Leisa A. Hammett

The Art of Spring Break: Exhibits, Travel, Presentation

Here, in Nashville, there's a muted silence in the air these chilly, crisp pre-spring days. I'm calling it in between time. The few intermittent days of warm, glorious sunshine brought the buzz of activity. Now, there's a hush in the air again. A slight heart-tugging anticipation.

It's spring break here. Kinda. Officially so for the next county over. Yet, Metro schools forced "intercession" and then took away three days of the break for snow make-up. I sent Grace on to her camp anyway. Next week she joins her father while I journey to the sweet respite of Hot Springs, NC, before treking back over the hills a way and presenting at my alma mater. More about that in a few. 

Spring here in Nashville is presenting some going-quick opportunities for marvelous art: 

Charles Brindley's third and largest exhibition yet at Cheekwood is a do not miss. Charles Brindley: Trees of  Myth and Legend, through April 19. I always pen his shows as must go's on the calendar and the graphite drawings and oil paintings of this master gentleman artist never, ever disappoint. I count this up there alongside a couple of my other favorite shows in the stately former mansion of the Maxwell House coffee founders, which would be the exhibitions of Andrew Wyeth. Brindley is genius and a true Tennessee treasure. And, an incredibly nice man. Bravo. I think my feature on him was my second ever story for NashvilleArts Magazine in my two years on staff of the original publication. Here's a blog post blurb I published on the artist more recently in 2011: Artist Brindley Distills Soul of Trees. 

Hurry downtown to that grand main branch of Nashville's Public Library for the brilliant public-curated exhibition of printmaker Bryce McCloud. For a year the artist set up small self-portrait-rubber-stamp printmaking stands around town. Old, young, homeless, refined, individuals with developmental disAbilities, and one Jack White, all got their visual art groove on. The result hanging in the large, open second-floor atrium is a spectrum of Nashville humanity, some shown holding their portraits, and also captured on moving and still film, and a 3-D mimicry of the stations where passerbys created their likes. The exhibition ends on April 12, and while there, step into the library's first floor gallery for a clever and somewhat disturbing commentary on our disposable culture in the exhibition “Paper, Thread and Trash: A Collection of Art Books Made From Reuse.” The show features some local heavy-hitters in paper arts, such as Lesley Patterson-Marx, plus three delightful large photographs and more of intriguing artist Kit Kite's commentaries on domestic life. Show ends March 29.

While I haven't yet made it to the Partnenon's unassuming gallery tucked beneath Alan LeQuire's grand Athena, I will before Dane Carder's War Wounds ends May 31. Carder is another gentleman artist. Quiet, soulful and expressing his artistry in an uncommon way as he paints, large-scale, slightly disturbing yet alluring interpretations of very old photographs. Included in this exhibition, are 13 paintings depicting the loss endured by Civil War soldiers and their families. 

I'll visit and patronize the wares of local artisans in Hot Springs and over in the wacky neighboring town of Marshall while I'll be embedded in the natural artistry of Western North Carolina's mountains next week. And, I'll conclude my own spring break with a presention at Carson Newman University's William Blevins Institute for Spirituality & Mental Health. Blevins, a former professor of mine three-plus decades back, invited me to speak Saturday morning, March 28, 10-11:30 on "The Grief Journey with Grace: Autism, Divorce, Death of Loved Ones, and Other Life Challenges."

In my presentation description, I write:  Life happens, and none of us are immune to some variation of challenge that requires us to move through grief to heal and live fully. Art and nature are two ways in which my spirit replenishes and heals. To travel and partake of good art in many of its forms~that's my definition of living fully. May you enjoy these exhibits if you are in Nashville, or embrace beauty wherever you are out and about on spring break or travel or daily living. Namaste.

 

 

 

The Tipping Point and Moving On

"What is it about what I've said that's upsetting to you?"

There was an awkward pause in our conversation. I looked up to the ceiling, sniffed, and then reached across the kitchen table and grabbed a tissue to blot the tear that had just started to fall. 

I tried to talk and paused, my voice breaking. "It's just..." I started and then stopped again. My face contorted, my lip slightly quivering. And then I managed to blurt it out: 

"It's just that I never had that thought before. Of imagining her like that. Imagining in my mind's eye Grace all alone in the world with neither of us." 

Her father asked the initial question. He was in town and we'd sat down over lunch for another in series of meetings about our life to come. A life as divorced parents of a now young adult woman with moderately severe autism and intellectual disAbilities, who would leave all her true systems of support in one-and-a-half years. 

As of late last year, I decided not to pursue forming Art Tank, the nonprofit social enterprise supporting artists with disAbilities. In a year's time, I was unable to take the most basic steps in filling out the myriad of paperwork for nonprofit status, though once I got the initial paperwork done, the Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts had graciously offered to usher my papers through the arduous federal process. The social enterprise had gotten underway successfully. I was placing works by artists with disAbilities in luxury apartments here and out of town. More were in the works. But, often the work required hours that I could not sanely keep. For one project the days began at six and ended at midnight. Plus, when I lost my business partner, there were demands for contractual and financial and other expertise I did not have. Meanwhile, Grace marched on to her date of transition from the federal public school system and into the great abyss. She needed me. And so did her art business, which was/is successfully growing and demanding more attention. Art Tank was my fourth and fifth full time job. I created a fully researched platform and a media template for a nonprofit and a successful social enterprise, but someone, not me, will have to take the reins. I believe that will happen.

For the social enterprise, I'm searching nationally for an individual who has the understanding of the disAbility art community—the connections, and the patience, and understanding for all the quirks inherent to working with this special artist population. Such folks are available. Those who understand fine art and what sells in commercial venues are also available, but the combination of the two is a hard find. My former corporate clients want to continue placing the work of fine artists with disAbilities. (There is a difference, not a hierarchy,  between various types of art created by individuals with disAbilities and other artists which range from folk, self-taught, naive, primitive, art brute, fine art, and more. Commercial venues purchase fine art. It's not about anyone's son or daughter being a better artist, it's about the marketplace expectation and which artists create that genre.) 

Walking away from Art Tank was the second domino to fall. The first fell long ago. As Grace began her transition into adulthood and out of her services of support about four years ago, I woke up to the fact that my  adopted state had not changed its levels of supports in 20 years, while every Southern state around us offered better services for its citizens with disAbilities. I've met with the state speaker of the house multiple times over the years. We knew each other when she was pregnant with her first-born and I with my only child. The state, in all this time, refused to make our citizens like Grace a priority. Last year, the state legislature considered amending policies to get families off their narrowly defined Medicaid waiver waiting lists when their parents turned 75. And then, they decided better of it.

In the last six months something happened that I could have never envisioned. I fell out of love with Nashville. It was Nashville that kept me here in this backwards state. I loved this city with my every fiber until it reached a tipping point and now has transitioned into becoming like any other urban city. Shiny. Glass. Generic and rude. That's not the city I so loved. It's the city that Atlanta became when I lived there for 10 years before moving back here. I was living in Georgia when The Big Peach lost its last vestiges of its Southern soul. And now Nashville, once a decent-sized city with a small town feel, has fallen victim to a developer's dream. Seemingly every corner of our city is being gentrified. Artists of all genres that made this town the cool that it's always been, have been edged out of their affordable corners of living and work spaces so that room could be made for a new social class void of respect for our Southern genteel. We're hip, says the New York Times, ad nauseam. We knew that. So sorry The Big Apple discovered our secret and told everybody else about it. Last straw.

I'm looking to move. Yeah. True. From one bubba state to another. I'm from the South. The bubba state of South Carolina. I can say that. But those other bubbas, the bubba brothers to Tennessee, somehow saw to care more about people with disAbilities than passing open carry and rights to eat road kill. (It's true. Didn't make that up.) I love the South. My remaining family members of origin live in both Carolinian states. Grace's paternal and remaining grandparent lives here, in Tennessee. I'm looking to relocate to another bubba state,  and if all goes well, her father will relocate and live/work somewhere within two hours, as he does now. I'll miss that support if I'm further away, but at least I will have more help.

In one-and-a-half years, if we remain here, my job will become taxi driver, shuttling Grace from one-hour special gym class to the next. That was doable when I was 37 and she was a three-year-old immersed in autism early interventions. But now I'm nearly 55, and she's 20 and the interventions are a patchwork of entertainment. (I'm tired. She's no longer little and I'm no longer as young.) She can work, but I'm not sure there's an employer who will pay for a one-on-one aid. And housing, those opportunities are begining to happen, but how would we pay for 24/7 care? We couldn't. 

So, we're looking to move where Grace can do what I wanted to create here. Except it's already created there. North Carolina, alone, has about five versions of Art Tank. I'm tired of trying to invent the wheel, knowing that that wheel won't have any companion backing that will help parents help their adult sons and daughters live in some form of independence. 

Her father and I talked about what it could look like for Grace. We talked about his nephew that will oversee her care when he and I are gone. We talked about finding a situation where she could live without me. And then he said it: "I don't want to die and have Grace sitting in some room alone in some impersonal facility." I'd never fully gotten the visual impact of that possible moment. So, in the next two years—when a lot of things could happen, rendering all of these plans void (don't hold your breath that anything will happening with the bubba's on Tennessee's capitol hill)—I'm looking to find a place where she can paint everyday. Go to work in a part time job with the assistance she most likely will need. And have caregivers in a small home with another roommate or two where she will be well tended. We'll be there to supervise. And then when we're not, well, that's the point for moving on. Long before we reach 75. 

I recognize I'm fortunate to have choices that many do not. I also know there are those who have and will continue to work dilligently for change for individuals with disAbilities in Tennessee. I continue to applaud them. I don't apologize for no longer wanting to push the river. I know that many people who read this will not feel this way about Tennessee (most will not have children with disAbilites or be poor and need healthcare). The bubba references are directed to the lack of progressiveness for social change in Southern states. Many people are new to Nashville, as I was as a recent college graduate thirty-three years ago. It will be new and exciting. You will not have known how unique Nashville used to be or maybe even care that you've moved to a state devoid of social conscience. Many still love it here. The bones of our Southernness will always remain. Our flesh has become something else. And, if you are reading my blog for the first time, I am not generally this negative. This is a time of painful life transition for me on almost all fronts. But, I know that I am not alone in all of the various sentiments I have expressed. These are my views and my experiences. My truth. 

Divorce Ends a Marriage but Not Always the Parenting Partnership

I know you are there. You see, bloggers don't know who specifically visits their blog, but most "blogging platforms" allow the owner to see where the visitors are coming from (Facebook links, Google searches, websites, etc.,) and at which categories site visitors are looking. So, this time a year I see a lot of folks are navigating to "The Journey with Grace" and reading my posts on The Big D. You know: D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

The New Year is a time of transition. If you or someone whom you know is facing this difficult ending, and hence, beginning, or you're just plain curious for whatever reason or want to support others going through divorce, come follow me over to Wishing Well, the blog of Monroe Carell Jr. Children's Hospital at Vanderbilt. I share my experiences on how to create a peaceful divorce (it can be done) and give a frank reminder that parents are the adults in the picture. We all know couples who got entangled in meanness and retribution, forgetting to prioritize their children's emotional well being. Please don't go there. I'm gonna tell you how to avoid that.

Divorce happens. And when it does and children are involved, parents can make a choice. That is, a choice for civility and teamwork. Read more here.

G'bye 2013. Hello 2014. Some Thoughts & Lessons I'm Learning

Today, these last hours of the year, feels sacred to me. I'm savoring moments of quiet and still--part of Winter's gift. And, I'm also looking at the gifts brought this past year and how I can continue to grow into the next. Below, I'm sharing some lessons that I'm learning as 2013 evolves into the following year. Peace and Joy to you in 2014.

Some of the truths--truths to me--which I am continuing to learn:

Fear is synonymous with ego.

So is "futurizing."

When I fear something, when I fear anything, in "the future," when I obsess with the yet unborn tomorrows, the "what if's" or, "How in the hell am I going to get all that, and that AND that done?!") I am stepping into my ego.

To become a clear vessel, an instrument of the Divine Mystery, where my talents can be used for the highest best for myself and all those around me, it takes stepping out of time-centric, fear-based ego-self.

Stepping into the ego, will trip me up, stall me, every time.

So, Step One: SURRENDER....

I remember very clearly a message I received in 2007, a pivotal and very promising year in my life: "Be okay with the not knowing."

Few of us, on our own, can 100 percent predict the outcome of the very next moment. It takes surrendering the egoic fears that sometimes clench our guts and hearts and rob us from the visceral experience that we only have this present moment. From this moment, we can choose the next best step for our highest best and the highest best of all of those around us.

You see, in 2007, that year of such promise, my ego became entangled in the story that I chose to create and I failed to surrender and listen to my inner voice and made choices that would not serve me or those around me for the highest best. Today, I surrender to the lessons that "the west," the place of challenge, the cold north winds, just as indigenous people have known for centuries. The west, the bearer of "adversity"--in nature and in the rest of life--brings opportunities to learn.

Going forward, may I choose to surrender. To continue to become a clear vessel/channel for the energies to use what I have been given to create my highest best for myself and all those around me. And if this, too, is your truth, may these choices be so for you.

Namaste.

Photo: Grayton Beach, Fla., December 2013, ©LeisaHammett.com

Sandhill Cranes, Owls and Elephants

ADDENDUM: Unfortunately, the day I posted this story, I learned that Tennessee wildlife regulators voted to allow the hunting of Sandhill Cranes. It is not missed on me that these beautiful works of art were created by gentle souls that belong to an often silent minority. This exhibit celebrates the beauty of several animal species, also sentient beings often helpless to defend themselves. Very. Disappointing. Boo!

 

The artists of Pacesetters have done it again. That is, created a wonderful, original exhibition of quality, framed art now on display and for sale in Nashville's only exhibition space dedicated to the works of individuals (or about) with disAbilities--Vanderbilt Kennedy Center's exhibition space/lobby.

"The Journey with Grace" has featured the art of Pacesetters artists several times. Last time was an art exhibit at Radnor Lake. The pieces are for sale. By moving your cursor over the images, the name of each artist will be revealed. Many if not most of the works in this exhibit are for sale. To learn learn more about this exhibit, go here and here. Enjoy!

 

 

Happy Birthday. To. Me!

Happy Monday and Happy Birthday. To. Me! Today I am 50-plus-three. And, here goes my annual "Journey with Grace" post on turning a year older....About 10 years ago, my quintessential Southern lady friend, Patsy, who always wore her long, blond hair tightly and perfectly coiffed and lacquered upon her pretty head, ssshhhed me when I dared to utter my age in public. "Leisa!" she chided: "Don't start telling people your age!"

I finally got it this last year that if I worked in Corporate America or some other more traditional institution of employment rather than self-employment (since 1991) and the Office of Special Needs Motherhood, I might be a little more reticent to proclaim my chronology aloud.

But, sorry, Patsy, here's why I do.  I believe age is good. I am not ashamed of my age. I've earned what's come with it. And yeah, some fringe benefits aren't so fringe-y. More on that later. I refuse to buy into the belief that we screech downhill upon hitting 40. I'm pretty aghast to hear this sentiment from too many around me born in my decade and the one before it and the one after it. We are still young, people! Like the rest of life, I believe much of age is about choice. Choice of attitude--how we view age and how we treat our bodies. Like, you know, that little scripture passage in "The Good Book" about treating our bodies as temples? Well, yeah. It's all we've got. These conglomerations of cells that propel us around. Science supports this and also that it's never too late to start taking better care of one's health.

Before I come across like I'm preaching the message of "Holier Than Thou," I've had my years lulling in the pits of physical health. I got sick despite my years of regular exercise. (I finally got my lazy butt active during my last semester of college when the stressors of commuting to "the big city" of Knoxville from my small college town while simultaneously balancing a full course load and a full time job. Stress relief! Yes!) But, my diet did not follow suit and my health progressively worsened throughout my 20s when my diet consisted of sugar-sugar, carbs and fried "fern bar" foods. By the time I turned 27, my body declared "No More!" and for the next five years, I collected diagnoses that included chronic intestinal yeast, TMJ, multi-heavy metal poisonings and Epstein-Barr--which was quickly morphing into Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. 
Luckily, I lived in Atlanta then and had progressive wholistic physicians who quickly set me on the path to recovery through diet, nutritional supplementation, intravenous chelation, deep tissue massage and amino acid therapies. (Read, I was cured. And, taught a HUGE and costly lesson about health and my body.)

Though I've slipped from time to time, sometimes fixating on my over-love for sugar, I never left the whole foods lifestyle. My supplements are not covered by insurance but the only prescription drug I've taken for years are natural, compounded bio-identical hormones, which, overall, have helped me sail fairly smoothly through a very, very (sigh) long perimenopause. (Whether I've reached the denouement, is still up in the air.)

In my late 20's I also began practicing yoga. Back, you know, before it was cool. Folks, yoga, tai chi or, the most gentle and easiest, qi gong, are the three ways to stay flexible when aging. Don't move and muscles and joints will lock up. Remember, I'm not pulpiteering here. I neglected my diet and exercise when finishing my first book and it took me a very long time to regain my flexibility and loose the extra pounds padded on via daily comfort food indulgence. As for exercise in addition to morning yoga (about 10 minutes, followed by a short meditation--which also has health benefits,) I walk. This week, for Grace's health--as she's experienced a recent, unexplained weight gain--we are starting with a trainer, which I plan to document here. I want not only good health for myself but good health for her.

Read the under message here: I am the mother to a daughter who has moderately severe autism. I am 
53,  she is 19. Developmentally, she is anywhere from four to six. And I am, did I say it before? I'm 53. Last week was extremely challenging because not only is she a young adult with the mind of a child, she is aging out of services. I want to come back here and write and write and write about the challenges of this third summer of her aging out. But, damn, I'm busy driving her to kingdom-come right now. Hence, I could not manage a post last Friday. (I'll catch up here. Eventually.)

Parents of special needs children--you, my sisters and brothers on this arduous journey: PLEASE take care of yourselves! You're not going to be there for your child if you eat and live like there's no tomorrow. I am aghast at the epidemic of indulgence-induced obesity in our land of gross-plenty. WE are breaking our healthcare system. We are to blame. And, yes, again, I've had periods of over-eating: in 1997-2000 to soothe my grief over my child's diagnosis. In 2007 to 2011 when I said yes to a relationship that was destructive. Again, I used food to stuff down the feelings with which I refused to deal. And, at late 40s and early 50s, I couldn't bounce back from the ill-health effects of weight gain as easily as I it did when I was in my late 30s and early 40s. And, I knew that the path of pills and bowing to the system of medical dieties would not cure me. Only making wiser choices and getting back to the clean virtues--eating and living a whole foods lifestyle would and could work for me. And it is working. I gained 15 to 20 pounds in said relationship. I've got about five to go now. Weight Watchers works well for me because it teaches portion control and just what the cost of each food I put in my body. Right now, I'm using me as my locus of control. Relying on the internal and not the external....

I wanna live. And I wanna live well. I wanna live for me. And, I wanna to live for my daughter. And, I wanna live--in the ways that are unique to me, using my gifts--in service to my world. And I know that to do so, it's a web of commitment. A dedication that I make each day. And the more I do it, the more natural and innate it continues to become. I choose to age well to the best of my ability. And I choose to believe that age is not a curse but both process and progress.

Hello, 53. Thank you for choosing me today. Happy birthday. To. Me. 

MotherStrong [Special for MusicCityMoms.net]

Today I'm back over at MusicCityMoms.net. I'm talking about the labels heaped on special needs children and more specifically, their moms. And, then, what's the difference between. You. And. Me?

Join me in considering the difference...or lack thereof. Click here.Thanks!

Resurrection [A Partial Easter Re-post]

 

"Happy Resurrection from Fear to Love, from grief to joy,

from ego to Field, from separation to Unity. You are Loved

and kept in the Light."

Photo & quote originally published last, and a much warmer Easter, April 8, 2012. An Easter message emailed to me while I was in South Carolina, from my spiritual teacher, Ken Wheaton.

A Marriage Ends: Is it a Failure, or a Liberation?

A hint of chlorine perfumed my daughter as we left the Y. Zippered and snapped into Gortex, flannel and down--a wool beret on my head, a hoodie on hers--we stepped out into the black night of Friday. A flash of memories streaked before my mind's eye. A deja vu. We've left this Y, the one in the westernmost suburb of town, many other Friday nights, just like this one. Only, two-and-a-half years ago, I left this area I'd called home for 16 years for what I thought was forever. I was marrying up, supposedly, and moving into a posher part of town.

A sick feeling began to seep up from my gut, the third chakkra. I start to fondle words like "failure," "embarrassment." A slide show projected faces of folks here that I'd run into recently. Folks I hadn't seen since I left. Their mouths gaped open and their eyes registered shock and then confusion when they learned I am back. Already.

"STOP!" I yell within to the voice. It is the voice of my Ego. The same voice that I allowed to drive and fake and addict me to a relationship that proved not to be what it first appeared while my true self, my spirit, my consciousness cried out "NO! DON'T!"

"The Ego will kill you, Leisa!" The refrain from my spiritual teacher rebounds in the echo chamber of my mind.

The Ego that on that cold, damp, March night was kicking and punching me as my thoughts crumpled me as if I'd dropped into a crouched position on the ground, hands and arms up alongside my head to protect myself. The same Ego that delivered the fierce kicks and wild swings is the same one that also, at other times, strokes and puffs me.

I didn't understand those cautioning voices back then. Confused, I continued into the relationship that felt so right in some ways, despite the truth-telling of my gentle, knowing soul whispers. I continued because I was a singed moth driven to the flame because that was how love was supposed to feel. The only way I'd known. Love that began with my father and repeated again and again throughout my life.

So, I beat back the voice on that cold, dark night. I told it to shut up and I sat on the lid and held it down until it did. And then, I told myself the truth:

This. That. Was not failure. To leave was liberation. It took courage and tractor-trailor-sized portions of guts. The enormity of that so-called failure finally awakened me. My adversity was opportunity for blessed change, awareness.

So, failure? No. Liberation? Yes.

Yes.

Finding Love?

There. There it was. A sign....A year-and-a-half ago, I walked down the sidewalk from my then rental condo. I had just months before moved out and moved on from Marriage 2.0. There. There on the sidewalk, lay a heart-shaped leaf. I took a picture of it, and shared it some time later as a visual for another blog post.

I showed the picture to my then-new spiritual teacher and said, look what I found! He was not impressed. I was certain that the heart-shaped leaf was a sign from the Universe that, just as I had found that leaf, I would find love again. Actually, I already knew that love was not about seeking and finding. But the message, I thought was that I would have love again.

Yesterday morning, I stepped off the curb in front of my new condo and noticed a gray, heart-shaped stone. This time I understood the message, though it took me about a day to get it.

The message was not about having, attaining, summoning love to me. That is external-focus. The focus, I have learned in the year-and-a-half since I found that heart-shaped leaf, is the internal. I do have love. Love is within me. "So within, so without." All those months ago, I had the message confused as to what would come to me from the external.

How many during this week of Hallmark-celebrated love are looking for something outside of themselves instead of knowing that we have love, we are love? That. Is a complete package. Then, to be in relationship with another is to have complement to the whole. 

Namaste.