Author: Maria Johnson

coloring the night away

Some of my happiest childhood memories are from moments spent on the floor of this living room, coloring. This picture is cracking me up. You can see the aluminum dinette chair with the plastic upholstery in the dining room, and up against the wall is my doll house. Also aluminum.

In fact, our Christmas tree was aluminum, too. With deep green glass ornaments. And a tacky little green spotlight that made the silver tree shine green. Oh. My.

What can I say? My dad was into the space program — we were whooping it up like The Jetsons.

And that’s me, Judy Jetson, with my hair picked up and flopping off the top of my head. I hated that hairstyle my whole childhood. And then I inflicted it on my own girls. Teehee. It’s so cute.

I spent a lot of time sprawled on the floor…listening to the TV, listening to the grown-ups visiting, listening to my mother play Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck LP’s.

Just plain listening.

It’s why I like to distract myself when I listen to things now. I doodle and fill in letters on meeting agendas, and generally make a gigantic mess of any paper in front of me if I’m sitting through something that I find interesting. It takes me back to a time that was carefree — truly free from any cares. My biggest dilemma was trying to figure out what distinguished the green-blue crayon from the blue-green one.

If only my life could be reduced to the simplicity of a Crayola crayons box, with everything neatly labeled.

Meh. It’s only a temporary and fleeting desire. The truth is that more often than not I tried my hand at creating my own pictures. I tired of coloring inside the lines a long time ago, looking for adventure outside the traditional box with the 8 colors. I wanted the box of 64, with the neat sharpener built into the back.

Yeah. I wanted lots of colors.

I got it, too. The big box, that is. I have no complaints, no regrets. In fact, things around here get more colorful all the time, and I’m happy to throw myself on the rug and enjoy it.

I don’t color anymore — I fill up journals now, but it’s kind of the same thing for me…the sound of the pen scratching against the paper takes me into a little world that’s all my own.

reading is fun-damental

only 9 -- wanna suggest 3 more for an even dozen?

When I was a kid, fascinated by comic books and cartoon adventures of superheroes bounding through the air, I wanted more than anything to have a superpower.

Of course, I never realized that my superpower could be cultivated by my silly little adventures hiding from my mother while I secretly read, not so much forbidden books, as being forbidden from reading at the moment when I should have been doing something else, such as cleaning my room.

My secret place, the space behind the bookshelf that was in the corner of my room, was the perfect hiding place. No one knew I had the strength to move the shelf just enough to squeeze my little body through. Maybe they knew, maybe they didn’t, but I read many books in that little corner of my 10-year-old heaven. And a few years later, read one or two titles that I had no business reading.

In all that time, I was developing a superpower that would be particularly useful in my major, and in my career. I learned to read fast and retain some pretty decent comprehension. I had to read fast. My mom could swoop into my room at any moment to check on my progress.

Believe me, I got busted plenty of times, but it never kept me from going back to the book the minute she took off down the hall.

So now I find myself in the grown up version of those Saturday afternoons. I have plenty of chores to do, Mom-sized, not kid-sized, and the allure of my reading stack is pulling and pulling and pulling. I want to disappear into the little office off my kitchen, throw myself on the sofa that’s too short for my long legs, and bury my toes into the cushions.

I want to read with the kind of abandon I had as a child.

Hmmm. Come to think of it, there are lots of things I should be doing with the abandon I had as a child.

But grown-up me says I have to clean my room, first. And so, I will. Clean my room. And then, I’m gonna read. Cuz it’d be a shame to waste a rainy day.

some quick takes, quickly

Check out the collection of other 7 Quick Takes Friday posts, hosted at Jennifer Fulwiler’s blog, Conversion Diary. 

–1–

It’s raining, and I love rainy days. I expect to get much accomplished today, and it includes a little bit of cleaning, a little bit of cooking, and a little bit of writing. The fact that I got to this post so early is a good sign for that last desire for today: a little bit of writing.

–2–

I got some really good direction for a literary analysis that I need to write. I know that sounds like homework, and it actually is, of a sort, but I’m nerdy that way, and so is the friend who suggested the theme, so…what can I say, I’m in nerd nirvana rereading the book and coming up with a thesis.

–3–

I ate some authentic Indian cuisine this week with a great friend at work. We decided that Wednesdays need to be our sanity days, and so we’re making an effort to get out and breathe and take a mini-retreat. I’ve eaten pseudo Indian fare before — but this meal was exceptional. Also, I’ve made a mental note that this is not a good choice for work lunches. Before you think things went south in the plumbing department, no, not that. I just feel like I smelled like onions and curry the rest of the day. Gum was not enough.

–4–

Put together some poetry. Let me say that I am alternately enjoying writing it and mortified by the feeling it is trite and just plain goofy. But that’s just the usual neurosis. Evidently I need to compose something about basketball. Don’t anybody hold your breath on that.

–5–

So I was going to Chicago. Then not going. Then going. Then not. Finally, I didn’t. And that’s that. No big deal, but I got a bonus day of writing. What’s not to love.

–6–

The CNMC is almost here! Are you going? You should. You really really should. Check it out here.

–7–

I took a mental health day earlier this week…and I have to say, I need to work those into my schedule more often. I take some artist dates on Fridays, just doing a little quiet time with myself kind of stuff and getting some inspiration for writing, but this mental health day was more like an artist date with a friend. It was refreshing, productive, fun, enlightening, goofy, adventurous, eye-opening, tender, wacky, prayerful, educational, and most of all a beautiful blessing. Amen.

starry miami

My cousin Gabriel Trujillo made this picture a little while ago. I loved it so much I asked him for permission to post it here, so there you go, gentle readers, you have the perfect juxtaposition of two things I love — Miami, and Van Gogh.

I absolutely love the blues in this. I have this thing for blue…too much, too much, and not enough. I have a friend who likes cobalt. It’s a beautiful deep blue and I love it, too. In fact, my kitchen is cobalt. It’s the dominant color in a lot of the artists I’m drawn to. I mean, really, what’s not to love about Vincent Van Gogh? But…

for snazzy…I kinda lean toward lapis lazuli…
it sounds so…sexy. I mean, if you think blue is sexy.

And it is. Just ask me.

Jellybeans and other things

I ran into the woman who coached my basketball team, the Jellybeans, when I was a kid in 1971. I can’t wrap my mind around the decades that have passed.

Few people know that I have this secret past as a basketball playing, pony-tail shaking, trouble-making bookworm.

Well. Maybe you might believe the last part of that. The basketball, though, often comes as a surprise. I’m okay with people looking at my middle-aged “comfortable” body and squinting to see if there ever could have been a lithe athlete in there.

She’s still there, moving slower, and less gracefully, but in some way…full of grace.

It has less to do with the muscle memory that leads to flawless lay-ups, and more about the muscle memory of the heart.

I learned many lessons while playing sports. Research shows that girls and young women who play sports tend to have better self-esteem, better body image, and better mental health over all. They tend to delay sex longer and are better students.

Those physical lessons that led to championship seasons and excellence on the court were secondary to the moral lessons that influenced my character and directly affected the kind of girl I was, and the woman that I have become.

For every suicide that I ran, building stamina and speed, I learned that suffering and pain can sometimes be fleeting and often leads to strength.

For every monotonous dribbling or shooting drill that improved my skill, I learned about patience and commitment, and the rewards of hard work.

For every play that was repeated over and over until we operated in unison, I learned the value of working together and perhaps more importantly, that everyone on a team has unique skills. I learned to ask for help when in a pickle, and to selflessly jump into the fray to help when I can.

The coaches who taught me those important lessons were in my life for a season (ha, how do you like that unintended wordplay?) but their influence has been timeless.

I’ve passed along those same lessons to athletes I’ve coached, students I’ve taught, and adults I’ve advised. I’v passed those lessons along to my children.

I live those lessons, I hope, with humility but determination. To be my best. To do my best. To be a good sport. To enjoy the game. To laugh, and joke, and celebrate. To lose gracefully, and perhaps, too often forgotten, to win gracefully.

To remember to drink water.

And finally, to begin every endeavor, whether large or small, in prayer.

Our Lady of Victory, pray for us.

the darndest things chase me down and beat me over the head

I came across this quotation from Flannery O’Connor. Look, I fail to attribute it correctly because I was gonna get around to doing something with this in a lesson, and the scrap ended up hijacked by the blotter, and you know, out of sight out of mind. I’m sure I used something appropriate in its place.

“Don’t expect faith to clear things up for you.

It is trust — not certainty.”

Nice, isn’t it? At the time I wrote it down I must have had some thoughts about trust:  no doubt, trusting in God’s plan (the rest of the quote is talking about faith, after all). Whatever, it was clearly not terribly meaningful at the time beyond the obvious clear message that faith is an act of will, right?

It is, isn’t it? An act — an action! — of the will.To choose to believe, to choose to trust is a hard thing to do.

I like my control issues. They make me comfortable. I like to know that if I do x thing, I will get y. There’s a comfort in that kind of control because I feel that I can influence any outcome based on me and my whims and desires.

Oh my. Kinda messes with the priorities. A little selfish, Maria? Hmmm?

It’s more than that, though. It’s more than feeling I know best for myself, it’s also, and this is the startling part, putting a very particular kind of yoke around my neck. If I do not let go of this control and open myself to the possibilities that God has in store for me, then boy, I’m a loser.

I am choosing the ham sandwich that I can see behind Door #1 because I happen to like ham sandwiches, and don’t dare to believe that behind Door #2 could be filet mignon, or that behind Door #3 is something so wildly beyond my teeny and uncreative imagination that I can’t even imagine it.

I am choosing what I know and what I am comfortable with because I do not trust that there could be something better for me behind Door #2 or Door #3. That is a very sad statement indeed. I do not trust. I do not trust.

That realization hit pretty hard, I’m not going to lie. And I’m going to say, before I sound too pathetic, that it isn’t necessarily a constant state, but something that I must continually work on when it sneaks up on me.

The challenge is in believing that I am worthy of whatever is behind Door #3. I want it. I really do. And I believe that whatever is behind that door is especially for me. I just need to walk myself on over to it and open it.

a poem for a quiet day

to spend time in
your calming presence
and feel the abiding love
that wraps around me
and rocks
me to that quiet
place of contentment
where everything is
as it was meant…
is to be
at peace