixie hair, and then a flamboyantly colored apron.

My own daughter can throw together an outfit for work or any occasion that always looks just right. She chooses pieces I would never even think of, and somehow, the result is pulled together and becoming. Where have I gone wrong?

Over the years, married to a man on the way up, I have been required to attend many formal and ceremonial functions. It isn't the social aspects of these events that bother me. I love meeting people and I am thrilled to hob-nob with the rich and famous. I feel comfortable in every kind of physical circumstance and I love new experiences.

If only it weren't for the wardrobe problem. O.K., I'll start with the worst I can remember. We were invited to a state dinner at the Clinton Whitehouse. Naturally, I was beyond thrilled! But then the huge cloud of fashion challenge settled upon me. My husband could just wear his tuxedo, all pressed and clean and ready for action. What about me? Urged by my daughter I went to one of the most la-de-dah dress stores in town. Just going shopping in such a place brings on a paroxism of anxiety about the clothes I am currently wearing. (Is my underwear clean? Is my bra dingy?) The nice genteel ladies who wait on you were there, eager to help. I finally settled reluctantly on a strapless yellow long formal dress with a jacket. Leaving the shop I realized that I also needed shoes to go with it, maybe an evening bag (not the usual LL Bean). The dress cost so much I couldn't bring myself to spend a lot on shoes, so I bought some relatively short high heeled gold sandals.

In the hotel before the gala event, I dressed in my splendiferous togs, slipped on the gold shoes, smiled at my handsome husband in black tie. I felt like a beautiful imposter. The dinner was wonderful, and I loved every minute of it. I was glad of the jacket because I felt that the gown was slowly retreating to nether regions. My dinner companion spoke little English but seemed interested as more and more of my bust revealed itself. After the dinner and the dancing outside in a tent we left. We decided to walk back to our hotel some six blocks away. The night was balmy, we were in love, and the gold shoes hurt like hell. I took them off and pitched them into a trash can and walked barefoot up Pennsylvania Avenue. The dress was never used again and I put it into the school garage sale where it was bought by a country and western singer.

For every single one of these events I have fashion anxiety. The other women there always seem to have an inside track on what to wear. In the many hotels we have inhabited for meetings, conferences, whoop-de-dos of whatever kind, I am always trying on clothes, discarding things, trying on more clothes, and trying to figure out what is wanted in this instance. Mind you, I never bring very many clothes. I travel light. But one must decide between the black pants and red silk shirt, or the black skirt, and what in the name of god will go with that? Which shoes?

For years I have tried to puzzle out what they mean by 'business casual', or 'casual', or 'dressy casual'. Everyone else seems to know and I don't. I sat up and took notice of a parent at the school I directed who wore only black clothing. Aha! I can do this. It could work for me. So I went to Chico's and bought a number of casual black traveler pieces. This has been a freeing thing for me. In any occasion I can wear these black limp things and no one will notice.

I need to confess that I am severely daunted by what seem to be prosperous women. They know what to wear when they shop for clothes. They are well groomed and probably go to day spas, and they damn well know what goes with what. I am hobbled by having other agendas. While on the way to Ann Taylor today to get a decent pair of pants for our next ceremonial adventure, I saw a particularly exquisite lizard on a palm tree. After spending five minutes looking at it, wondering about it's parentage, I could barely drag myself into the store. I knew I could not remember what other clothes I already have or what could go with what.

As we leave tomorrow for another ceremonial event ("casual"), I am sure that I will be found wanting again. But, hey, I got those bright bubble gum pink capris on sale!

The Great Experience Gap

"Ooh, nasty!" chorus Johnnie and Taja, as they watch me dump the cooked apples - skins, cores, seeds and all- into the food mill. We are making applesauce from scratch in the classroom. Many of them took turns at cutting up the granny smith and gala apples. They simmered in a pot on a hot plate while everyone went to lunch where they were served the usual array of gray and white fried things, the brown edged iceberg lettuce, the dispirited dessicated tumbled carrots, and the chocolate milk that has not the remotest connection to either chocolate or milk. Lots of high fructose corn syrup, though.

Back in the windowless classroom it is time to turn the apples into recognizable applesauce. "This is really going to be applesauce?" they ask. We crank the food mill until all that is left in the hopper are old skins and seeds. What a miracle! In the bowl beneath is real for true applesauce. We dump in a hefty portion of organic brown sugar and some cinnamon. Felix stirs it in with a big spoon. Cinnamon! Everyone has to smell it and I tell them that this cinnamon comes from the bark of a tree growing in India. They wonder if this cinnamon stuff comes from the same maple tree in Vermont where we got the syrup for pancakes a few weeks back. India and Vermont could be on the moon. Few of these kids have ever been anywhere since they got here from Mexico.

They all want to help serve it in small bowls. Brittany, the new child, counts out the spoons needed. Lorenzo pours a dab of cream into each bowl. They take the bowls back to their seats and happily eat every drop. Many come back for seconds.

When I arrived on this clear cool morning at Lacoochee for my usual Tuesday, it seemed that the whole school was in a very good mood. Melissa and her mom and a younger sibling were outside the school as I pulled up to unload all my bags and boxes. As I began to place them on the bench outside the office while I parked my car, this little family took everything out of my hands and carried it down to the classroom. When I went into the office to pick up my identification sticker (I have been investigated and found benign), it was already printed out in anticipation of my arrival. It seemed that everyone I saw was in the mood to return my greetings. Only a few months ago, it seemed that everyone was grouchy.

In the weatherless classroom, now considerably brightened by CareyAnne's ceaseless rearrangement and additions, we begin the day with the relentless T.V. pledge of allegiance and patriotic song, which some kids say they hate now (it is pitched too high for kids to sing). CareyAnne must speak with some parents who have come in to tell her that a grandfather has died, arrange for a child with lice to go home for treatment, or other pressing concerns.

So I am left to do the FCAT reading exercise: "What scientists do" is the title of the BIG BOOK. "Look at the script!" hisses CareyAnne, as she moves off to talk to the parents. The kids all are seated on one of the small rugs I scrounged from a friend who was redoing her kids' rooms. The text of this book is pitifully lackluster, but I carry on without the script. The kids can read it effortlessly, so I move on to tell them about a recent momentous paleologic find in our area. One page is about what astronomers do.

The night before I had been out looking at the stars at our ranch. They were so brilliant and magical in this relatively non light- polluted place. I had the idea that the kids would enjoy making their very own constellations of buttons sewn on dark blue felt. I had the felt pieces, thread, buttons, and large eyed needles. Orion, the hunter, is a constellation one can see anywhere in the world, seven main stars. These seven and eight year-olds could learn to sew on buttons!

When CareyAnne finished speaking with the parents, we all settled down to sewing on buttons to make Orions. CareyAnne put a list of names of kinds of scientists on the board: archaeologist, botanist, marine scientist, entomologist, ornithologist.. The kids were entranced.

I had loaded lots of needles with thread. Everyone sat around the small rug and the kids hummed with interest, wanted help as their sewing sometimes turned into the nests of drunken spiders, and they felt successful as Orion's belts took shape or Rigel or Betelgeuse was placed just so. Between starting the applesauce and doing the sewing, two hours passed in a flash. They didn't do a worksheet all morning!

While we were waiting for kids to go to the bathroom and wash their hands before lunch, CareyAnne engaged the kids in her 'word of the day' activity. Today's word was "prance". They sounded it out but no one knew what it meant. Not to worry! Our fearless teacher pranced all over the room, skirt fluttering, and gave many examples of prancing. Yesterday's word was "buffoon".

Experience! My grandsons have so many incredible experiences. Their parents and family have always taught them things, read to them, taken them places, showed them stuff. They get to school and do beautifully. I am saddened by the contrast. They know what it takes to make applesauce, or pasta with capers. They've all been to Vermont- and Europe!

And yet! A new child, Brittany, joined the class today. Her mom came with her and I went up to welcome her, maybe start to get to know her. Brittany is standing there with us. I have a burst of enthusiasm, and then I look at Brittany and her lovely mother who does not look hispanic and realize that mom is totally uncomprehending and doesn't speak a word of English. Brittany, who speaks flawless and unaccented English, translates for her mother. I do understand Spanish, but I let Brittany go on. Somehow, I think a connection was made. Brittany tells her mother, "Mom, you said you would go to those classes to learn English!" I tell Brittany's mother that maybe we can help each other as time goes on. Brittany feels empowered to be a translator. We all leave beaming.

At lunch in the teachers' lounge, CareyAnne told me that her next writing project for her master's degree would be about the No Child Left Behind Act as it applied to poor and migrant children without the experiences so many kids already have when they begin school, how NCLB doesn't get it and relentlessly teaches only to the narrow strictures of the FCAT when something else would clearly be more effective. Doing this takes a big degree of courage. She'll have to research what she can find about newly arrived immigrant families, rock the boat at Lacoochee in the process. .

Another talented teacher would quit Lacoochee in search of a more conventionally supportive place. But she is not going to do this yet. And this is why I believe that out there, there are truly talented teachers, unsung heroes who just keep on going everyday, not only making their little bailiwick better, but making a revolution for kids.

Grandma is freezing cold in New York

I'm back from my 'trip for culture' to New York City. My business partner, Marie, and I have been taking these r and r trips for many years. We didn't have the time to go on the usual trips to South and Central America this year and so we decided on five days in New York City - in February! Everyone told us it was cold there so we packed our warmest black clothing and set out.

It was a totally delightful experience. Yes, cold for us Floridians, but also the hottest we have ever been! We had these gigantic heavy coats, hats, gloves, scarves, all necessary for walking around in below freezing weather. But New Yorkers crank up the heat in museums, galleries, restaurants, theaters and hotel rooms, so we always seemed to be tearing off the layers to get a decent breath. Our skin was coming off in hunks, our hair was flat, our thighs broke out in prickly heat!

We stayed in the Harvard Club of New York because it was wonderfully central and my husband is a member and the price was right. What a funny place! There are stuffed heads of everything from pigs to elephants on the walls, there is a fabulous library, and many public rooms lined with mahogany. Unfortunately, we were unable to go into the dining rooms, the bar, the library, or as far as I could tell, anything else, because we were either wearing jeans (actually nice ones, pressed and new) or anything smacking of athletic shoes. So we skulked out in the mornings to embrace the day.

Our room looked out on 44th St. and we soon discovered that this room was dedicated to the Harvard class of 1927. We were surrounded by old photos of young white men with raquets and various sports sticks. I then realized that above my bed was a photo of my father-in-law! He looks just like my husband, no question it was he. So immediately, Marie and I want to photograph it. We couldn't photograph the picture in place so we decided to take it off the wall to take it into the better lit bathroom. So, we wrest it off the wall, heave it into the bathroom to take the picture. It is major to get it back onto the wall, and we are laughing all the time.

We never had breakfast in the Harvard Club (due to sartorial issues) but we discovered The Red Flame, a diner on our block, where we ate breakfast every morning and came to know the regulars.

We just wallowed in art every day. We carefully examined the Museum of Modern Art, many galleries in Chelsea, photography exhibits, primitive art, the Guggenheim, arts and design. So much fodder for the mind. By night we went to wonderful music and shows and went to interesting restuarants. We spent a couple of hours in a bookstore. We didn't shop! Oh, well, I did buy a pair of gloves at Macy's because the ones I had were some stiff "Godzilla" things that made me feel like a penguin. I threw them in the garbage. The new ones are so soft!

We came back, having talked our heads off about everything from politics to pedagogy, renewed and rested. Stuff in our heads. For me, Kandinsky. I have already designed in my head my next fabric collage.

Times Square by night is a wonder of the world! But today at our ranch I witnessed the return of the chimney swifts from Peru darkening the sky, circling and diving, never stopping. I am alone to watch them. Like them, I need to have my space.

NYC Here we come!

It has been a tradition for ten years or so for Marie and me to go on a trip together during the dead of winter. As business partners working full tilt together we knew we needed some time together and away from our school. (kind of like the Democratic party retreat?) I had been to South America on a business junket with my husband and I was entranced. Had to get back there! Marie had spent her teen aged years in Lima, Peru. We were good to go!

We scoured the internet and researched our options. We wanted to see the natural world of Central and South America. Mostly we went alone, not with any group. Our first trip was to Costa Rica to the Osa Peninsula, a remote part of the country. Getting there was hairy to say the least. We were hooked, loved everything about it- sloths, birds, orchids. In subsequent years we went to Peru twice, Equador, the Galapagos, Panama. We rode horses in the Pantanal of Brazil, paddled in canoes on Amazon tributaries, looked for and saw the rare Harpy Eagle in Peru, observed parrot licks, climbed to Machu Picchu, ate guinea pigs for lunch, danced to pipe bands, chewed coco leaves, walked on the canopy walkways in the rainforest, caught bats in mist nets, heard howler monkeys and learned how to call birds. We met many interesting people in our travels together. We were in love with this primitive world! We came back with our luggage stinking of tropical sweat and the odors of adventure.

Our families and friends wondered about this and were worried about us. They had a right to be: we were in dangerous circumstances many times, more than I have ever told. My daughter, however, was proud of us.

Marie's daughter lives in New Zealand and was getting married. So, one of our latest trips was going to the South Island to the wonderful wedding, and then on to explore this fascinating island where the topography changes by the minute.

But tonight I am packing my bag to go to New York City! Marie is excited to be going on a five day cultural binge. We decided on this because we didn't have ten days, only five, not enough time even for Panama. It is very cold in New York, especially for us tender tropical flowers. But we are hardy souls! If we can boat down the Amazon in an el nino year, we can surely take on NYC. below freezing. We've got our warm clothes and the New York Times guide to the art galleries, and a good place to stay. No spouses, no shopping. We'll have a fine time. You only live once and maybe New York City is even more of an adventure than an equatorial rainforest.



I'll be back next week.

Pancakes on a Cold Day

Tuesday, my volunteer day atLacoochee, we made pancakes. Last week the FCAT story was a dreary thing about measurement, so I thought that we'd measure out ingredients to make pancakes. At the least we could wrest some life into this presentation. So I dragged in all my bags and boxes containing flour, eggs, oil, and all the rest. I set up my big griddle, put out the maple syrup and butter and blueberries. I wrote out the recipe on the board and miraculously all the kids could read it. (Maybe because it's the real stuff?)

Every kid had a chance to crack eggs, pour and flip the pancakes and annoint them with their favorite toppings. They were wary of the maple syrup which I told them came from actual trees in Vermont. Not one child knew where flour came from. (the store?) But these patient and good children were game. They'd try anything for 'Miss Molly'. Other teachers in the "pod" came by to inquire about the heavenly smell emanating from our area, and then they stayed around for a few minutes to look at the bright finished clay works the kids had made last week. I made sure that every teacher within sniffing distance was given a plate of pancakes.

It was cold this morning. It said 37 degrees on my car thermometer as I went out the driveway. The kids all were wearing puffy jackets which they threw under the tables. Dynasty, the fifth grade helper, my friend who is always there on Tuesdays, helped me with my satchels. She was really eager to see her own clay creations and dearly wanted to be a part of the pancake making but she had to be back in her class.

After a lunch of the caloric stale stuff they serve, there was another public diminishment from a teacher of a child in line. I couldn't stand to hear it and walked briskly ahead, truly troubled at how children are disrespected in the public school milieu. Suddenly, I realized that the teacher of my group, CareyAnne, was running with the kids to catch up to me. Nothing was said, but we all reached the classroom with a sigh of relief. Yes, the kids were reacting to the cold sharp air, jittery and full of beans. And, yes, everyone feels that way!

I read them a story I had written, but not finished. It was a simple and true story about wild Florida animals. I wanted them to see that actual people can write stories. I enlisted their help on how to finish the story. Many of them offered good ideas which we wrote down on a large sheet of paper. No one fidgeted, they were all engaged in the process. I will take one or two of their ideas and write them up. They talked about the possibility that they could write a book and they marvelled at the typewritten pages I read to them. (We could do this?!) Somehow I think they will finish this story, illustrate it, publish it, and be proud of the collaboration. To be an effective teacher one has to believe that every child is gifted and talented. And you have to keep promises!

All my volunteer months at this school I have wanted to have kids go out on a daily walk. Today, for the first time this year, we did it! I will always remember CareyAnne, getting into the spirit of it. After a walk through the woods looking for gopher tunnels and sticking our fingers into them, we emerge back into the school playing fields. She is the leader of the line. I am hand-in-hand with kids in the back and needing fifteen hands. Suddenly CareyAnne becomes a different person, maybe not a teacherperson, maybe just playful. She doesn't have to say anything to the kids and they just follow her: she struts, she holds out her arms, she follows the lines and circles on the basketball courts, she skips in wild abandon, she makes circles. The kids all follow her, thrilled to be active and alive outdoors. Finally, as we approach the school, she becomes military, silently marching up the walkway to the classroom. The kids fall in behind her and I can tell she is confident they are all there. She never looked back because she knows she has them. (And they have her!) Many of the kids whisper to me how fun this is.

I am fomenting trouble, I know! I am trying to make the keepers of these good and patient children have fun and realize that these kids, each and every one of them, are gifted and talented, worthy of their highest respect, and just plain fun to know.

Thinking of young friends

As the United Nations report came out today on global warming, I think about the young people in my life, those emerging people who will inherit this world the people my age made. I am sorry we didn't understand what we were doing. I hope in my lifetime we can begin to make amends, get rid of the Hummers, hang clothes out on the line, get behind public transit, and think carefully about how we can take care of the planet. I am sorry that we have had no politicians recently who could galvanize the electorate to address the problems of the globe. I am sorry that my generation could not be a model for peace and sustainability for the whole world.

I am embarrassed. I wanted to be a part of a generation who could do better. I want those young people to have a clear and shining view of what they can do to promote peace and prosperity, and, indeed, it is within their reach.

Alex, Maddy and Katie are kids I have known since they were little. Now they are soon to go on to college. I do not see them often, but every summer they come to spend a few days with us on the ranch. I love these girls, so languid, capable, and accessible. They help with the chores and they eat prodigiously from our garden. It's comfortable to have them here. They know I will never intrude, but that I am available. We talk our heads off and play card games. Everyone is at ease, no worries. When they are in college they'll come back and stay in the guest house, as have so many others, talk all night, get up late and bring quilts outside at noon and lie in the pasture with he sun on their young bodies. And they love to eat!

I love these young people! Katie, Maddie, and Alex are so special to me, so talented and interesting. Tonight I finished a quilt for my own bed. But as I did, I thought about the quilts I have in mind to make for them as I have done for so many other kids on their way to college.

A Room of one's Own

When I was visiting my oldest son he told me that he was addicted to his shop, an addiction I can well understand. Chris has a huge metal workshop building about a hundred steps from his house. This space has several bays where he restores antique cars, readying them for racing or for clients. The rest of it is devoted to his screen business where he makes tee shirts and other clothing designs and signs. There are several computers. There is a large refrigerator for beer and snacks for all the 'posse' who hang out there, a basic restroom out back, and absolutely no place to sit down. There is a huge heavy table, command central, covered with orders from clients, and a big t.v. which is on all the time with no sound. The texture of this place is so amazing it makes my eyes goggle. Walls are covered with tool storage, his old dog has a bed under the screen carousel, various things hang from the high ceiling, every surface vertical and horizontal is covered. It looks so complicated you wonder how anything gets done! Under foot are several baby items, swings, toys.

His kids spend a lot of time 'in the shop'. There is everything dangerous there, dirt, sharp tools, probably toxic fumes, spicy language from the posse, no really safe place to play. But Joe, the almost three-year-old wants to spend every moment there. He feels loved and welcomed by his dad or Mike, the web master and the other Mike who works on the cars. Joe climbs into the cars in process, or he works on art projects at the big table. Sometimes he watches videos on one of the computers, a funny little guy sitting on a high stool with earphones on, absorbed in 'A Bug's Life' or 'Cars'. His sister Caroline is harder at ten months. But she loves being there too. I see her sitting on the big table amongst the invoices, eating french bread and brie cheese, happy to be there in her dad's space.

I could not be happy in that space but I understand the addiction. I have my own room, my studio, and it too, is beginning to have the texture and the quirkiness of the primary owner of it. I need lots of natural light so I have many windows and glass doors, a couple of skylights. After a year of occupancy it is taking on personal identity. The walls are covered with fabric swatches I want to look at. Photographs in progress are lying around. All the tools I need for quilting, painting, and ceramics are insinuating themselves into every cranny. The computer and printer and all the periferals take up one wall. The dog bed is under the large work table.

Right now one could say this place is a mess. In the ceramics room there are fifty little fired clay pieces from kids. I am backing them so the floor is covered with shards of red felt. A quilt in progress covers my work table.

I have pretty much given up any t.v. watching because I want to be here in my studio creating things. I don't spent much time in our house. After breakfast and reading the paper I head down to the studio where many projects beckon. I am totally in love with having this room of my own.

I have always carved out a little bit of space for myself. I have had little nooks for my computer or my sewing machine. I had a corner of the garage for a long time, where I had my potter's wheel and kiln and made pots. But I always had to share these spaces with children and the needs of family. For years I took over the guestroom for my quilting, but then, I always had to clean everything up when people came to visit. My dream was to have a truly dedicated ROOM OF MY OWN!

And now I do. It is heaven. It can be as messy or weird as I want. I can leave things and know they will be there when I return. I love the music I listen to as I work, the vistas from every side, the possibilities of life!

A room of one's own is truly one's identity.