Money Signifies Worth; How much we Earn Defines our Value

“Celebration” 20 x 16 Acrylic on Gesso Board

I wanted to be a writer from the time I was in third grade. My first short story was written on a script tablet I used to learn cursive. By the time I reached high school, I won an award and was featured in our school’s “Whispering Pines” literary magazine. I loved the written word and the power it held over my heart.

It was only natural that I continued to write even after I got married and began raising my six children. Hidden moments were stolen during nap times, and ideas generated while ironing, serving as a chauffeur, cleaning and even bathing. There wasn‘t a time that I wasn’t imagining, phrasing, or constructing in my head.

When I finally started writing things down and actually creating, I had already started selling a few of my wares. I had read so many stories to my children as they grew up that I figured I could write a few of my own. Finally I was receiving validation for my hours of work. Until that time, my efforts were considered a waste of time by my family and friends who were ultra conservative and devoted to saving themselves by their own efforts and working in their church and community.

There is something to be said for volunteering and doing things for free. I was able to hone my skills by crafting stories, plays and scripts for local church and community groups until I developed my talents enough to write for profit.

Great things can come from the giving of your time and talents for a good cause. What can happen?

• Recognition; people become familiar with your face, your name, and your reputation for excellency and dependability.
• Opportunity; if someone is looking for a writer or an artist, they may think of you through past experiences together.
• Connections; exchanging of personal information, business cards, and shared work sticks in people’s minds. They will refer you to someone else when a job is needed.

“Bella Bellissimo” 16 x 20 Acrylic on canvas

I met a photographer at my church that saw my creativity firsthand at one of my events. He asked me to meet with him and that opportunity led to my writing of many, many scripts that were used in children’s education. Our divorce series (four films) won the New York Film Festival for “Best Series” that year. The photographer I worked with also introduced me to “The Learning Exchange” where I wrote some fun economic scripts for children on the history of barter and exchange.

Through another connection (that started when I was doing things for free), I was able to move into adult training and education scripts for a large insurance company; writing on subjects like “Structured Settlements” and “Claims Training.” By the time I finished these projects, I was getting referrals from other entities: major airline companies, and many school districts that were promoting education and safety.

By this time I had taken up drawing, illustrating and painting. My goal was to illustrate some of my own work. Getting paid had turned my so-called “waste of time activities” into making a real contribution to the family budget and becoming totally independent for my own sustenance.

It’s too bad that we allow our own self doubts, the  criticism of others or money to define us: “You’re not good enough, experienced enough, or talented enough to get paid for your efforts.” In the beginning, most of us must work for free. But don’t give up! Your generous heart will eventually be rewarded.

“Peaches ‘n Cream” 12 x 16 Acrylic on Gesso Board

What is it about those Peeps?

Yes, I admit it; I’m a Peep freak. I slink around the Easter displays and casually drop a few boxes into my cart hoping no one will notice. I’m embarrassed at the checkout. I hope the clerk will think it’s for my grandchildren. I go through this anxiety every year, but that doesn’t stop me from buying them.

“First Daffodil” acrylic on canvas

You either love Peeps or you hate them. There’s no in between. It’s an acquired taste. Not everyone likes the soft melt-in-your mouth sweetness of marshmallow, especially if it’s doused in colored sugar. Plus you have to lick the sticky residue on your fingers afterward. Of course, some people dry them out so their chewy and semi-soft, but I can’t wait that long.

After the holiday, prices are slashed on all Easter treats; a sad assortment of chocolate bunnies with broken ears and hard jelly beans gathering dust. I search the display, but don’t see any peeps (and you thought no one liked them!).

“He Lives” oil on wrapped canvas

I was a young mother before I discovered that Easter was a celebration of Jesus’ atonement and resurrection and not all about chicks and rabbits. Even as a child, my parents only focused on the fun parts of the holiday. I was told that the Easter Bunny went around to all the children and filled their baskets with candy and treats. My mother, playing Easter Bunny, hid the eggs we had colored in the house, and we excitedly combed the cushions in the sofas and under the furniture to find them.

One year, we stayed overnight at my aunt’s farm. The eggs were going to be hidden outside, and my sister and I would compete with our cousins to find them. That night I dreamed that a giant rabbit hopped to my bedside with goodies in his paws. I was terrified! Perhaps the strange bed and the new surroundings had triggered an anxiety attack. I awoke screaming. After that, I was never big on the Easter Bunny. When I had children of my own, I never told them about him for fear they would have nightmares, too.

“Americana” 16 x 20 acrylic on canvas

My children loved coloring eggs, but they knew that their parents were the hiders and that we provided the goodies, too. The kids seemed fine with that; much better to pretend than to be terrorized by a furry five foot rabbit that hovers over your bed while you’re asleep.

One year we colored two dozen eggs with our six children. Their father and I hid them after they’d gone to bed. I made the mistake of relying on my memory instead of writing down their hiding places. After the hunt, the eggs were dispersed to each basket and some of them were gobbled down for breakfast. I never gave the count a second thought.

Fast forward, eight months later. The faint smell of sulfur still greets my nose each time I enter our family room; but once I’m there, I can no longer pinpoint where the smell is coming from. Christmas is right around the corner, and I want everything to be clean and fresh.

On impulse, I take down two woven baskets that are hanging on the wall filled with greenery. I plan to wash the greenery of dust and put them back. Lo and behold, in the bottom of one basket is a boiled egg which has split open and essentially dried out; so dry that there is barely any sulfur smell remaining. The riddle was solved!

“Lady in Waiting” 11 x 14 oil on canvas

I will tell you that after that experience, I not only counted the eggs that were hidden, but accounted for them when they were found. I even drew a quick sketch of their hiding places instead of relying on my memory. I chuckle each Easter when I remember that missing rotten egg. The embarrassment of that horrid stink and not being able to locate its source will haunt my Easters forever.