Sea Fear

In March of 2012, my oldest daughter and I traveled to the island of St. Thomas to visit my parents who were living there as missionaries. Our first morning on the island, my mom drove us to the beautiful beach of Hull Bay so we could snorkel. She would use my dad's snorkeling gear to show us what to do and where to go, while my daughter and I would take turns using my mom's gear.

That cool, early morning, I was happy to sit on the white sand and read while my daughter used my mom's mask, snorkel, and fins.

I actually had no desire to go in the water that day, partly because I was afraid of the sea and its creatures. I figured I'd gradually warm up to it. Oceans have made me a little nervous since I was four when I was trapped in a wave that pounded sand into every part of me off the coast of California.

My mom said they often saw stingrays when they were snorkeling around the Virgin Islands. That made me think about Steve Irwin who was killed by the barb of a stingray in Australia six years earlier. I had no interest in encountering a stingray or any other sea creature. I would be fine watching and safely reading on the beach. I figured I might eventually try snorkeling on this trip, but definitely not today.

Unsurprisingly, my brave daughter quickly got the hang of snorkeling. Every once in a while, I’d look up and watch her and my mom kicking their fins along the top of the sea with their heads down in the water. They’d rise up occasionally with big smiles on their faces.

Eventually, my daughter walked like a duck back toward me on the beach with water dripping off the mask on her forehead, the snorkel dangling to the side. She was smiling. When she got closer, I was a little worried she’d get my book wet.

"Mom, I swam with a sea turtle!" she said excitedly, "You should see it before it swims away!"

A sea turtle! Her joy was contagious. I was intrigued. I’ve always loved turtles. It was easy to envision my daughter swimming with the sea turtle. I wanted that experience.

 Immediately, all hesitation left me. My desire to swim with a sea turtle overwrote all my fears of the sea and its creatures. My daughter couldn’t get the mask and fins off or hand them to me fast enough. I had to see that sea turtle before it swam away.

After very little instruction, I sat down in the waves and scooted myself into the clear, warm water. With blue sky above and white sand below, I kept my face down and kicked along the surface. I swam in a big circle in search of the turtle. I hoped I hadn’t missed it. 

Then I saw it! The sea turtle was probably no bigger than a pillow, but it was amazing how it moved its flippers through the water. It turned and looked at me as if inviting me to follow. So I did.

After that morning at Hull Bay, I snorkeled fearlessly at other St. Thomas beaches where I touched a rainbow fish and saw a lot of other beautiful sea life. I never did see a stingray on that trip, but my daughter did, and I was happy for her.

Explaining Myself

I'm currently reading a book called Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling by Matthew Dicks. I'm not done yet, but so far I highly recommend it. 

We all tell stories at the dinner table, with our friends and family, maybe in church, or in other settings where we want to share or teach something. I want to tell interesting stories. Dicks has won many storytelling competitions. I wrote the previous two posts in an effort to practice what he teaches. 

I was only half way through the book when I wrote the first "Artist" post. Now I'm about 3/4 into it. After learning each new concept, I have gone back to the "Artist Revised" post and fixed a few things. Even last night just before bed, I read about how endings shouldn't be bold statements. So, I went back and chopped off the ending this morning. It's possible I will continue to revise that post to make it a better story. Or I may just move onto the next one.

My plan is to occasionally practice true storytelling here. I may or may not post the pre-revised versions. I may change names. I probably won't remember everything accurately. The stories won't be perfect. I'm okay with that. 

By the way, I feel like every post needs a picture. I took this one a few months ago when I was on a walk. It's part of an east-facing door to a maintenance access area at our local rec center. I love the blue, the shadows, the weeds, and the reflection. 

Writing stories about the past will cause me to reflect on transformative moments in my life. I'm looking forward to it.

Artist Revised

Almost two years ago, I walked into the beautiful International Folk Art Museum in Santa Fe, New Mexico behind my older sister who is an artist. Everywhere, bright colors, unusual shapes, and wild textures surrounded us. I felt instantly overwhelmed. I didn't know where to look or where to go. At first, I stayed close to my sister as if she could guide me through the maze of exhibits and glass cases. After a while, I sensed she didn't love my shadow, so I ventured off alone. 

Feelings of inadequacy and ignorance around art took me back to sixth grade, to when I stood in front of Mr. Trimble's tall wooden desk and handed him my pastel still-life drawing for grading. I was proud of my work. I'd tried hard and wanted his acknowledgement. I wanted to believe I was good at art too. He looked over my work, nodded, turned over the paper, and wrote an "A." 

Then he saw my name. "Are you Jenni's younger sister?" I nodded. Jenni was just one year ahead of me in school, so he knew her well.

As soon as he found out I'm her sister, with a flourish, Mr. Trimble added a plus next to the "A." Suddenly, it was Jenni's A plus, not mine. I was hurt and a little angry. I wanted a good grade because I deserved it, not because of her. 

It was the last art class I took until a required course in college. In high school, she took art classes, took private art lessons, and was the art editor of the yearbook senior year. I intentionally avoided art and took a lot of math and science classes. 

So here I was feeling lost in the folk art museum in Santa Fe. From a sign, I learned much of the art there was created by uneducated artists using materials they had on hand. Not a lot of it was realistic or perfect. Faces and limbs were out of proportion. Colors weren't always consistent. The work was often quirky and misshapen. But the artists' passion was palpable. It was imperfect, but it was still overwhelmingly beautiful. As I wandered around by myself, it was as if I could hear those artists giving me permission to create.

Turned sideways

When I went home, I purchased several blank canvases. The sunflower picture is the first one I painted after Santa Fe. Ever since, I've been boldly painting on canvases whenever I feel like it. 

Artist

Painting in process

I used to wish I was an artist like my older sister. She was just one year ahead of me in school. She took private art lessons, participated in art shows, and was art editor of the high school yearbook. It was part of her identity. In high school, I intentionally avoided art and took a lot of math and science classes.

It isn't that I didn't have potential. I just didn't want to take art after an elementary-school teacher gave me an "A" for something I drew, then found out who my older sister is, and deliberately added a plus. It was her A plus, not mine. I was angry. It was the last art class I took until a required course in college.

Once my sister left our high school, I discovered art in Mrs. Hewlett's humanities class. I learned to love it. It filled a hole in my heart I forgot was there. After that, I dabbled, but knew I was untrained, especially compared to real artists like my sister. I could appreciate art, but felt nothing I created was good enough. Eventually, I began to think of myself as a "shadow" artist. As in, I could shadow artists and admire them, I could long to be like them, but I could never be one.

Then, almost two years ago, I went to the International Folk Art Museum in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The experience was powerful and overwhelming. Much of what was there was created by uneducated artists using materials they had on hand. Even so, the artists' passion was palpable. Their work was quirky and colorful. It was imperfect, but it was still overwhelmingly beautiful. Those artists gave me permission to paint. 

When I went home, I purchased several blank canvases. The sunflower picture is the first one I painted after Santa Fe. Ever since, I've been boldly painting on canvases whenever I feel like it. 

Am I an artist? Absolutely.

Where I've Been

I'm a communicator. So where have I been for a year and a half? I've been posting on Instagram. Recently, I decided to make my debrogfrog account public.

I may have posted the picture to the right on Instagram. Maybe not. Doesn't it look like a curled-up hand, especially like an index finger?  

This is sort of what I see:

I took the picture February 11, 2021 at Antelope Island. It's one of our favorite places here in Utah. 

The new story I'm writing begins there.

I Wrote a Book!

Today I submitted a middle-grade novel to a publishing company. I won't find out for months whether or not they will publish it. If they aren't interested, I'll search for a literary agent to help me. Meanwhile, I'm preparing to market the book. 

Here are some representative pictures to give a little hint on the subject. My sister painted my son's room when we lived in New York years ago.

Here's part of a mural I created in our hallway a couple of months ago. I used purchased, removable stickers for the spaceman and silver fish:

Tulip Tree Update

The tulip tree has really thrived this year.

Here is a past post about it that links to other parts of its story.

Summer Thistle

Finally Spring

Raccoon Prints

These were at Red Butte Garden yesterday.