The Artist's Way

My hands were shaking, clammy. My stomach in knots. I approached the podium in the basement of the Sheraton hotel where over 100 faces stared back at me. I extended a warm welcome and proceeded to introduce the three people who comprised the artist’s panel at the FOCUS conference. Rachel Ross, a museum curator from DC and culinary artist; Tom Stroka, an architect who graduated from Notre Dame and now worked at a world-renounced architecture firm- Duncan Stoic; and Father Peter Musset- a graphic designer, potter, jeweler, and photographer.

Each possessed portfolios and experiences that were far beyond the scope of anything I’d done. I was honored to be participating in this panel as the MC, but utterly dwarfed in terms of creative output.

Growing up, my mom- a water color painter and all around creative force- encouraged me to be creative. She was the kind of influence you’d hope for,  warm, encouraging, delighted in anything I’d make with a sincerity and enthusiasm that was totally undeserved. Despite my mom’s encouragements I could never get beyond my own short-comings, lack of skill, and imperfections. Plus, I’m not very good at drawing so I thought that ruled me out as an appreciator of art but not an artist myself.

Being that I was a self proclaimed appreciator of art and not an artist, I couldn’t explain what I was feeling sitting there in that low lit basement room, hearing these artists speak about their creative endeavors, making claims about the possibility that art and beauty can save the world, and speaking specifically about the benefits of making art yourself. I was moved, inspired even, to try and begin creating. I felt as though a single flimsy match was being lit- by no means the fire that you can warm yourself by, but the potential for a beginning.  As the panelists made their final points, Father Peter extended an invitation to the group- “if you are interested” he said, “I am beginning an artists’ group to start reading the Artist’s Way.” I didn’t know what the Artist’s Way was, but I did know I was interested in meeting with artists – even if I wasn’t one.
  
We began meeting – 7 of us in all. Ranging from writers to painters, landscapers, to undeclared like me. We went through what Julia Cameron deems the “basic tools” morning pages, 3 pages of free hand stream of conscious writing first thing each morning. The Artist Date- a one hour date each week with just you and your artists doing whatever your inner artist (often described in the book as a little child) decides to do, and the creative cluster – that support group that helps you to wade through all the muck and get to the pure gold of creativity.

These basic tools are the building blocks for recovering your artist self- and I made a commitment to my group and to myself to employ them all for 12 weeks. Morning pages EVERY DAY, artist date and Creative cluster each week. Somehow I was hoping that being involved in this group would connect me with that artsy thing. That thing that would help me to express myself, to communicate that pint up feeling of being unheard. That’s not exactly what happened, but what took place was more than I could have imagined.

In addition to the basic tools, each week focused on a theme. These themes each seemed to correlate with the goings on in my life. When I was feeling less than fiscally responsible I read the chapter on recovering a sense of abundance. When I was challenged at work beyond my strength the theme was recovering a sense of power. And each week the themes served as sculpting tools – removing the access material from the clay mass that was my heart. Safety, identity, power, integrity, possibility, abundance, connection strength, compassion, self-protection, autonomy and faith- each week a new theme each week a new challenge, each week a new breakthrough.

This is a piece from my recent art show.

As this process continued I still had no clarity about what I wanted to make, how I wanted to make the world a more beautiful place. In fact, I still believed I belonged in the “appreciates art, but is not an artist” camp. I maintained the grueling task of waking up 30 minutes early each morning and writing. I took my little artist on a date… and after 10 weeks of meeting with my group I realized that the masterpiece I was creating was me!! I was so much more in touch with my emotions and thoughts. I finally made time to do the things that refreshed my soul. I was free to be a little quirky.

It took many months before I was finally able to find my favorite medium – in my case collage and fibers, but the true achievement was the masterpiece of my heart.

I think when Julia Cameron wrote her book the Artist’s way she titled it that because it’s not about the art- it’s not about the creation- the final product… it’s about the path. Each artist takes to come to understand that when we create we are doing something powerful. We are breathing life into the world, we are inspiring hope and as artists- as people who are capable of creation it is not about the destination.. it’s about the journey. In other words, it’s about the “way.”

Feast of St. Valentine

Tuesday was the feast of St. Valentine (and Saints Cyril and Methodius, but that's neither here nor there.) It was a day to celebrate love and the fruits of love - marriage, friendship, and joy...and I'll venture to say, life!

To honor this wonderful day for love I took a personal day which was just so refreshing. I had an appointment in the morning and afterward had a little Downton Abbey viewing party with my roommate Jen. We were both effectively stirred up by the amoral Grantham family and their antics. After one hour and fifty three minutes of a spinning plot, the death of the only virtuous character, and the continuation of drama between Mary and Matthew I was ready to take care of a few things in my own life

For the next hour or so I cleaned the house while listening to my new favorite band, Paper Bird.

Once the dusting, vacuuming, and sweeping were complete I moseyed over to the Laughing Latte where I was met by a thousand red rose-petals and the friendly face of Mindy a new barista there.

I found a seat by the window where I read LOTR over long drinks lavender infused chamomile tea.

After a delightful afternoon with Merry, Pippin, Gandolf (the white), and the men of Rohan I walked back to my house. Shortly following Trish, John Paul, Anne and I went to dinner and then to the Ellie Caulkins Opera House to see the Marriage of Figaro. 

Certainly love was in the air on Tuesday and I think it was mostly coming from God and being reigned down on me. I hope your Valentines day was full of love too. 

I'm soaking my mind in these thoughts

This week has been a montage of time with family, friends, and good reads.

 From the gifts of these conversations and epic trilogy The Lord of the Rings is emerging a morsel of truth. The truth that God is whispering is both assuring and sobering. Here it is: life is hard, but it is totally worth it and full of help. There will be moments, days, years even that seem impossible but help from God, friends, and family is abundant. Frodo is a prime example of this - he is responsible for a task that would crush him on his own. He must rely on the help of his motley crew... or at least the faithful companionship of Samwise to carry on with this seemingly impossible feat. We all have our own ring to carry. Something that seems impossible and, in fact, might be if we try and go it alone.

Here are the thoughts that  keep me going on my own perilous journey:

• Finding order in life is like riding a unicycle- you constantly have to be moving and readjusting ...this paraphrased comment came from Curtis Martin by way of a great chat with Hilary. An apt comment when thinking of the challenges that await us in life. Never is  there a dull moment and never is there a moment when autopilot is an option. Like riding a unicycle you constantly have to be assessing the situation and making little adjustments. 
• "Have patience. Go where you must go, and hope!" In this episode of LOTR Gandalf is charing the dwarf and elf to continue being faithful to their journey. He is not merely ushering them on, but challenging them to see the possibilities that lie in the future... possibilities that are full of hope, not dispair.  
• "Be very small and very loving" ...this was advice from Father Dave Nix and I just can't stop thinking about it. How true!! If you are very small and very loving you can also be very patient, very maleable, very humble... and not take yourself too seriously. 

I feel like Christmas continues to be a big hug from God. A quiet God. A simple God. A humble God. A God so humble as to make Himself a tiny child. This God is willing to become so small to show His love is asking me - tiny me - to become big in order to be His hands and feet on this earth. His request requires thoughts like these about order, hope, and being loving to go where I must go. Bear my own ring. And to hope. 

Art

I was struggling to feel that art had a viable place in my life. I mean, what is it really? What is it's role? How is it different from being just plain materialistic? I wrestled for almost a year with this question and then I got my answer. 

A few months back I journaled about my heart. A common topic for me to write about, but this entry seemed to articulate something that had not yet been said. This time I described the landscape of my heart. A heart that has been tattered and warn. One that has known love and war. I described the walls, the wild garden, the goings on there, and I even wrote about a single chair in the middle on which I sit. I had spent plenty of time thinking about my heart, but never quite described what it looks like. I had never made time to take a survey of its topography. 

Two days later, on a cool afternoon, I took a little walk through my neighborhood. Per usual, I admired the architecture, the colors, and the gardens. I moseyed by victorian tutors and modern duplexes, vacant lots, and overgrown ones with broken windows. And then, almost suddenly, I found myself walking with a spirit of purpose- like I was looking for something, but with no idea what. I passed by a cafe and a man walking his dog, and then a construction zone. My speed picked up as I completed the stretch of sidewalk where the beat of hammers echoed and power tools declared their presence.  I emerged past a chain-link fence and saw to my right a beautiful scene. On a large corner lot, surrounded by wispy greenery, was my heart. Three walls, crumbling and ready for collapse. Some wild flowers in the distance. And with impecable placement- the chair. I was moved almost to tears to see for myself the exterior scene which I knew to be real interiorly. I climbed up the small hill and gingerly sat down on the rickety chair. I took everything in as the chilly breeze caressed my face. In a matter of days the walls would be torn down, the land repurposed, and the chair gone. But for that moment I just sat. I was sitting in my heart. I was thinking about how grateful I was for the structure that once stood there. Grateful and yet sad for what had taken place and for all those who visited. And then, perhaps carried by the breeze, I experienced hope for what was to come. Hope for the structure. Hope for new visitors. New experiences. New life. And then, because it was time, I got up and walked home. I left my heart to be reshaped and repurposed. 

As I reflected to an artist friend on my stroll he shook his head and uttered to me, "now that is art." I think he's right.

Spainish musings, Spanish miracles

The country of Spain has been most gracious host for the past two weeks. It seems as though time here is nonexistant. Rather then it passing with ticking seconds the moments seem to pulse through multi-course meals, beautiful scenary, long conversations, wine and cidra (a Spanish hard cider) at every dinner, laughter, song, and changed lives. So far there have been three chapters which mark my time here.

The first chapter had only 5 main characters and a whole slew of supporting roles. Trish, Jeff, Jake, Sarah, and I departed from DIA on Thursday for 26 strait hours of travel. The vehicles included a Lufthansa flight on a massive bowing 747, two small jets, a bus, and a giant red Mercedes van which I had the privlidge of driving through the beautiful hilly Galician countryside. Together, the 5 of us spent 5 days preparing for the conference, meeting with the monks, the caterer, setting up the rooms, and working out final logistics. By the time our time of preparation came to an end we had many new friends. Lee, the hospitador from Texas who is a retired school teacher and stays at the monestary each August to welcome passing camino pilgrims. Marie Jose, our caterer (and now facebook friend) who bent over backwards to feed up to 170 people 3 times per day. Helene, the french pilgrim who realize she thought she was pregnant after walking the Camino for 3 weeks so she stopped at Samos and attended our conference. Hermano Gilliermo, the romanian brother who was fantastic and incredibly querky and gave us many things to laugh about. Among the ranks were also Brother Alberto, a Sean Connary look alike, Manuel, a live in at the monestary, Jesus (pronounced with a soft J,) Donny, our favorite waiter, and many other kind faces. Those first 5 days felt like a month and they concluded with a typical long 4 course meal and disbelief that the next chapter was about to begin.

Chapter two was equally fantastic, but far more exausting. It began at 8:30 pm on Tuesday, August 9th with the first busload of American and International students. The five of us checked them in and showed them to their humble accomidations. There was a group from Mylasia where only 3% of the population is Catholic. They said they are often pursecuted for their faith and were eager and surprised to meet other young Christians. Also, there were 20 Austrians who deserve their own post. They embodied a remarkable blend of service, kindness, musical talent, and spunk. A delegation of UK students, mostly from the University of Birmingham, were also represented. Their British accent paired with the wide marble halls of the monestary made me feel like I was at Hogwarts and any moment Harry Potter or the sorting hat would appear. When all was said and done it was 3am and we had 130 little heads in bunk-beds. The course of chapter two included inspirational and practical talks from nearly 20 speakers, time for siesta, soccar, long meals, and praise and worship. On Saturday we walked 14 kilometers to the town of Sarria and then a bus ride into Santiago where the camino de Santiago concludes. The pilgrimage from Samos to Sarria was spent in silence and those 3 and a half hours of quiet where a great opportunity to reflect on the days spent in Samos, which translated from Swabian means 'place of prayer.' Our final day of chapter two was Sunday with few thing planned. We had late Mass, brunch (which the Spaniards couldnt wrap their heads around,) a long siesta, and a pachanga (which translated pretty much means ruckus party.) The pachanga was hosted by the Hostel Victoria where we had eaten most of our meals throughout the week. They hired a bunch of high school students who played traditional Galician music which sounded like a combination of ska, big band, and polka. We drank moonshine from that region which was served warm and was lemon flavored with coffee beans floating in it. I weezed every time i took a sip. With festive libations and the high schoolers playing fiercly, all 150 of us danced into the wee hours of the morning. Chapter three began early the next day. We hopped on a bus headed to Madrid at 7am after taking one last sweep through the monestary. The monks saw us off and we were headed to meet the other 1.5 million pilgrims for the 23rd World Youth Day. Three quarters through the 6 hour bus ride we stopped in the charming walled city of Avila. There we visited the cloister where St. Theresa of Avila grew in love of God. We saw the cell where she lived, the place where St. John of the cross heard her confessions, and the actual picture he drew hundreds of years ago of the crucifixion. We entered the walls of the city, had Maxum bars (the best ice cream bars in the world,) and returned to the bus for the last leg of the journey. For the record, even though it seems like spending 6 hours on a bus would be miserable, it was not so for this ride. Some guys on my bus were playing guitars and a jimbe while everyone sang along for two hours. Around the 3 hour point a kid got up and gave his testimony over the p.a. system and then we prayed a rosary. When we werent singing or praying we were talking and laughing. Even the stops were fun. At one rest stop I drank coffee and went on a power walk with Sister Mary Emily. There was much joy to be had on that journey. Finally, around 6:30 we made it to St. Edith Stein Parish in Madrid. We celebrated Mass and then met up with our host families. I was paired with 5 young women from the states and when our names were called we were invited to stay with a family so adorable i can barely stand it. The mother, Maria is small and wirey, she is kind eyed, but packs a punch. She has to because she and her husband Robert have six adorable, but somewhat wild children. Robert is perpetually smoking a cigar, he works into the night, he seems a little scary at first, but after observing him for a small while it becomes clear that he's tender hearted. Their children range in age from 14 to 9 months. They are always running around, they're joyful, inquisative, and they love having Americans in their home. Most of them speak english and even if they dont, they find ways of communicating. The boys and I have been building a fire truck out of Legos for the past couple nights and the three year old girl, Gracia (pronounced with a lisp in true Spanish form) who doesnt speak a lick of English (save being able to count to 13) sits in my lap or asks to be held when we are together. It's truly heaven on earth being here. During the day we're with other English speaking pilgrims at the Palaceo de Deportes (the palace of sports) which is essentially the Pepsi center of Madrid. FOCUS is working at a booth and we've been listening to talks and welcoming other young Catholics all week. There is much more to come about chapter three. Tomorrow a new friend, Kira, and I are going to the Prado, the famous Spanish museum. We may also be there for the papal welcome and I'm sure the day will bring with it more adventures. I'm humbled by the blessings and joys of this trip. I cant believe I have been here two weeks already. Two more to go!

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Uncle Bud Visits Denver

A mystery about my life may has been solved tonight. Or at least I might be a little closer to knowing why my Catholic faith is such a big part of my life.

My parents took my family to Mass fairly regularly when I was a child. We didn't talk much about it, but we did make it a priority. No one else in my extended family went to church every Sunday, so I know my parents' presence at Mass was a sacrifice. However, when I was 10 and asked if I could start receiving Communion we discovered I had never been baptized. After months of RCIA classes I became Catholic. I was 11 years old with one practicing Catholic family member (my dad.) Time went on and I slowly lost interest in Catholicism and became intrigued by the faith of my Protestant friends. I planned to leave the Church after graduating high school, but after my only Catholic friend passed away and I encountered the Lord truly present in the Church, I decided to stay. God confirmed my decision by crossing my path with FOCUS missionaries and giving me the friends I needed to build up my understanding and love of the Lord.

It is clear that that chain of events brought me back to my Catholic roots in a beautiful way but, the mystery still remained. Why was I Catholic in the first place? My housemate Katherine asked me recently if there was a strong figure in my life who had been praying or fasting for me and I really couldn't think of anyone. I knew my great Grandma Genevieve was Catholic and feisty to boot, so it wouldn't have surprised me if she pleaded with God to grant me a love of Him and His Church, but I didn't have enough information to say that for sure. No one else came to mind so I began to wonder if a neighbor or the parents of my future spouse had prayed for me or something.

There were no leads until this very night.

Today around noon my dad called to let me know that my great uncle Bud was in town tonight only and that he would be having dinner at my cousin Faunia's at 6. I was invited, of course, and knew that I should do everything in my power to be there. My, I am certainly glad I made it.

For four hours I sat across the table from a 79 year old man who was the spitting image of my grandma June. He had the same large nose with a rounded tip. The same crinkly, smiley eyes. Even the same whispey, white hair. He told numerous stories about life, our family, and his faith. He talked of politics, music, and books. His disposition was remarkable. I knew he was tired, but he maintained a cool composure, even as the night wore on. He never missed an opportunity to compliment anyone and he took genuine interest in everyone who was speaking.

During a small lull in conversation someone started speaking of my dad's father, Larry. Larry and his brother Ron, married two Haney sisters- June and Nona. The Haneys were an anti Catholic family so when June and Nona married Larry and Ron and became Catholic, you can imagine the uproar. For a time June and Nona's mother wouldn't speak to them and they were completely disowned from their Protestant-Irish family. I believed that Bud was still in the same boat, but I was wrong.

The quality about Bud that permeates the whole of him is his faith in God. You can tell that he is hard working, knowledgeable, and raised a good family, but all of those things take a back seat when compared to his faith. He plays the 12 string, sings, and leads retreats at his parish. He writes songs for our Lord and loves to invite other people to Him. I believe he knows what it means to be Catholic.

I had no idea that Uncle Bud was a faithful Catholic, but what he said about my Great Grandpa Chuck baffled me even further. Great Grandpa Chuck, my Great Grandma Genevieve's husband, hadn't come up in conversation until the very end of the night. We had discussed every other family member, living and dead, but somehow Grandpa Chuck didn't make the list. I mistakenly said his name when trying to talk about Grandpa Larry and the first words out of Uncle Bud's mouth were, "Now. your Grandpa Chuck, he was a real Catholic." He went on to say that while Great Grandpa Chuck was not a man who spoke often of his faith, he lived it in every last detail. When he was convicted by something or Scripture revealed something to him he acted. I felt as though the final twist had been made an the rubix cube now aligned.

My Grandpa Chuck and I only had a few months together on this planet. I was on my way in and he was on his way out. My mom only knew him for a year or two, but she tells stories of him, an old cowboy, sitting in his hospital bed and weeping during his final days. She says they weren't tears of sadness, rather tears of joy. Not everyone has such sweet memories of Grandpa, though. Chuck Loser grew up on a ranch and loved to ride horses. As a young family man, necessity drove him into the construction business and he was hard working and driven the remainder of his life. He had a hot temper and jealous spirit, but his last years revealed the kindness that he had possessed all along. The only documentation of Grandpa Chuck and I meeting are a couple of pictures of me and him with our oxygen tubes on. I was a delicate newborn and he was weathered and tattered by time and the elements.

I imagine during those few exchanges between my Great Grandpa and me, my truly Catholic, Great Grandpa, I was given the opportunity to touch his heart. There he was at the end of his life, encountering the beginning of mine. While he held me, perhaps he was also wrapping me in Mary's mantle and asking her to take care of me.

Whoever it is who prayed for me I am grateful to God for continuing to bless me through the mystical body of Christ. In His goodness he has chosen members of my own family to draw me into His.

It turns out art matters

Yesterday I faced a giant fear. It wasn't really the public speaking. It wasn't the pressure from what people would think of the four of us in front of them sharing experiences and answering questions. It wasn't even the thought that the artists panel wouldn't "go well." The fear I faced was that no one is interested in art anymore- at least not as it relates to the Church &/or society.

I knew people care about art. I knew they want to express themselves. I knew they think beautiful things matter. I just didn't know they (especially college students) believed that art matters to our church and our society. Thankfully, my fears were assuaged. Even if not explicitly, the panelists and attendees revealed that art changes things. It matters to our Church, our society, our Lord.... and we have a responsibility and an opportunity to be a part of it. Through their attendance, their questions, their answers, their response. I was shown that others are thinking about the role of art and beauty and the church and it's a large role, as it turns out.

I have no idea what the fruit of the panel will be. I don't know who has been inspired or who has been empowered, but I do know I was built up and reminded of my identity as a co-creator with God. As Rachel told me, I have an artists soul and I know that soul will not be content without living out creativity and without the suffering and joy that art inspires. Father Peter said that "without a renewal of the arts there will be no renewal of the culture" and I couldn't agree more with him. I just hope I have a role to play.

Preach it, Papa!

From Pope Benedict's address to artists November, 2009:

Saint Augustine, who fell in love with beauty and sang its praises, wrote these words as he reflected on man's ultimate destiny, commenting almost ante litteram on the Judgement scene before your eyes today: "Therefore we are to see a certain vision, my brethren, that no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man conceived: a vision surpassing all earthly beauty, whether it be that of gold and silver, woods and fields, sea and sky, sun and moon, or stars and angels. The reason is this: it is the source of all other beauty" (In 1 Ioannis, 4:5). My wish for all of you, dear artists, is that you may carry this vision in your eyes, in your hands, and in your heart, that it may bring you joy and continue to inspire your fine works. From my heart I bless you and, like Paul VI, I greet you with a single word: arrivederci!

Photo: AFP/GETTY

Thinking light

I don't know that I learned anything today or read much worth while. Sorry to say, there's not much to synthesize.

At Mass Father Nathanial talked about three kinds of power according to Pascal. He said there is political power, the power of knowledge, and charity. I think Pascal's distinction will be helpful in assessing my own motivations and methods for doing things. Obvi charity is the best, but it is easy to fall into being motivated by knowledge or politics/money.


After Mass we had a lovely morning here at the 2241 dream house. My roommates and Justin (Jen's bf) had breakfast. It was what a Sunday should be. Kim later came over to work on her quilt. Then my cousin and her friend picked Kim and I up and we went to the Bronco's game. De-light-ful!! We had our faces painted, enjoyed food and libations, and my uncle generously sponsored the whole ordeal. Clearly he was motivated by charity. It was a great time!!


A Sunday this great can only be followed by an equally great Monday. Here's hoping!

Book Club Gems

one by one we showed up for book club at Starbucks tonight. each of us coming from our respective jobs, our respective relationships, our respective experiences to discuss a book which I, admittedly, did not read.

the conversation started as usual. grumblings from the day, news from the week, the nuances which color every gathering of this sort; how was work? what is so-and-so doing tonight? oh! did you get a haircut? i was thinking of you when...

the book discussion also started on par with the other twenty-odd times we've met. a thumbs up or down for the writing style, the author, the cover, and all those things that probably depend more on one's mood than the actual book.

then things got more interesting. this week the person who selected the book also brought discussion questions. after quoting a passage about any man being able to sprinkle rose pedals on the bed, but a real man being able to hold your hair while you're getting sick, she popped the question: name something romantic which you wouldn't normally identify as such?

hm. interesting. isn't THAT the question? what is something you don't necessarily receive as love which actually is love? ladies and gentlemen... well, just ladies in this case... things just got interesting!! we left our shallow chatter for a brief moment and dipped our toes into the depths of the human experience.

"no matter how late he stayed up playing video games my husband getting up (without a single complaint) at 5 a.m.to give our baby her bottle." , "when his choice is my favorite restaurant." about her father, "no matter who else was in the room or what was going on he would come up to me and ask how was your day, mija?" "he took the time to map out a whole trip for me just so I could avoid renting a car" What do these gestures by the men in our lives have in common?

well, first they are in response to reality. i mean, there are some legitimate needs at play in these scenarios: hunger, money, sleep. they aren't just walking around, willy nilly, trying to find something to do. they are perceiving needs and meeting them.

second, they are sincere. it is the way in which these gestures are executed that makes them loving. he is getting out of bed, choosing her preferences over his, overcoming the weight of the day, and weaving his way through details just to make her life a little easier.

third, they are actually what we need. as women we think our "need-o-meter" can tell us every solution to every problem. i mean, she would be much happier if she... if people just looked at life like...all that guy really needs is... but what we really need is to serve and allow ourselves to be served. as thrilling as rose pedals in bed might be, there is nothing like coming face to face with a man who will chose your sleep over his, or restaurant, self-esteem, or pocket book.

and then someone got a text message, and we started talking about being dairy and gluten free and about new houses and lunch routines. before we knew it we were back to the kiddie pool, splashing around and having a grand ol' time. but I won't forget the plunge. indeed, i know now deeper waters exist and are waiting to be forged.

a quick thought for today

blessings come in all shapes and sizes. a cliche saying, i know. but it's true. we never know how God is going to bless us. from an unexpected encounter with roommates to the opportunity to brighten the Emily Griffith high school student's day. sometimes the blessing we receive is getting the opportunity to brighten someone's day...

when sarah and i went to the EGOS (Emily Griffith Opportunity School) cafeteria tonight we encountered "GG" for the second or third week in a row. a shy and perhaps scrappy high school senior who didn't fit the normal public school mold and opted for "alternative" high school. She made us a rockin' omelet last time and we were excited to follow it up with a burrito. Unfortunately she bowed out because Jasmine is way better at making burritos. Despite my disappointment I had the opportunity to talk to Jasmine (you may remember her from such encounters as "hey! hey! you wanna give me some money for my college fund?* *insert sass and brashness here -or- the "incident" when someone took my orange right out of my hand... yes, it was the very same Jasmine). Anyway, it turns out that she is just a high school senior as well and just finished getting her GED. She's finishing classes and off to the "real world." the moral of the story is that everyone needs love and for someone to remember her name. Jasmine is no exception and i'm fairly certain I had the blessing of reminding a wayward 17 year old that she's worth remembering. here's to you