SKWERL!!!!

This morning I let the dogs out in to the yard for the first time of the day and they darted to surprise a squirrel as usual. But instead of the usual smart squirrel who keeps his nut hunt close to a tree trunk, the dogs were startled to find a squirrel in the chicken coop.

I guess the little fellow had found his way in to steal some grain or some of the kitchen scraps we share with the hens. Had he just laid low, he could have waited out the dogs presence. But no, his deep rooted instincts told him "run for the tree!" His escape was interrupted by a wall of chicken wire. Suddenly three dogs were charging around the chicken run.

How are they not getting me?! Why can't I get to that tree? Around and around he went like a motorcycle in the iron cage at the circus. In the coop. Out of the coop. Onto the wire. Onto the ceiling. Back into the coop.

And the hens! Clucking and strutting. What's going on here? I don't know, ask her? Why should I know? I can't see anything. Let me tilt my head this way, now that way, now take a step and tilt my head again. Who said that? What? Did you hear that?



And the dogs! It's in there. Got It! Nope. It's up there! What? Where? Who? What are we after? SKWERL! There it is! Bark! Bark! Barking does not help!



Finally the little guy found his way out through a small crack in the door. Three dogs were waiting there for him and the tree was a good 10 feet away. A slow motion recap would have put "The Matrix" to shame. A full body twist to the left as sharp fangs pierced the air. Leaping over the tenacious Jack Russel's head. Contorting his whole body while simultaneously launching onto the tree as jaws of death echo a loud "SNAP" on the right.

And then it was over. The dogs were left looking at each other and then up the tree and then at me. I can only imagine how alive that squirrel must have felt while he caught his breath in the tree tops.

It's About Balance, Not Carbs

Eggs are bad. Sike, they're good. Butter is bad, but go ahead and slather your carbs with flavored vegetable oil products. Don't eat sugar! Here, try this sweet tasting powdered chemical instead. Don't eat fat. Do eat fat. Red meat is the DEVIL. Bananas are the perfect food. Maybe bananas are the Devil. Whole grains. No, wait, no grains. Strike that - only grapefruit. Grapefruit and red meat.

Have we lost our minds?

A Moment in Yoga

My thighs are rotating to the exterior as I bring my thigh bone forward in space. My calves are rotating from the upper outer shin like a vine down around the back and then over my inner ankle and arch of my foot to the outside ankle in order to lift my navicular bone into alignment. My pelvis is vertical so that my light is shining strait down. I am ironing my butt towards the floor while lifting my ribs off of my lumbar. My shoulder blades are open like the wings of an angel. My ribs are tilted up like vertical blinds and my collar bones are reaching for the ceiling to create a bird bath on each side of my neck. My right leg is bent at precisely a ninety degree angle. The heel of my right foot is in a direct line to the arch of my right. My left heel is stretching and reaching for the floor. I am gazing beyond the reach of my extended right arm, with purpose. Oh, and I am breathing.

Stay on task, Sara. I think I'll peek to see how Mary Jean is doing it. I wonder what should I eat for dinner when I get home. Should I go with pewter or brass for the kitchen knobs? How many skylights are in this room? Man, that's a big poodle. Breath.

The instructor is helping someone else. Does he see how hard I am trying? What is he DOING over there? Shit, I forgot to breath. My thigh is burning. I can't worry about my shin vine anymore. Something's got to give. Why isn't Mary Jean shaking too? There goes my light! I think I'm stuck.

What Do You Do

We are invited to a party on the 12th. There are several problems with this. Finding a trustworthy babysitter in the Holler is slippery. Also, this means I will have to stay up past 8. Lastly, I will have to meet new people, chit chat, and answer questions about what I do.

For some people it's a walk in the park:
I am a lawyer. Okay got that. Very clear.
I am a computer programmer. Okay, I know nothing about that but I can easily picture you sitting in front of a computer at a desk.
I am in mergers and acquisitions. Mmmm, very impressive.

I am an Artist. Blank stare or overly eager head bob with a sip of their drink. I feel as if I have just tried to hand this person a cloud. I try to follow up with more details... I paint, mostly in oils and pastels. Ahhhh, I see. Then I feel as if I need to dig deeper: I am dedicated to my career path, honing my skills, selling in galleries and juried shows. My goal is to support my family some day and become a household name. I can tell I need more: I paint the rural landscape and people, horses, and dogs. My studio is in my home. A glimmer of recognition. I might have convinced him/her that I am a real artist! I also make and sell needle felted critters on etsy. Blank stare.

The home makers have it worse. I am also half homemaker so I am dealt a double whammy. You feel as if you should have a list of your daily head spinning chores and tasks to carry around and show people to justify how you spend your time. What do you do? Here, read this list.


I am guilty of falling back on it but I think the question should be ruled out altogether. Let's come up with a new icebreaker.

Perhaps back to: What's your sign?

My Spaces Continued

A friend of mine was over the other day. I brought her to the third floor to see my new felting work space. She said, "Wow, Sara, it's like a tree house!" That's what she said, but on the inside she was thinking, "How does anyone work in this childlike, fun-sized, no-head-room, under the eaves, room all of the way up on the third floor?"


Actually, I work just fine, thank you. Previously I had spread my wool, critters, and all that goes with it across our dining room. It looked as if several sheep exploded in there. We rarely use the dining room so it was okay. But now that the stuff is out of there I feel the relief of having a designated space for my crap - I mean craft.

Happily I toil like a little gnome under the eaves making sweet little felted critters to share with the world.

How Long Did That Take You

If I had a nickel for every time I was asked how long it took for me to make a creation....

Despite the fact that I am asked all of the time, that question always catches me off guard. I am never sure how to answer.

Maybe that person thinks that worthy art should take countless hours and anything less than 3 weeks is junk. Or, if I say "3 hours" he/she might start some sort of twisted division of the price revealing a warped perception of what I make per hour and therefore a VERY warped idea of my annual income.

Sometimes I can't answer because I don't know. I don't clock in and out every time I run down the two flights of steps to stop the dogs from barking, catch the UPS man, check my email, use the bathroom, snag some dark chocolate, or skip work all together for a sick boy or a snow day.

I believe that my best paintings are actually the most spontaneous and easily achieved. If I have to labor over it, it sucks.

Felting is a different matter. Although I have become very adept at the craft, it takes as long as it takes; there is no fast fantastic snow hare or slow laborious sucky snow hare.

No matter what the art or craft, though, a wise man told me to answer, "it has taken me my life time."

Here is a mini snow hare in the works...


... after about and hour and 2 trips downstairs I've got the armature covered and ears made...


...about another 20 minutes, or was it 40, and the face is taking shape...


.... a finished face and ready for fur... after I check my email and have a cookie...


... somewhere between 1 and 4 hours later all fuzzy and sitting pretty ready to be photographed and listed on etsy.

My Peeps

My sister recently pointed out to me that I have "people." She's right. In the past year I have sought the help of a certified professional organizer, a landscaper and her mighty crew, a business communications and development guru, friends to help felt, and a young unemployed computer whiz helper/errand boy. On any given day I might explain, "my organizer is coming today" or "the landscaper is here" or "today I am training some help."

What I can't figure out is - does this mean that I am hugely successful and important ( you know - like a posse ) OR that I am and artist flake incapable of managing my own life? Maybe it is a mid-life crisis; hit 40 and realize you have to get your shit together.

Whatever the reason for this influx of help and delegation of duties, my life is better for it.

Next up - a Cleaner of the House!