As a parent, the days are long…but the years are short.

There’s just something about facing a new calendar year.  It’s refreshing and daunting at the same time.  The clean white spaces show so much promise for whatever we desire. Of course, I suppose the opposite is true for those who are more pessimistic.

Its not like the new year is empty.  So many things are already “on the books”.  Some penciled in – possible family vacation this spring?  Some written in ink – pre-paid field trips.  Some exciting – traveling with my mom to Ireland this summer.  Some not so exciting – scheduled dentist and doctor appointments.

The old year didn’t let us down, but there is still relief knowing we get to leave it in the past. My family was quite blessed – we’re all still here.  Hubby is still employed, and likes his job most days. I have my dream job, and still like it most days. Our children are growing and healthy.  The Lord protected my husband when he was in a pretty serious car accident, and helped us replace the vehicle quickly.   It seems the only thing we lost was hair, and of course, money invested in our 401k’s. (ha-ha! and boo-hoo!)

Looking ahead at 2012 – seeing the new calendar pages is like looking at hope, a clean slate, a chance to be all we want to be, or do all we want to do – its there for the taking. All we must do, is simply reach out and take it. Take it with both hands and make sure we squeeze out of it every possible moment of life, joy, love…

In what is sure to be the first of many this year, I offer this Irish blessing to you:

May you always have work for your hands to do.
May your pockets hold always a coin or two.
May the sun shine bright on your windowpane.
May the rainbow be certain to follow each rain.
May the hand of a friend always be near you.
And may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.

Happy New Year, my friend.

Happy New Year.

We went on a field trip to the Meyerson Symphony Center this morning to see the Dallas Symphony Orchestra.  It was wonderful – definitelyone of my favorite field trips of the year.  I am so glad my parents exposed me to Classical music when I was a child.  I think that is why I appreciate it so, and take my children to programs like the one offered today.

On the way home we drove through the streets of Dallas.  In order to get on the right freeway out of town, I ended up driving by Dealey Plaza.  As we waited at a stop light, I was explaining the historical significance of the Book Depository to the boys.  I explained that the building grounds would likely have quite a few people milling about, because it was the location of a significant and tragic moment in our nation’s history.  I told them that some of the visitors there would likely be people who remember the event happening.  They asked if I remembered it, and I explained that it happened before I was born – so, no I didn’t remember the assassination of JFK.

Then Tigger pipes up and says, “Wow, those people must be really old.”

Yep, nothing like a 7-year-old to zap somber feelings.

I’ve really never been an “Art” girl.  I don’t enjoy painting because there’s always the question, “What do I paint?”  I’ve never been that great at drawing.  In fact, I used to joke that I can’t draw a stick-person right.  I’m certainly no sculptor.  Unlike Michelangelo, who sees David in the marble and removes the unwanted pieces – when I look at a lump of clay, I just see a lump of clay.

And then, if I do pull out paints, charcoal pencils, or clay and tools – I have to clean it all up.  Who has the time?!? No, thankyouverymuch.

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Last Friday while the kids were taking a class at the Amon Carter Museum of American Art, Hubby and I spent a bit of time walking through the museum.  I found our visit quite illuminating.  Paintings. Drawings. Sculptures.  I paused briefly and looked at most of them.  Some were pretty paintings of flowers and majestic scenery. There were nice drawings, and some odd abstract stuff.  Interesting sculptures made of wood, or bronze.  But I never really got it.  I was walking by these “masterpieces” that likely cost thousands and thousands of dollars.  Pieces by famous artists like O’Keeffe, Sargent, and Wyeth.  I know the names, but really they don’t mean much to me.

As I wandered from gallery to gallery, I noticed people sitting on benches just studying the canvases before them.  I couldn’t imagine why someone would want to spend hours on end staring at these pieces on the wall.  I felt like I couldn’t relate to this whole “art” thing. I felt guilty that this priceless art had little to no value for me.

Then I saw it.  We walked into the room that housed the Feature Photography Exhibition.  The first photograph drew me in.  I studied the light.  I studied the dark.  I studied  the composition.  I studied the medium.  I studied the subject, the foreground, the background, the edges of the frame.  I studied the information given on the plaque next to the picture, and then I returned to study the image again to look for what I missed the first time.

After one, I moved on to the next photograph and did it all over again.  I lingered over every photograph.  I analyzed, examined, and inspected them.  I wanted to imprint the images into my brain so I could recall them later.  I asked questions about the moment captured. Was it posed? Was it spontaneous? Was it planned or was it “happened to be at the right place at the right time?” Who was the photographer?  How did the photographer fit into the story?

I was constantly pulled back to the images on the wall.  When Hubby said that it was time to meet the boys, I wanted to say, “But wait, I’m not done. There are more photographs to absorb, to relish, to admire.

Then, I finally understood why someone would want to spend hours in a museum just staring at the pieces on the wall.  Perhaps I am an “Art” girl after all.