j.Chronicles continued

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“You don’t remember how we met?”

When you wrote me this, I sat there quite dumbfounded. Then you shared how we met, my mind went through the many virtual file cabinets. Well, there it was one of my clearest memories….Your face was hidden, but your inner spirit dragged me towards you. In that time period, my mind was trapped by a demonic, wicked spirit that made me bruise time and time again. Thank goodness your spirit recognizes my healing.

That day, when I first saw your shape, I did not realize who you were; it was like something took over me, whispering in my ear that we were supposed to converse. Although, we never spoke again until that Sunday started the week.

Almost a year had passed…

Monday/Tuesday

I opened my eyes to whiteness. More than a 1,000 miles from you, I laid in the midst, in a mist of whiteness: comforter, pillows, walls, everything around me was as if I was in billows of white, smoke. The sound of the ocean hit my walls and I did not move. As I woke up, I reached for my iPhone to see what the world looked like outside the clouds I lay in.

I opened the application, and then a notification popped up in the right hand corner. You wrote me back. The night before, you complimented my beauty or the sea’s, you were never specific. I replied, “Thank you, as is your art.”

I still had no idea who you were, I thought you were a literal stranger… You invited me for coffee or drinks when I returned from my vacation, but I did not know your name. So I sat there pensively and then, eventually our conversation deepened. You started to reveal yourself to me. Those first replies, were not me, but my spirit again and again. Something took over me and whispered a sweet song to determine who you were. Your spirit whispered, “remember me?”

I did, vividly.

Tuesday night

Shortly after, my plane landed and my body appeared in your car. All of sudden, my physical body listened to your melodic voice. You spoke softly, you smiled secretly. We ate dinner, as if we always knew one another. We conversed that night until the shadows crept beneath us.

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You came, not in the literal sense but arrived. There was no turning back from this night. Margherita filled us and the NYC lights enchanted us. We shared pieces of our journeys and let our tongues become a vein that carried our spirit of gold. You were sold, for you invited me the night. I crept in your space, observing each inch of you. That night was timeless, I fell asleep in your arms and then woke up in your mist. Another, white comforter. My eyes wide and very aware of who laid next to me. I snuck off, your body awake and mind asleep. I made my way out of your creative lair.

When you awoke– you lettered, “Was last night a dream?”

It wasn’t.

sábado 

Sleepless, mindless, I fell into your bed again. I felt every piece of you touch my inner soul. Your voice comforted me, your touch calmed me, your spirit welcomed me.

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You’re a creator, a solver, a builder. Your affection is one–for it almost has me won over. I didn’t realize I had anything for you, but whatever I have I want it connected to your spirit.

I want to hear your beat and play you in my mind over and over again until the spirit drags me far away.

If you didn’t know, now you know that…baby you found me in the clouds.

 

 

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La mariposa negra – The Black Butterfly

Dear Parents, educators, and anyone who loves kids,

As some of you may know I am an Au Pair in Madrid, Spain. I tutor a 4 and 7 year old in English and bring them to and from their semi private/public school (gov’t helps pay tuition until students are 13 years old), and take Spanish grammar classes while they are in school all day (literally they are there from 9-5 M-Th, 9-4 Fri). Now, remember as you read this is not in NY, USA.

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The 4 year old has fell in love with this book titled, The Artist Who Painted A Blue Horse, by Eric Carle.

Today, my host dad picked up his boys and gave me the afternoon free. The teacher shared with him that the 4 year old was really sleepy today and did not do a good job when doing his classwork. CAN YOU BELIEVE SHE SAID THIS BECAUSE HE PAINTED A BUTTERFLY BLACK!!!!!????? She should be happy I did not pick him up lol. I was like that is awesome a black butterfly, what I love it! During dinner I learned of this and couldn’t resist laughing. The parents looked at me and I explained I think I know why he painted a black butterfly and I doubt it was because he was sleepy. It was because he was INSPIRED by a book we have been reading. 

So I explained to the mother the book, we read it together and the history behind it, that is written at the end of the book. She learned that this book was inspired by the artist Franz Marc, the German artist who painted a blue horse in 1911. When Eric Carle was a young boy (he was born in the USA,) he spent some of his boyhood in the Nazi regime, where modern, expressionistic art OR abstract art was forbidden and viewed as degenerate! One of his art teachers secretly shared Marc’s work, even though she was only allowed to show realistic art. I love how this teacher took the courage to show Eric Carle this!

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THANKFULLY, my host mom loved the book! I also told her about the book, The Day the Crayons Quit, with a similar message as this book, she wants to read it. I am so glad she was very happy with the book I shared with her son. She said, “I am so sorry that this teacher does not understand art.” She later spoke with her son stating that he is a wonderful artist and they will talk to his teacher. She even thinks I should bring the book to share with his teacher!

In all, I am so grateful that she was able to appreciate the beauty of art!! I’ve worked in environments where I literally heard pre school teachers tell the 4 year old students that scribble scrabble is not art, I always told the students not to worry because their work is abstract and the most wonderful piece of work I have ever seen them draw.

Do not deprive your children of art, without art our world would be expressionless! They have the right to see the beauty of the world anyway they choose. Creativity in its’ raw form can be seen as rare because people often kill the spark of art at a young age. Let’s vow to allow our children’s creativity explode in a world full of lively colors, realistic or unrealistic because that is freedom!

-xo

I hope I can get a picture of this black butterfly to also post!!

Sunflower

A little seedling
Unexpected but in the soil
The ground feels your heart beating
Rain falls but you never foil
The rain starts dripping
The sun beams rays
Into a world full of turmoil

You still grow
You stretch as high as the sky
You reach for the glow
You stand strong
Like a tree
You’re yellow
You feel like you met a great fellow
You extend you’re petals
You feel you’re power

Because you’re a sunflower
Strong and like a tower

A flower of serene purity
Strength
You’re my Sunflower

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A June afternoon

Today, after drinking tea and catching up with one of my favorite professors, I met you. I was glancing at my favorite photo in the gallery that evening, at first when looking at all the photos I had missed it. When I reentered that section, I was so surprised to have had missed this photo. I stared at the woman with the backpack. She was looking into the hole and there were two metal balls, one of them seemed transparent. They were connected to the circle, or hole by laser like strings. They were reaching towards the middle of the circle, or hole. They seemed, lost if that made sense, but they were connected, they belonged.

I had a glass of Pinot Grigio, and some cheese in my hand. Wearing my own back pack, I felt it becoming heavy and I felt someone glaring at me. It wasn’t you glaring at me it was your lens about to snap a shot of me. I looked to my left surprised and you were in the other section of the gallery a short wall separating us. I didn’t think you odd, I thought, “well I guess this is what happens in an art gallery, another artist trying to capture their own art.”

Shortly after, you walked into the section I was in, taking pictures of the female who had pourn my wine. I paid no attention to you two, turning to stare out the window. I watched the wind move the trees of that backyard, staring at the other buildings surrounding the little greenery of Brooklyn backyards. The wind grew stronger, and I noticed the glare of the photography on the window, which you later captured with me in. I liked the way it looked, but then turned to admire my favorite picture positioned high above my short stature. You then introduced yourself to me. We exchanged names so quickly, I couldn’t even recall your name minutes into our conversation. I often do not care to learn names, but it bothered me so I interrupted you more than twice asking your name.

We began discussing how we ended up there. It was interesting how you said I was meant to be there. I had got off the bus too early, many blocks before I was to transfer to another. I decided to walk, it was windy but I enjoyed the cold breeze hit my bare legs and frigid wind brush against my face. The wind blew my dress in many directions, reminding me of how free I was, how I loved walking freely. Eventually, I bumped into the lady you knew all of your life, the woman who was like an aunt to you. The woman a stranger to me, with her colleague, the photographer invited me in. I was a bit hesitant, but I entered the gala. I didn’t scan the room, I began observing each photo…

Our conversation went on to discuss things such as where we attended college, your new hobby of photography, and my love of reading. Eventually, the conversation ended. You went to talk to others and I left wondering where my feet would take me next.