Twelve Gifts: ¡Viva la Zumba!

Three mornings a week I shake my hips and shimmy my heart out for a solid hour. Amazingly, I also do this with an enormous smile on my face...for the entire sixty minutes. Besides loving the music and the moves, there is another reason for that smile: Memories.

When I was in college I taught a free Jog-Jazz class at my church at 6am. I am not a morning person and I still sometimes wonder how I pulled it off. When I see my Zumba teacher, Denise, up there on the stage in the “cultural hall” (which is a giant euphemism for a basketball court) I occasionally picture my 20-year-old hard-body self up there teaching a similar class, back in the days of leotards and leg-warmers. And I see the faces of those adorable seniors coming up afterward to tell me how excited they were that their arthritic bodies didn’t hurt as much since they started exercising with me. I got back easily as much as I gave to that class, and I trust it’s true for Denise now. That I am a partaker has such a nice, karmic ring to it.  :)

Soon after my aerobics days, I took an 18-month leave from school to serve a Spanish-speaking mission for my church, in Arcadia, California. Because we were in the melting pot of Los Angeles County, we got to teach people from every Spanish-speaking country in the world: Spain, Cuba, Argentina, Peru...you name it, we found immigrants, taught them, and loved them to pieces. I learned that Latinos are among the hardest workers, with the hardest lives I’d ever seen. Yet they still managed to send money to family members back home, where conditions were far worse. They have generous hearts and passionate spirits. Fun-loving and exuberant, they are masters at creating simple joys amidst the hardship.

Fast-forward twenty-something years. 

Now when I step onto the Zumba floor, I’m not just getting a great workout. I’m getting great memories. When I dance to "Hay Que Llorar" I'm reminded of teenage girls in colorful dresses folk dancing onstage for a dinner party. I hear "El Amor" and remember Leticia Monarrez giving me her favorite sweater when I was transferred out of her area. When we strut to the La Pantera Mambo I envision Hector Vargas playing the hymns with salsa rhythms and a walking bass in el Barrio Quinto de Burbank. During Fuego I see Gretel Martinez doing the cumbia and the merengue with her toddler boys, Gustavito and Armandito. Every song seems to trigger a memory: La Familia Ordinola. Patricia. The Avila sisters. Big, extended families picnicking in Elysian Park. Best of all, when we danced to "Thriller" on Halloween, I remembered a costume party for El Barrio Arroyo when the obispo dressed up like an Immigration officer...because what could be scarier?!?  :)

Sometimes I think about Lupe and her sisters going out dancing on the weekends. Or my friend Allison teaching salsa classes...and staging a Latin dance extravaganza for her wedding. And for just a few minutes I become those people...fun-loving, exuberant dancers with all the right moves and a flair for all things fiesta.  

Finally, the music winds down, and I’m just me. Walking to my car with sweat dripping down my face. Feeling great.

Thank you, Denise.

Because I have been given much...

It was one of those rare moments when time stands still. I was fifteen. An eighty-something-year-old voice on the other end of the line whispered furtively, "Grant's here."

The whisperer was my amazing piano teacher, Becky Almond. Becky had spent most of her life "concertizing" in New York. One of my favorite things about her apartment was a tablecloth on which she had embroidered all of the famous autographs she had collected over the decades: Arthur Rubenstein, Victor Borge, Leonard Bernstien, Count Basie, Carol Channing...virtually any big name you could think of from that era. This same woman loaned my family a Mason & Hamlin grand piano for me to practice on, because she saw promise (and because she loved my mother!).  "Grant" was Grant Johannesen, international concert pianist. He regularly stopped at her apartment whenever he was in town because he loved her pianos. They had become great friends. Becky had called to invite me to her downtown apartment early the next morning to listen to him practice the piano.

Somehow I got myself to her apartment at six o'clock on a Saturday morning. Becky met me at the door, still wearing her pink nightgown, and held her finger to her lips as she ushered me silently into the back bedroom. "He doesn't know you're here," she warned with a conspiratorial wink. She and I stood silently, leaning against the wall, listening to an undisputed genius work out difficult passages, preparing for his next performance. What I heard was awe-inspiring. But an even stronger lesson was how much Becky cared about me as her student.

It wasn't the first time a teacher had done something unexpected to show faith in me and my potential, but it was certainly the most memorable. Later, she hired Grant to give me a private master class, helping me refine a Beethoven concerto I was learning. She quoted my mother a reasonable price...then subsidized the rest of his fee herself. An amazing mentor.

Since then has come a long line of help to further my education: A four-year departmental art scholarship to University of Utah, a scholarship to Otis/Parsons, a scholarship to Cambridge, a scholarship to the Monterey Bay Watercolor Workshop. And I was helped along and encouraged by so many wonderful mentors.

Fittingly, I find myself in a mentor position now. I teach watermedia courses at Utah Valley University as well as privately. I love working with students -- seeing the light go on, seeing growth and progress. I love their energy and eagerness to learn.

One thing that surprised me about teaching was the number of non-traditional students—mostly mothers going back to school to finish their education. Another thing that surprised me is that this group of students would be among -- almost without exception -- my finest students. They work doubly hard, are extra enthusiastic, seem to appreciate their education more...and also in many cases have the biggest obstacles to overcome. Amazing.

In honor of my favorite teachers and favorite students,  I'm giving back this month. 
You'll want to take a peek at the gadget squished into my sidebar on the left. I'm donating to a scholarship fund for single parents at LDS Business College, and I encourage you to do the same.

And, in honor of Thanksgiving (and avoidance of Black Friday) I'm giving away. I'm once again giving away a copy of the lovely Christmas book I illustrated, What Think Ye of Christmas—not just to you, but to everyone on your gift list (up to ten). This is the deal of the year! Worth up to $100. To enter, you'll want to leave me your gift list in the comments below. (e.g. My sister, my BFF, my kid's piano teacher...etc.) For a second entry, click on the gadget and make a donation of any size to the scholarship fund there. Additional entries granted for Facebook statusing, twitter tweeting, blogposting, Amazon and Goodreads reviews of the book, and liking the book on Facebook (link at left). And one more bonus entry for reading and commenting on the story of how the books came to be, starting with the link in my sidebar titled, In the Beginning....

And finally, I'm announcing last week's giveaway winner: Luisa Perkins. Luisa was the first to respond to last week's post, and I find it so fitting that she was selected by random.org. Last week she gave so much, put so much energy into campaigning for Variant to benefit Rob, and now the Universe has conspired to answer that good karma and give back. Luisa is the winner of this giclée art print, currently selling for $95. (Gallery price $190.) Congratulations, Luisa!

"While Shepherds Watched", from What Think Ye of Christmas, by Jana Parkin

An Hour in Five Stages

Stage 1: DENIAL. I think to myself I SHOULD BE FEELING SOMETHING but I am completely numb. The Beatles are in the CD player and I sing along at the top of my lungs, “Paperback writer (writer, writer)” and even throw in the guitar lick...buhbuduheeee buhduh bombomduh... 

Comic relief: Around the point of the mountain I pass this car that is going WAY TOO SLOW in the center lane. Attempting to pass, I speak into an imaginary microphone, entertaining no one but myself: “Hello, officer? I’d like to report a CORPSE driving in the center lane on I-15...”  Then (I SWEAR I am not making this up!) I pass the alleged corpse-car only to discover that the driver does in fact appear to be dead (or at least asleep): Head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth wide open. AAHHHH! I try to keep a wide berth between me and the corpse-car, and continue to keep one eye on him in the rearview mirror, expecting him at any moment to crash right into the median. “Bang, bang, Johnny’s silver hammer comes down on his head...Bang, bang, Johnny’s silver hammer made sure he was dead....” (Miraculously, the corpse continues on autopilot, making all the curves and remaining in the center lane. Hmmm.) 

Stage 2: ANGER. I exit the freeway in plenty of time, giving me a straight shot to Huntsman Cancer Institute, and twelve minutes to park and go inside. Then everything starts going out of control, multiplying so rapidly I let it get the best of me. The directions on the iPhone map are wrong, and I spend twenty frustrating minutes cruising around a spaghetti-ish network of long driveways and one-way circles that makes Los Angeles at rush hour look like child’s play. “Help! I need somebody. He-ehelp me, help me-ee!”  I could feel my blood pressure rising with every wrong turn, until I was no longer singing along, but shouting, spitting out the lyrics like nails out of a gun. How did the music that was helping me feel fun-loving and free-wheeling just moments ago suddenly have me tied up in vicious knots? I turned off the stereo by slamming it down with my fist. Yes I did. Take that, Ringo! 

Stage 3: BARGAINING. I don’t know why arriving a few minutes late has sent me into such a tailspin, but I can feel myself starting to panic, wondering if they’ll even be able to see me if I’m 20 minutes late, if I made this drive for nothing, and will have to do it all again, and if it will take me another two months to get an appointment. I have crazy conversations in my head, making my plea. Finally, in desperation, I pull up to a construction worker and ask how to get to the hospital entrance. So simple. Why didn’t I do this right at the beginning? 

“Help me if you can I’m feeling dow-ow-own. And I do appreciate you comin’ rou-ou-ound. Help me get my feet back on the grou-ou-ound.”  (Yeah, I turned it off, but it’s still playing softly in my head.)

Stage 4: DEPRESSION. I feel completely defeated as I enter the parking lot. The attendant is informative and kind, yet I feel a black hole in my heart as I look for a space to park and make my way through the looming glass doors. I am here but I am still lost. And I know it. I push elevator buttons, put one foot in front of the other, but my world is gray.

Stage 5: ACCEPTANCE. No one says a word or even raises an eyebrow about my late arrival. I am ushered into a back room before I even have a chance to take a seat in the waiting area. My genetic counselor and her grad-student assistant are the perfect combination of competent and compassionate. It is surreal to hear myself reciting details about my family history with utter calm, like reading numbers off a report: My mother found a lump at age 47. She was diagnosed at age 49. She died of breast cancer at age 53. Her sister battled breast cancer three times over several decades and finally passed away at age 83. More questions: Yes. No. I don’t know. 

I realize I have passed through the five stages of grief in the hour it took me to arrive at this place, just footsteps away from the room where my mother took her final breaths. I think I may also have been grieving my own mortality as I approached that place and draw closer to that age, seeking clues to my what own future holds. I received no concrete answers, but every ounce of knowledge I acquire empowers me. I journey home, fast-forwarding through Fool On A Hill and Yesterday, ultimately landing on Across the Universe. Which takes me home.


Note of clarification: I was just in for genetic counseling and DNA testing. I have no signs of breast cancer, other than my marked family history. I do want to remind everyone that October is breast cancer awareness month. 


This post is inspired by  Just Write, an exercise in free writing. {Please see the details here.}  Not sure if I'm following all the rules, or if there even ARE any rules to a free-write, but at least it keeps me writing!

Warning: Hazardous Nerd Disclosure

Once I recovered from my Elton John fetish in the late '70s, I was trained as a classical pianist. I still loved an eclectic range of musical styles, but I became highly sensitized to the effects that certain sounds had on my psyche. Not very skilled at coping with stress, I found myself consistently seeking out music that was calming, soothing and uplifting. In any genre.

One sound that I found particularly grating was the electric guitar. The distortion, the shrieking, the wailing...made me positively homicidal. At one point I would go to such lengths as to read the list of instruments on the back of a jazz album, and if it listed electric guitar, I wouldn't buy it. (I know — extreme. But you need to know this background in order to understand what happened next. )

Our oldest son, Josh, learned to play piano, then trumpet, then percussion, and finally asked for a guitar. We gave him Jeff's old acoustic one. And I really enjoyed hearing him pick out familiar chord structures like "Horse With No Name" and other mellow stuff. He had quite an ear for it and would download chord progressions for songs he liked, and teach himself how to play them.

Eventually he asked for the inevitable electric guitar. I winced at what that could do to the decibel level in our home — let alone the spirit. But we also feel it's important for kids to pursue their own passions. So one Christmas we sucked it up and made a screaming deal at a pawn shop on an electric guitar.

We signed him up for lessons. And I only had to resort to the circuit-breaker a time or two for noise control. (!) A birthday or two later we traded up and bought him a really nice Ibanez. He'd get together and jam with friends, and every once in awhile he'd invite me into his room to hear him play along with a song he was listening to. I'd nod, smile. It sounded pretty good. But what did I know?




Yesterday we went up to hear him play with a band at his high school. I knew they'd been working hard. I knew he had some talent. I was eager to be supportive. But, I realized, I had never actually heard him perform.

And I was completely blown away. Our kid was amazing! There he was, literally the leader of the band—giving cues, keeping everybody together, jamming with the other musicians, wailing on improv solos...even wowing us with a couple of numbers behind the trap set. Who knew?

So now, an even less likely fan than the football mom here, I find myself clapping and cheering from the stands, watching him like a total groupie. His entire school is seated on the bleachers, watching this concert, and we hear throngs of kids shouting “Josh! Josh! Josh!” They’re loving him. And I’m loving every minute of this.

For the past two years we had front-row seats as we watched this same kid in a state of total apathy, ignoring potential we knew he had, literally throwing his life away. I cannot begin to describe the kind of pain that caused. But now, we see Josh discovering his own potential, working hard, reaching goals, thriving. And I find it hard to describe the joy.





Note: I wrote this while I was officially Not Blogging in order to write my novel for NaNoWriMo, but I couldn't resist posting this after the fact. Josh is home with us for spring break this week, and of course he brought his guitar. The good news? is we're figuring out how to jam together, and working on a little classical fusion piece. Could be a metaphor for good things to come.

If only Oscar® had a category for Under-the-Radar...

These would get my vote.

Given my husband’s profession, friends often ask us for movie recommendations. Some of our very favorite films are small, independent pictures that few people see, but contain nevertheless great filmmaking, resonant stories, and important themes. (The emergence of Netflix makes them all the more accessible these days.--I only WISH they were paying me to say that!) So just in time for the Oscars, here are a handful of our lesser-known but long-time favorite movie picks (minus the obvious classics):


Double Indemnity (This was probably a blockbuster at the time, but hardly anyone our age has seen it.) Squeaky-clean Disney star Fred MacMurray (and yes, I actually did some design projects for his lovely wife, June!) plays against type as he plans the perfect murder in this excellent 1944 thriller.

Men Don’t Leave (Netflix, I’m told, doesn’t even have this one. I don’t even think it’s available on DVD. What a loss! But feel free to borrow our decades-old VHS copy!)
We saw this back when we were first married, and we’re still quoting lines from it. One of our favorites: “Your night thing’s on wrong.” (Watch it, and you’ll see why we love it). What this film says about family relationships, love, loss, and the role of men in our lives is poignant and timeless. Jessica Lange gives a great performance, and Joan Cusack’s quirkiness never fails to crack me up!

Truly, Madly, Deeply
A little like Ghost, only ten times better. A romantic comedy set in England, written and directed by Anthony Minghella, that defies conventions, and is understated, unpredictable, honest and (yes) haunting.

Lars and the Real Girl
Such a sweet, honest portrayal of a bizarre yet innocent relationship, and what it takes to move on. I was especially moved by the family and church community’s compassionate response to this unusual circumstance.

Lorenzo’s Oil
Susan Sarandon completely redeems herself after that horrible Bull Durham movie with this indie gem, where she plays a mother obsessed with finding a miracle cure for her son’s rare illness. I can still hear her cooing, “Fly away to the Baby Jesus!

Safe Passage
More Susan Sarandon. A great story about a family with a son who’s a soldier in the middle east. They find out the village where he’s stationed was bombed, and spend a long weekend together waiting to hear word of his survival. What this has to say about family, healing and hope is powerful. I found the garage-cleaning scene particularly moving and mememorable, as it becomes a metaphor for making progress in our lives.


Dead Again
It doesn’t get much better than Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh. Especially back when they were still married. This is a suspenseful thriller involving a past life, and it is unforgettable.

Strangers On A Train
Oh my, the ultimate innocent-conversation-turned-creepy! As per the title, two strangers on a train muse about the plausibility of committing a crime with no attachment. But then it turns out one of them was serious. Yikes!

Children of Heaven
Shoes! A pair of siblings in Iraq try to SHARE a pair of shoes, taking turns racing to school, handing off the shoes as if in a relay, in an effort to prevent one from being punished for losing his. A deeply moving story of siblings and sacrifice, which takes place in abject poverty...and yet the colors are rich!

Waking Ned Divine
That one scene of the old man riding naked on his bike is totally worth the price of admission. But I am also intrigued with the premise.... A man in a small Irish town holds the winning lottery ticket...and dies before he can claim his prize. The rest of the townspeople attempt to secure (and share) the winnings. What a story! What a wild ride!

Millions
Two little British boys stumble across an accident...where a freight train showers them with money...millions! Of course they are hiding it from the adults in their lives, and of course they are being stalked by criminals.

Second-hand Lions
Essentially cast off for the summer, Haley Joel Osment is sent to live with a pair of eccentric uncles. The boy is guileless and unassuming, and the uncles are hilarious! Watching them shoot at traveling salesmen, firing off their shotguns from the front porch, is awesome. --And that’s just the beginning!

Marvin’s Room
We saw this first as a stage play, in a small-but-crowded theater in L.A. Mary Steenburgen was amazing as a woman who holds her family together while caring for her ailing father. Diane Keaton plays that role in the film version, opposite a selfish and estranged Meryl Streep, who is mother to a disturbed young Leonardo DiCaprio. I especially love the lines about the way the light refracts through the panes of glass Bessie hangs in Marvin’s room. Such simple pleasures. This film is surprisingly not depressing, as the tagline states perfectly: “A story about the years that keep us apart...And the moments that bring us together.”

Six Degrees of Separation
An amazing story about deception, and being deceived. Donald Sutherland plays an art critic. Will Smith plays...well, you’ll see. And maybe see a bit too much. (Brief, shocking nudity). What stays with me is the response to the deception, the way they tell and retell the experience until they reduce the entire thing to a cocktail-party anecdote. And I use this line in my art classes all the time: Donald S. tells his son’s second grade teacher, “They all paint like Matisse. How do you do it? Let me study with you.” And the teacher replies simply, “I know when to take their paintings away.” Brilliant!

Captain Abu Raed
An airport janitor finds a pilot’s cap in the trash can and wears it home. The neighborhood kids are convinced he’s a real pilot, and he enchants them with stories of his imagined world travels, ultimately having a life-changing role in some of their lives. We saw this at Sundance a couple of years ago and could not believe our good fortune. We don’t always love what we see there. (Sometimes we don’t even remotely LIKE what we see there.) But this one captivated everyone in attendance, and ultimately won the audience choice award. I have been waiting and watching for it to come out on DVD and it finally was released last month. So now you can find it on Amazon. (yay!)

Sing Me to Sleep

My mother was a singer. And a pianist. And a music conductor. I always think of her as the most joyful and alive when she was directing a chorus. Music was her life. And her life-blood.

We were so privileged to grow up in a home where:

• Late at night we’d drift off to sleep listening to the muffled notes of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata ringing out from the grand piano upstairs.
• We’d come home from school to a live chamber music session (piano, cello, and flute) passionately rehearsing in the living room.
• After Christmas dinner she’d tune all the crystal goblets to a perfect scale and we’d play carols by running our fingers over the rim.
• We’d move the couches and have an impromptu polka party, just for fun, with her at the piano.
• We learned to sing Tender Shepherd as a round before we could even talk.
• We’d sing hymns in 4-part harmony before bed.

So it was only appropriate that when the cancer had finally consumed her entire body and the cheyne-stokes breathing indicated she was not long for this earth, we reached for the hymn books. Now it was our turn to sing her to sleep.

The nurse and the grief counselor told us their hearing is the last thing to go. So even when it doesn’t look like they’re paying attention, when they no longer have the strength to respond, and might even appear to be unconscious, they can still listen.

We each took a moment to say our goodbyes. And then we started to sing. At first it was hesitant, awkward. We fumbled for our parts as we choked back our tears. Gradually, flipping through the hymn book to find our favorites, the most comforting ones, we gained some confidence. Our voices rang out in a rich blend. Sweet Ben climbed right up onto her bed and lay there next to her, crooning softly into her ear with his golden voice.

Then, amazingly, while we were singing “I Need Thee Every Hour,” our voices were somehow amplified, almost as though we were suddenly joined by a growing chorus of angels from the other side. It was beyond beautiful. We were so caught up in the moment, the richness of the music, the power of the performance, we almost didn’t notice...then someone pointed us back to reality, and we watched in awe: On the last phrase of the last verse, right when we sang, “O bless me now, my Savior, I come to thee...” she took her last breath.

And I felt the veil part. As though the very divider between heaven and earth slipped open, just a crack, to let her soul pass through. And in that instant, so full-to-the-brim it couldn’t be stopped, some light and truth and love seeped through from the other side. It filled the room, and wrapped around us, bathing us in its warmth.

I remember feeling so beautiful inside, I wanted to hang onto that moment forever and ever. I have never been so sure in all my life of the reality of an after-life; that her soul slipped away to someplace bigger and better than we could possibly imagine. That she was with God.

I never imagined that her moment of death would have such a lasting impact on me. That over all the years of teaching and training and loving and serving and, yes, laughing...what I would remember best was her leaving...and the amazing cushion of peace she left behind.

I love that — just once — when it mattered most, I got to sing her to sleep.
She told me once she wanted to be remembered as a peacemaker.
And now she is.


The image above is the portrait I did for her funeral program. It was from a photo of her directing a Christmas chorus.