I love how my life is punctuated by particular events occuring at the same time every year. There are the obvious holidays, birthdays–and of course the Austin City Music Festival–all fun and much anticipated. For my daughter Maeve, none of these days which mark the “round of the seasons” seem as special as the first day of KAMP at Kickapoo, in Kerrville, Texas. Indeed, just yesterday, we were sitting in the long line of cars leading into the picturesque setting that is Kickapoo Kamp, waiting to drop off her trunk and other bags, when Maeve remarked, “Here we are again!” On this first day of camp, her fourth term at Kickapoo, she went on to share her feelings of anticipation, nervousness, excitement, curiosity. Blessed by cloud-cover and a cool breeze, I smiled as I sat with her in the car and listened, and wondered right along with her which friends would be back, what cabin she would be in (marveling that each year she seems to skip the logical “next cabin”!), who her counselors would be.

When at last our car rolled under the large oak trees near the “Band-Aid” nurse’s station, Maeve learned where she would be living for the next two weeks. She then bounded out of the car and up the hill towards her cabin, meeting several old friends along the way, one of whom, is a “Pawnee” and a fellow vegetarian. I saw Myrtle, the ubiquitious and kindly “keeper of Kampers”, delighted that she returns year after year to participate in the growing of our blessed girls. Laura and Bimmie were in their usual office stations, calm, welcoming and unfazed by scattered parents like me who typically forget some important form to be filled out.

We unloaded Maeve’s stuff in Cabin #3, learned that her counselor Nicole from last year had not only returned to Kickapoo, but would be her counselor this year as well!

It took only an hour to get settled, at which point Maeve hopped down from her top bunk bed, hugged me and said “bye!” A few years ago I might have been taken aback by such an abrupt, seemingly emotionless farewell. However, It was clear that it was time for me to go, and allow my daughter space to make the transition to her camp home. As I made my way back to the car, I didn’t feel sad, I didn’t feel worried, and I didn’t feel teary-eyed like I have in past years. I felt joy and pride at having a daughter so secure with herself–and with her surroundings–that she could part with me in such a simple, lovely way.

Kickapoo Kamp. Certainly not as fancy as some of the Hill Country girls’ camps on the Guadalupe. Indeed, it is downright rustic. Cabins are not air-conditioned, and the somewhat primitive accomodations would seem crowded to the spoiled among us. A few spiders and ants are surely my daughters’ cabin companions, and I wonder how she is going to do her increasingly complicated bathing rituals in a bathroom shared by 8 other girls and two counselors! The food staff do not cater to vegetarians like Maeve, and there aren’t that many places to go if it rains. Oh and those rugged, sharp steps she skips down and up a hundred times each day, coming and going to her various activities. I can’t imagine her navigating them successfully in the dark, flashlight or not!

But the camradarie. The fierce protectiveness of the staff–their absolute confidence in the girls and their ability to thrive away from home, while learning something important about themselves and each other in the process. The loving kindness of Myrtle, the patience and smiles of Teri the nurse, the lively counselors and Kampers who return year after year in this rustic haven. The fun-loving family who own Kickapoo, who LIVE Kickapoo–All of this–and the ineffible “something special” of the place–create two of the best weeks of my daughters’ year.

Last Summer, a parent of one of Maeve’s Kamper friends remarked, “Kickapoo is like the camp that the twins in the (original) movie ” The Parent-Trap” attended. It is good, clean, old-fashioned fun!” I might have paraphrased his remark a bit in the relating of it here, but the gist of it seemed to be, and I agree, that in such a slick, fast-paced world of modern conveniences, it is refreshing to offer our children a healthy alternative: a rustic retreat. Life without air-conditioning? Heck yeah! No internet, t.v., cell phones, video games? Yup. Kickapoo provides a positive “time-out” for girls to reconnect with themselves, with their humanity, their instincts and passions, and with each other.

Without the numbing distractions and questionable pressures of modern life, girls can be, well, girls.

I have done a bit of research on girls camps in Texas. Some look really lovely and sophisticated, boasting of air-conditioned cabins and gourmet food. One camp website showed a picture of young women clad in white, diaphanous dresses. Others , alternatively, look funky and down to earth, offering ropes courses and rock-climbing classes. I took a moment to reflect on our decision to send Maeve to Kickapoo (sight unseen her first year!) and wondered if we had taken the time to explore the other options more fully, would she have chosen Kickapoo? It is really a moot question, irrelevant in my daughters’ eyes. She is most unabashadly “kickapoo for life,” a proud Cherokee who is hopeful about becoming a Pawnee–and perhaps even a counselor some day. There is no question in her mind (nor in ours, after three amazing terms) that Kickapoo is her rightful place in the Summertime scheme of things.

Maeve did have one complaint this year about going to camp, and that was simply, “I want to stay at Kickapoo longer.”

A restless wind stirs up the trees outside my studio. The night is thick with humid air, a prelude to the coming thunderstorm. My mood is neither thick, moody nor dark, but rather light and cavalier. I am drunk with conversation, filled with friendships far and near.

I am giddy with connection.

Not so long ago I stood outside the human circle, pained by loneliness, driven by a goal whose end could only be more suffering: mastery.

I drove myself unrelentingly, my skills improved, my output of art remarkable. Some accolades came my way, and recognition. I got the job I wanted (traveling calligrapher) and realized a dream or two from long ago. But I did not live happily ever after. In my quest for ME, I grew further from essentials bonds of family and friendship. Having crashed and burned (my psyche is so wise!) in a breakdown of sorts, I realized that making art could not be the WHOLE point of my life.

Ah, the awakening. The realization: LIVING is art. Artfully living is the deeply satisfying experience, not merely the solitary and isolating one of sweating over a canvas. Or even reveling in it. I don’t need to be alone to create, and I don’t have to suffer so much existential angst in the process of making art. Give me a good glass of Merlot (thanks, SIDEWAYS, for making Merlot so appealing to me!) friends, family–and especially my calligraphic tribe, and I am content. And I still make art –quite a lot of it–nd I enjoy it a whole lot more now that I am a part of an ongoing conversation with so many loved ones.

There is so much more to say, but the thunderstorm is gathering momentum. I must rush into the house before I get soaked so I can spend these next precious hours with my brilliant 12 year old Maeve who has many concerns about the environment and just admonished me to use canvas bags for shopping.

I am connected therefore I Am.
All is well in my world.

Snow on tulips, hail pelting on me in my friends’ Lake Oswego Garden on Sunday. Is this Ice Age II, or what?

A weekend in Portland, Oregon restored my spirits. As always, facilitating a group of talented and motivated artists leaves me invigorated and refreshed. I taught the class” The Journal is the Destination.”

It was snowing intermittently while we created art!

The week prior to the one in Portland was a bit different. I was in Scottsdale, Az, where the temperature climbed to the 90’s. Shorts and sandals were the order of the day. It was a challenge to re-pack my suitcase for Oregon, diving into my closet where I had already packed away all the winter stuff.

For anyone reading my blogs, please forgive me the mispelling of Senator Obama’s first name. For some reason, I want to leave out the c in Barack. I have since corrected my error, along with a few more. Having been a good speller in my time, I am mortified by these mistakes. Sigh.

And now for something completely different: bragging about Maeve. This Spring, Maeve won first place in a regional speech contest (modern oratory category), as well as first in vocabulary and second in spelling. All wins qualify her to compete at the State level. Ms. Richards is faced with a dilemma: compete at State at the speech tournament, or play with her volleyball team in a pre-scheduled tournament in Houston. Both are the same weekend. One is in Houston, one in Fort Worth. Upon careful reflection, Maeve has opted to play with her team, noting that “she doesn’t want to let them down.” I am very proud of her decision, difficult as it was. I might have been more selfish, choosing to compete in the speech tournament.

Maeve also won first place in painting in a regional art competition last weekend. None of us could attend the show because Maeve and Clark were in Dallas at a huge volleyball tournament, and I was braving snow and ice in Portland, Oregon. Besides this particular art win, Maeve also won a gold key award in the regional Scholastic Art Award competition. We are waiting to see if she places in the national level.

Maeve’s sister Jennifer is soon off on an exciting adventure: a three week trip to Senegal, Africa with her Evergreen State College class. Jennifer has become very interested in politics and world affairs since becoming a “born-again” student at the Evergreen State College, Olympia, Washington.

And for me? No rest for the weary. A soiree tonight, visitors tomorrow, a gala on Friday, and teaching for my beloved guild on Saturday. Somewhere in the midst of all that is another volleyball tournament in San Antonio, Eyeore’s birthday, and an art show for our dear friend Tom Cronk.

My life could not be more full or interesting.

I am tired of being an armchair liberal, paralyzed by anger and disappointment, spewing the hackneyed vitriol so typical of frustrated democrats. Perhaps it is middle age, the keen awareness that my time on this planet is limited. Whatever the motivation, conscious or unconscious, I have made a commitment to something bigger than myself.

And I am not talking about religion.

I am talking about life here and now, in my own neighborhood and community.

Which leads me to politics. My Republican relatives invoke the “no politics or religion” rule whenever my Mother and I come around. Of course, I always refuse to comply with the rule, and there inevitably ensues a tense and heated discussion among us about current events. Indeed, in the spirit of my American heritage, our constitution, our Bill of Rights, I willingly, happily argue. I take a position, I don’t” go along to get along” in my political discussions. What does this accomplish?
I can live with myself and my conscience for having spoken out, for having declared my stance on an issue(s). I can proudly say I am engaging in a right afforded to me by virtue of being an American–the right of free speech. The right to engage in discourse, however uncomfortable it might be for me or for those with whom I am speaking/arguing with, to take a position and argue (loudly, even) for it. I also believe that one can argue (which I do) in a manner where one honors one’s own and the integrity of others.
If you read about our Founding Fathers, they argued vehemently among themselves as they hammered out a most precious document in human history, the Declaration of Independence–and later, the Constitution of the United States. It was through their heated dialogue and debate that something greater than the sum of their individual attitudes, opinions, beliefs, ideals was birthed.

Politics, current and historic. Constitutional law. The current and past administrations, Gore vs. Bush, Bobby Kennedy’s assassination. These are the topics I am passionate about lately. I am revisiting my history books and accumulating new ones. My neighbor and I are starting a book club with a focus on politics and history. We are beginning with Abigail Adams and John Adams.

What, pray tell, has possessed me? I am becoming a political activist. Why now?

I am inspired.

It seems I have been a good citizen all along, voting, helping ( a bit) with campaigns here and there. I am married to the son of the late Ann Richards, former Texas State Governor, celebrity at large. Ann was a ray of hope for me (and many others) in an otherwise bleak landscape of “same old” ,”Good old boy” politics. She was–and is– an icon of hope and progress for women and minorities, and she inspired many to take up the fight for equal rights, among others. I wish she were here to talk to. To argue with, to listen to. But unlike Ann Richards, I have not put my time and commitment where my mouth is. Until now.

I have the integrity, intelligence, commitment and vision of Senator Barack Obama to thank for my new-found passion for political action. I am wise enough to know the folly of attributing rock star status to any mere mortal; but once in a great while, someone comes along who can ignite one’s own vision, one’s own capacity for integrity and “right action”. Senator Obama articulates so beautifully and honestly the vision of an America I can fight for: one where our constitition is upheld and respected, one where there is a restored balance of judicial, legistlative and executive powers ; one with a commitment to go even beyond Johnson’s Great Society and Roosevelt’s New Deal in offering protection and support to our most vulnerable citizens. As evidenced by my own precinct and its motley group of new voters, Senator Obama has rocked us out of complacency with a positive message of YES WE CAN.

I just returned from the Travis County Democratic Convention, a proud and enthusiastic delegate for Senator Barack Obama. My precint 332 was a model of good will and cooperation, neighborly comraderie and support. I felt one with all of them–Clinton, Obama delegates alike.
I listened with empathy and support to my Clinton-supporting neighbors who have worked for years on the political frontlines for women’s causes. We held our signs together (some crudely calligraphed by moi), alternately cheering for one candidate or the other. At the end of the day, after selecting our state delegates (one of whom is my husband Clark), there were more smiles than frowns among us, even hugs. I had made new acquaintences representing both candidates, and 78704 seems alive and well with talented, committed, intelligent people willing to take a stand for their candidates and their political beliefs. These are the folks I will continue to work with and among in the trenches as we trudge along in the political process of shaping and creating our vision of America.

My hope for myself and my fellow democrats working for a change in the White House is that whatever the outcome of the election, we come away with our integrity, dignity, compassion and humanity intact, and that we remain committed to the fight for fairness, equality and justice for all American citizens.

I saw a cluster of bluebonnets in a yard on (yes) Bluebonnet Street today. I am convinced that my upbeat mood is in part the result of being surprised by the vivid shock of blue of these resilient and remarkable Texas blooms, which to me officially announce the arrival of Spring. I had just walked away from the front of Zilker Elementary School, which was cluttered with Obama and Hillary signs, and teeming with a gaggle of campaign supporters–and a reporter from a local news station trolling among them for something newsworthy.

Blue was on my mind as I continued to walk towards my house. I thought: What an odd turn of events it is that the Blue among us–the liberal democrats–would be so pitted against each other in the primary election. Who knew that we would have two brilliant and able candidates (more, actually, because John Edwards was certainly worthy) to choose from. Who knew how difficult it would be to make a decision to vote for one and not the other?

Ah, shades of blue, I thought, as I arrived at my door.

I made my choice of Blue last week. Alas, choosing one worthy candidate for president over another equally worthy one seems to come down to instinct, to gut feeling, to what or who inspires hope; it comes down to what my vision is and who I think can best support that vision for the GREATER GOOD.

I am not feeling blue, I am BLUE and upbeat. I am not into polarization, one side pitted against the other,; I choose all shades of blue. I am caucusing tonight for the candidate who I believe will ignite our electorate to get involved in our democracy, to help our country heal from gaping and profound wounds (spiritual, environmental, emotional, economic). I am at peace with my choice and excited about it.

When I go back to the caucus tonight I will see those lovely flowers in the yard on Bluebonnet street-first of the season–and I will think of the beauty of shades of blue (bluebonnets have a sprinkling of red, too!). I will hug both Obama and Hillary supporters, and I will be proud to be among them all.

I am excited to be part of a great awakening in our country.

Blue is such a lovely color.