Cozumel Dreamin

Giving voice to invisible loss

2011-11-10T12:11:00.003-05:00

Dear readers, please allow me to introduce……drumroll please……..The Moment I Knew: Reflections From Women on Life's Defining Moments!

I'm honored that my essay, What I Gave to the Fire, is included in this anthology.

What I Gave to the Fire is the story of the trauma and immediate aftermath of my second miscarriage, an invisible loss that I could not keep hidden inside. I wrote this in response to a persistent calling I felt to get the story out there. Along with this calling came an amazing pathway to a women's writing community that has supported me in sharing these words on the page and through my voice. I had my doubts about sharing a personal story in such a public way, but my desire to name myself among the women and families who have experienced similar losses gave me determination.

The essay contains a scene in which I'm having dinner with my family at McCormick's Creek State Park's Canyon Inn. it's a comforting scene that occurred a few weeks post-trauma, on a mini-retreat with my husband and daughter, then six years old. This October, we returned for a day of hiking at McCormick's Creek followed by dinner at Inn, where we found ourselves sitting at the very same table as we did seven years ago. We were even seated in the same positions: Olivia, now thirteen, to my left, and Trent to my right. It was one of those full circle experiences for me: an opportunity to take stock of how far I've come; to notice the degree to which the pain and uncertainty have subsided.

I continue to write the full story of how these early pregnancy losses changed the trajectory of my life. With each section I add to the narrative, I become more grateful for my life. Writing has given me a way of healing, identifying beliefs I held that perhaps served me at the time, but I now I see as false: particularly the belief that God had abandoned me.

I continue to be humbled by the amount of time, dedication, and discipline it requires of me to write this book. I now bow in awe to anyone who has ever written a book. Having my essay published in The Moment I Knew has given me fuel to continue writing each essay that will eventually appear in the finished work, to believe that my words are readable and this intimate story worth sharing. If all goes well, I hope to have the first draft of the manuscript done by mid-December.

I am deeply grateful to editor, Terri Spahr Nelson, for selecting my essay for publication in this fine anthology of women's words.

More about the book:

The Moment I Knew—Reflections from Women on Life’s Defining Moments is a collection of essays and poems about those unforgettable times in our lives. Thirty women from six different countries share their personal insights from the wonder and sublime of everyday life to unexpected crises. This is a perfect book to share with a friend or a women's book group.

For more information or to purchase the book, please visit Sugati Publications online. During the month of November, Sugati invites author's blog readers to take advantage of one of the following special offers:

Girlfriends special: Save 25% -- buy two books for only $22.00 (one for yourself and one for a friend) available only at Sugati Publications

Free shipping: Discount code BlogSpecial (to use at checkout)

The book is now also available on Amazon.

Ten years ago today

2011-09-11T11:59:00.004-04:00

I was filled with a sense of calm as Olivia and I started our day. The sky was crystal blue, the sun shone brightly. A yellow cast in the air hinted of early Fall, my favorite season in Indiana. I pulled into the Martinsville Wal-Mart parking lot. I had just dropped Olivia off at preschool, so I had a couple of hours to run errands. The Jeep needed new tires. While I waited for them to replace the tires, I strolled up and down the aisles. The Wal-Mart television network was on video monitors around the store. I was in the women’s clothing department when I started to notice the audio was broadcasting over their speaker system.

“…World Trade Center… bombing…”

The words entered and left my consciousness as I looked for clothing in my size on the clearance rack. I dismissed what I heard, wondering why they were talking about something that happened in 1993. “Must be a historical news report,” I thought, continuing to shop, “I’m glad they caught those terrorists.” As that thought registered in my mind I felt a sense of comfort.

For a historical news report, however, it had an immediate and frantic nature that caused me to listen more closely.

“The World Trade Center is under attack,” the reporter said. The historical feel I previously imagined was gone.

“What?” I thought, “Didn’t they catch the terrorists who did that?” Then I remembered they hadn’t caught them all. It was impossible to catch them all.

I grabbed my purse and left my cart by the exercise wear and went to Electronics. I found an employee at the cash register.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I asked, checking my purse to make sure I had my cell phone. It was there, and on. I was always sure to turn it on in case Olivia’s teacher needed to call me.

“This is IT,” she said while she ripped a receipt from the cash register. She seemed to be so certain, and I wondered how she knew so much more than I.

“What?” I asked, immediately wanting to place all of my trust in her, as if she were my mother, minister, or some other keeper of the Truth.

“This is War,” she said. “We’re under attack.”

An image of fighter jets flying over my house in Morgantown flashed through my mind. My tailbone tingled. My heart started beating faster.

“Are we safe here?” I asked Cash Register Woman, still looking to her for the Truth.

“They’ll probably target areas where there are military bases first,” she replied matter-of-factly. I immediately thought of Camp Atterbury, a National Guard training facility not far from our home. My stomach shifted.

A few people had started to gather around the TV screens, which were now all tuned to CNN. I walked over to see an image of a reporter I didn’t recognize in downtown New York. The image was repeated on screens across the entire wall, like a fly might see it. The camera panned upward to the top of one of the World Trade Center buildings, and smoke was billowing upward against the same crystal blue sky I had just seen only moments earlier outside in the parking lot. Then the news cut to a tape from a few minutes before of the same building with no smoke billowing out. Then an airplane sliced the sky in half horizontally and slammed nose first into the building. Screaming was audible on the tape. My jaw dropped.

A protective urge immediately arose inside me. I needed to get my child and go home. I went to the automotive department. “Is my car done?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.

“Just a few more minutes, Ma’am,” the attendant told me.

I sighed and sat down in one of the plastic chairs in the small waiting area. My senses were amplified. The coffee in the pot on the table in front of me smelled like it had been cooking on the warmer for a few hours. I tried to be calm. I was remarkably successful at flipping back into normalcy for moments at a time, reading the newspaper, watching another customer slide a key off his ring and hand it to the attendant, studying my cuticles.

I was startled from my seat by the sound of my name. The Jeep was ready. I paid for the service, walked across the garage, opened the driver’s side door and got in. I immediately drove to Olivia’s preschool and parked along the curb across from the play yard. They were already outside. The children were a palette of color and energy, painting the fence with water, climbing the pine tree, swinging, pulling each other the wagon. They were enjoying the last carefree minutes of life as they and their parents knew it in America. I approached the gate and captured the attention of Ms. Rebecca, Olivia’s teacher.

“Did you hear what happened?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. Here widened eyes were her only physical reaction. “We’re trying not to show any alarm around the children. Would you like to go ahead and take Olivia home?”

“Please.” I said.

Olivia saw me and came over to the fence. Her blond hair looked almost white in the sunlight.

“Hi sweetie,” I said, “time to go home.” I buckled her in her car seat with extra care.

I watched the news for the rest of the day. Images of the planes flying into the buildings were repeated over and over and over. The people in New York cramming their cars into the tunnel to leave the city. The reporters standing in front of the buildings as they collapsed. I was soaking it all in, not able to process it yet. Just absorbing. Numbing. Not knowing yet how much life was going to change, on so many levels.

2011-09-07T17:52:00.004-04:00

Dear Readers,

In an effort to consolidate the blogs I've written over the past two+ years, I'd like to share a list of links to the monthly (give or take) blogs I wrote for the Poplar Grove Muse from July 2010-May 2011. While you're visiting "The Muse," I recommend you also read some of the wonderful writing you'll find there from a high-quality panel of women writers.

Dreams and Determination (May 2011)

40 Shades of Grey (April 2011)

Summer Camp at Poplar Grove (March 2011)

Footprints on Campus (February 2011)

New Year's Intentions (December 2010)

Eight Seeds (October 2010)

Adventures with Fresh Produce (September 2010)

In Defense of Eat, Pray, Love (August 2010)

Tiger Encounters (July 2010)

Warmly,

Kim

Rip Currents

2011-08-11T22:40:00.006-04:00

Blogger's Note: Cozumel Dreamin is back from hiatus! (At least for today…I don't want to put too much pressure on myself…read on for more context :) When my gig as a community columnist for the Herald-Times came to a close in the summer of 2010, I migrated over to write with a talented panel of writing friends at the Poplar Grove Muse. Now that gig is over, and I am happy to be back here at my original blogspace, Cozumel Dreamin. So, basically I never went away, I just migrated…and I know my hearty handful of readers personally, so this isn't big news to anyone :) Anyway, enough about that.

Last week, my family finally got to take our Michigan vacation. We wanted someplace cooler, less humid than the sauna back home in Bloomington, AND we wanted beach. We got our wish. Picturesque Saugatuck couldn't have been a more perfect place. Think artsy village shops on a river with a beautiful Lake Michigan beach literally around the bend. Think amazing summer art school (Ox Bow) where I'm now fantasizing we'll send Olivia in a few years, as well as be an artist-in-residence myself. Think lovely fresh water beach with soft sand.

Our first full day at the beach was interesting, however. It was quite windy, and there was a visible layer of blowing sand hovering at knee level which added some crunch to our tuna salad picnic. The surf relentlessly pounded the shore all day. Suddenly the "What To Do if You Get Caught in a Rip Current" sign posted at the concession stand became relevant. Nevertheless, my family and I cautiously joined the sizeable number of people playing in the water. The waves were fun to navigate, cresting and foaming, pulling us many yards down the beach from our entry point. I was the first to go and lay on my towel to catch my breath, sand stinging my body, wishing I had a beach chair. I told Trent to watch Olivia like a hawk My protective mother instincts intact, even after 13 years.

Later the evening news reported on the rip currents up and down the Lake Michigan shoreline that day. Some beaches closed due to the severity. People die in these things.

I've been thinking about that day at the beach ever since we got back home. The relentlessness and loss of control was an apt metaphor for my current experience with my professional life. In my effort to neutralize the uncertainty of a freelancer's income, I took on a part time job about 9 months ago. Ever since I took that job, it feels like my income streams have been pounding me like those waves. The illusory captain's wheel has been out of my hands, spinning of its own accord. While I've appreciated the abundance, I've been challenged to maintain it energetically. I've been short-tempered, negative, tired. Abundance doesn't feel so great when you are drowning.

I know there's something for me to learn in this experience (isn't there always?). Maybe it's time to learn how to direct the flow.

I'm not asking the flow to stop, I'm not even asking it to change, unless it wants to. What I'm asking (praying) for is the confidence to get a hold of the captain's wheel and direct my vessel through active waters. This might mean extending completion dates for some projects. This might mean taking a day off if I need to catch up. This might mean quoting a premium rate if I'm being asked to complete a rush job. If all else fails, this might mean saying no sometimes. The world won't stop if I say no.

Maybe I just need to follow the instructions on the sign:

If caught in a rip current:

Don't fight the current
Swim out of the current, then to shore
If you can't escape, float or tread water
If you need help, call or wave for assistance

Feedback, both positive and negative, notable for writer

2010-06-17T17:26:00.002-04:00

by Kim Evans for the Herald-Times

It’s hard to believe, but this is my 28th and final column. A year has blown by, and I find myself writing the parting words I knew I’d eventually be searching for.

I am not fond of good-byes; yet, the time has come. In doing so, I’d like to share some notable moments from my past year as a community columnist:

The online poster who threatened to report me to Child Protective Services after reading about me letting my toddler daughter play naked in the yard back in 2001, citing my poor upbringing by a mother who threw peanut shells down a man’s pants.

The gentleman who sent me letters warning against the elusive “I-me-my” syndrome, complete with clippings of my column in which each of these pronouns was circled and counted. I continue to wonder how one is supposed to express one’s opinion in the third person; however, I was flattered that this reader took the time to write and compare me to Bob Hammel, although I never broke his record “I-me-my” word count.

A large number of online comments followed my column about mothers balancing work and family. I was excited that I seemed to touch on a sensitive topic and stir a public conversation.

I gained confidence in writing about the poor public relations on the part of the Bloomington Area Arts Council and their dealing with the funding shortfalls for the Waldron Arts Center.

I thank the BAAC board member who invited me to meet and discuss my ideas for bridge-building, even though I did not accept the invitation. Suddenly, I felt the responsibility of having my opinion published in a public forum.

While the MCCSC budget cuts largely felt too overwhelming for me to tackle, I was able to write about my Bradford Woods memories. There are still columns to be written about the importance of art and music education in public schools.

It was fun to have my column about the long journey through the College Mall ending in a double rainbow linked online to photographs of the rainbow submitted by H-T readers.

My biggest honor came after my graduation address to sixth graders was published, and I discovered my words had inspired individuals to quote excerpts from this column at local life celebration and graduation ceremonies.

This is when I truly felt the power of connecting through the written word.

As I look back, I see a body of work I can be proud of.

This gig has allowed me to develop my writing voice, and for that I am very grateful to Bob Zaltsberg for the opportunity.

I also would like to thank the H-T editors for writing great titles for me on those occasions when I drew blanks.

A big thank you goes out to my writing community at Women Writing for (a) Change, whom often listened to these columns in draft form and continue to celebrate my words.

Also thanks to my Friday night women friends for all their support; and my family, particularly my husband, Trent, for his constant encouragement, and my daughter, Olivia, for her extremely helpful feedback on my drafts.

And finally, I thank the entire Bloomington community for helping this be such a great place to call home.

Farewell for now.

Starting in July, you can find me blogging monthly for the Poplar Grove Muse and here on Cozumel Dreamin.

All encouraged to take advantage of the collective sigh of summer

2010-06-03T09:54:00.003-04:00

by Kim Evans for the Herald-Times

By the time this column makes it to print, school will officially be out for summer. I can almost hear the collective sigh as backpacks hit the floor and bare feet touch the grass.

At least, that’s how it was when I was a kid. Now it might be more appropriate to say “when backpacks hit the floor and computer keys start clicking.”

It’s hard not to notice how much technology has shaped how our children spend their free time. Author Richard Louv coined the term “nature deficit disorder” in his 2005 book, “Last Child in the Woods.” He argues that the disconnection between children and nature is unhealthy, leading to behavioral problems and obesity.

I can safely say that I did not suffer from nature deficit disorder as a child. Some of my most rooted experiences occurred in nature when I walked for miles, all by myself, through the neighbor’s yard to the pine tree forest where I’d climb trees before continuing through the fields to play in Stoute’s Creek and the old barn in a field adjacent to Ind. 37. I’d spend hours in the summer on this journey, without a worry. My mother never worried about me; not that she was neglectful, but this was a different era.

Times are so different now. Parents think twice before letting their children camp out in the back yard, much less wander miles from home without supervision. After all, the back yard isn’t considered a secure place anymore, really.

Technology gives us the illusion that the world is much smaller than it used to be, and that means law-abiding citizens feel like they are in closer proximity to those who may do harm to their children. News channels emphasize sensationalistic crimes as they compete for viewer attention. It’s hard not to be fearful and we’re bombarded with bad news day after day. It’s safer to let kids stay inside and play electronic games. Instead of staging a backyard variety show, complete with costumes, choreography and scripts, kids can make videos and post them to YouTube for a worldwide audience to view and comment on. Instead of hiking, kids can visit other planets through Super Mario Galaxy.

The point of this column is not to say “technology: bad; nature: good.” If I had a Macintosh computer with simple video editing software when I was a kid, I would have been making movies, too. A Wii would have lured me away from the outdoors much more often than an electronic round of Pong. My point is to encourage parents to support their children in seeking a balance between the compelling pull of electronics and low-tech outdoor fun.

Bloomington offers so many great outdoor opportunities close to home. Use the extra hour of daylight to rent a canoe at Lake Griffy, go fishing, hike in Brown County or McCormick’s Creek State Park, or discover the waterfall at Lower Cascades Park. If you’re home during the day, turn on the sprinkler when the sun is at its hottest. Make homemade Popsicles by freezing fruit juice in ice cube trays. In the evening, poke holes in the lid of a jar, fill it with grass and catch some lightning bugs with your child to light up their bedroom for a night. Set them free the next morning and do it all over again.

Whatever you do, enjoy your summer. This next school year is going to be an interesting one.

An elementary school graduation address to the class of 2016

2010-05-20T09:24:00.001-04:00

Dear Sixth Graders:

So much attention is paid this time of year to high school and college graduations that your important transition from elementary to middle school is often overlooked. Yet this may very well be the most significant transition you will make during your school years.

Yours is the class who grew from Teletubbies to SpongeBob to YouTube. You now find yourselves at the halfway point; six years of school under your belt, and six more years to go. You may have seen the large headline on the front of Monday’s paper that read “Shining Stars: The Herald-Times salutes those high school seniors who are the best and brightest hope for our future.” You may wonder what you can do in the next six years to achieve such an elite distinction bestowed upon only one-half of 1 percent of your class.

This is the time of the year when outstanding students are honored. I don’t diminish their hard work and accomplishments at all. But at the risk of sounding cliche, I would like to present the idea that each and every one of you is a star. No exceptions. Our culture has this thing about identifying stars who stand out above the rest. We have this habit of separating and dividing ourselves into categories. You can certainly see this in our politics right now, and it’s an unfortunate reality in the academic world, too.

I invite you to take a moment at this halfway point to look at yourself and see your unique star quality. Each of us has gifts; by now, yours are probably starting to emerge. What activities bring you the most joy? What can you do well that feels effortless? What projects and creations do you enjoy sharing with others? Do you ever get so immersed in something that you lose track of time?

These are your clues. That secret something you have to contribute to the world is not outside of you, waiting to be discovered. It’s in you, and it has been since the day you were born.

Middle school can be crazy. Emotions and hormones run high. I remember my own middle school experience. Each morning, the entire student body gathered in the gymnasium before the first bell rang, and a fist fight broke out 90 percent of the time. Everyone would gather around to watch until the principal intervened to break up the fight. The reality of middle school can be raw and scary.

But you have your inner compass. Use it to help you navigate these rough waters. It will always help you find your true north. The sooner you claim your compass and learn how to use it, the better.

Life seems to run in cycles. Sometimes you feel like you are climbing up a big hill. You may enjoy a brief time at the top. Then you begin to fall down the hill, either joyfully or fearfully, or a combination of the two. You may stay at the bottom for awhile. Then you gather yourself to climb the hill again. But this time it’s a different hill, because you have the experience of the previous hill behind you.

Elementary school is rapidly becoming the hill behind you. Gather your friends and fasten your seat belts. Your parents, teachers and community are rooting for you. I wish you all the best as you prepare for the next phase of your school career.

Long journey through College Mall ends in double rainbow

2010-05-06T08:44:00.005-04:00

Monday evening I was trying to maintain a sour mood when a double rainbow ruined my plans.

I had grown tired of seeing the hole in my husband’s back pocket worn through by his wallet, so we piled in the car and headed to the College Mall to find him some new jeans.

It was a beautiful evening — a welcome respite from all the rain — and I was second-guessing myself about spending time in the artificial, windowless environment otherwise known as the mall.

But I persisted, Macy’s coupon card in hand, strolling past the pedicure place with the heavenly massage chairs that called me like a siren’s song, past the food court, mostly empty on this night, past the video game store with boys staring at video screens while punching control pads like rats in a psychology experiment, past the barking puppy in the pet store who was about to be fed, causing me to wonder if they display the puppies in those stark cages so you feel sorry for them and want to buy them, past the Deb store, no longer displaying prom dresses in the window, much to my daughter’s dismay as she was hoping to find one to wear to her sixth grade dance next week (she wants to make an impression), past the kiosk that sells colorful cell phone face plates to suit every personality — I was especially drawn to the one with a rendering of Capt. Jack Sparrow — past the shoe store with multi-colored Chuck Taylors on display in a pyramid formation, past (yes, we took the long way) the Japanese massage place, which oozed Zen more so than usual, past the store formerly known as Kirlin’s Hallmark, strangely gone after so many years in its corner location, past the ultra-bright Pink store, and finally to the white star on a red background also known as Macy’s.

Shopping for jeans with my husband is an anti-climactic affair. He knows his size, and he knows his style. He tries them on to confirm the fit, and he’s done. He wasn’t tempted by the pink-striped dress shirts or the pastel checkered Bermuda shorts on display near the checkout counter. He just paid for the jeans and was ready to go.

On our reverse journey, we picked up some subs (an evening off from cooking was my perk for the excursion). As we finished our meal, we were surprised to hear rain hitting the dome over the food court. We approached the exit and saw it was indeed pouring outside. We decided to wait out the rain for a few minutes, and soon, the sun was shining again. The conditions were right for a rainbow. And sure enough, it was there: a glorious double rainbow — two complete arcs over the Target store, a vivid inner arc with a more faded outer one. Several people gathered to take in the sight. We agreed it was the best rainbow any of us had seen in years. I snapped a photo and promptly uploaded it to Facebook. Soon photos of the rainbow from all across town appeared.

Maybe the rainbow was of the secular variety, marking the grand opening of Target’s expanded grocery section. Or maybe it was a sacred welcome rainbow for the Dalai Lama’s upcoming visit. Or maybe this rainbow was an early Mother’s Day gift. Whatever the message, it lifted my mood and gave me something to write about. And for that, I am grateful.

Kim Evans is a Bloomington native and IU graduate who moved back to Bloomington in 2005 to open her graphic design studio, raise her family and circle back to her writing. She can be reached at kimevans_columnist@att.net.

On this night, a life lesson took priority over school research project

2010-04-22T08:46:00.002-04:00

By Kim Evans for the Herald-Times

Parenting for the past 12 years has proved to be an ongoing lesson in improvisation. Take Monday evening for example. Much to my daughter’s chagrin, I found myself pushing her to spend time on a school research project. With the project due in two weeks, I was trying to impart the wisdom of spreading out the work rather than waiting until the weekend before to cram it through, which is always painful.

We’re in the thick of our battle of wills when she decides to step out on the back porch. A moment later I hear, “Mom, there’s a hurt bird out here!”

My eyes immediately find the guilty-looking cat across the room.

I had left the porch door open. My husband had been laying a concrete stoop outside the back door all weekend, and the door had been off limits while the concrete set firmly enough to step on. This was the first evening our pets were enjoying the rediscovery of their passageway to the Great Outdoors — a little too much. Bird feathers were scattered over the new concrete.

So the homework was put on the back burner in an attempt to help the bird. A shoebox was found, air holes cut in the lid, and cushy socks were stuffed inside to form a bed. The bird, a beautiful medium-sized robin, had an injured wing, and there was blood on its tail feathers, which corresponded to the blood on the cat’s chest.

It seems like we have to relearn this lesson all over again each spring. Don’t let the cat outside. I forget over and over again that our sweet cuddly kitty named Morgan is an expert huntress.

My daughter placed the robin in the shoebox and found a safe haven in the garage. We decided if it survived the night, we would deliver it to WildCare in the morning.

She worried about the bird, checking on it frequently. I was touched and a little surprised that she hasn’t yet outgrown her tender heart toward animals, a tenderness that she has acted upon many times over the years, from raising tadpoles to rescuing worms from the sidewalk to persuading us to adopt the very cat who captured this bird. It was clear to me that she wasn’t using this as an excuse to avoid her homework, so I decided to stop worrying about the class project and rode out Mother Nature’s lesson with her instead.

We kept rethinking what would be best for the bird. We talked about the pros and cons of releasing it back to nature versus keeping it safe in the shoebox. She checked on it again. This time when she lifted the lid, the bird was able to jump out of the shoebox, but it wasn’t able to fly. This confirmed our decision to keep the bird in the box overnight.

We took a break to walk our dog, and when we returned, the bird had died. I found a flashlight and accompanied my daughter to the garden shed to find a shovel. She wanted to bury the robin — whom she named Fawkes — under a tree in our back yard.

As she gently placed Fawkes in the grave and said her good-byes, I made note of how her actions on behalf of the bird were so much more effortless than the research project. Life’s best lessons don’t always come from books.

And I hereby resolve to keep my cat indoors for the remainder of the season. You hear that, Miss Morgan?

‘Kids Compose!’ program magically brings student melodies to life

2010-04-08T08:09:00.002-04:00

by Kim Evans for the Herald-Times

It’s not every day that an elementary student has the honor of hearing a melody she wrote performed by an ensemble from one of the top music schools in the nation.

But this is Bloomington, and magical things happen here, magical things such as the “Kids Compose!” program that allowed my daughter to experience this honor last week.

Kids Compose! was started here in Bloomington in 2006 by Debbi Ponella and Ruth Boshkoff, and it is a wonderful example of the university reaching out to the community in the name of music education.

Here is how it works. In the fall, elementary school children from grades two through six are invited to submit original melodies for consideration. In my daughter’s case, she collaborated with two classmates to compose a melody on the xylophone during music class. Her music teacher, Maggie Olivo, provided support and assisted the girls with notating the melody on the page.

The winning melodies were selected and given to talented IU Jacobs School of Music composition students to arrange into fully-scored compositions. My daughter’s melody was woven into an arrangement by Max Grafe, and performed by the Indiana University Concert Band, under the direction of Paul Popiel.

This concert was last Wednesday at the Musical Arts Center for an audience of MCCSC second graders. When announcer Sally Nicholson asked how many audience members were visiting the MAC for the very first time, many small hands shot into the air. I enjoyed watching smiles appear on the faces of band members as they entered the stage and looked out at their young audience. Throughout the concert, the audience members squirmed and moved in their seats but remained quiet and attentive to the performance. I was impressed at the efforts of students and teachers to maintain a respectful atmosphere for the hour-long performance.

My daughter and her good friend/musical collaborator sat patiently in anticipation of hearing their melody. After an excellent performance of symphonic repertoire, the Kids Compose! portion began. The winning composers were invited to the stage to meet their arrangers and hear how they adapted their melody into a full piece.

After the composition students briefly described the creative process behind their arrangements, the melodies for each piece were played in their original form by a solo instrumentalist. Then the full ensemble played the piece as arranged by the composition student. It was fun for my daughter to hear her melody played on the tuba, then jazzed up for the band arrangement.

I’m not sure if the significance of this experience has fully sunk in with my daughter yet. It’s easy to forget that we have a world-class music school in our back yard. I can’t count how many times my husband and I, both products of public school music programs, and in my husband’s case, a Jacobs School graduate, have sworn to attend more musical events at IU, so many of which are free.

But it is nice to know programs such as Kids Compose! exist and have managed to escape the budget cuts that are plaguing arts education. Special thanks go out to all involved in this program: Dean Gwyn Richards from the Jacobs School of Music; Ruth Boshkoff and Debbi Ponella, program coordinators; Max Grafe, IU composition student; Paul Popiel and the IU Concert Band; and Maggie Olivo, music teacher at University Elementary school.

Spring Break trip renews college memories, reveals Mayan wisdom

2010-03-25T08:51:00.004-04:00

by Kim Evans for the Herald-Times

I’m writing this column fresh from my spring break trip to Mexico. My family and I went on a cruise through the Gulf of Mexico to the Yucatan Peninsula where we visited the Mayan archaeological site of Chichen Itza and the beautiful island of Cozumel.

This was my third trip to the Yucatan. I think it’s my favorite place in the world, and it made me reflect back over my previous trips there.

When I was a psychology student at IU, part of my degree requirement was a “culture study” component in which I took a block of courses related to a specific culture of my choosing. The culture I chose was Mesoamerica, which included study of the Olmec, Maya and Aztec civilizations of Mexico. This is how my fascination with these cultures began.

My favorite class was in Fine Arts, a study of Pre-Columbian art. I was captivated by the symbolism of these people. We studied stone carvings of the jaguar, feathered serpent and human forms ranging in size from colossal heads to tiny figurines carved from jade. The architecture of these civilizations was amazing as well. The 90-foot tall pyramid of Kukulkan in Chichen Itza was designed so that twice a year, on the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, the shadows and light play down the side of the pyramid to give the appearance of a serpent descending into the ground.

Immediately after graduating, I was compelled to take a trip to Mexico to visit some of these mystic places. At age 23, it was quite a journey to take on my own. I made my home base in Cozumel. From there, I booked excursions to the ancient sites of Tulum and Chichen Itza. I recommend a trip like this to any young woman after graduating from college. It was a rite of passage for me into life after college.

The next time I visited Cozumel was on another cruise with my parents, husband and 5-year-old daughter. We swam with the dolphins at a marine park.

And this time our trip was more educational. Our daughter had just finished studying the Maya and Aztec cultures in her sixth grade class at University Elementary, so we thought this would be a perfect opportunity to bring her classroom learning to life.

On the bus ride to Chichen Itza, our tour guide told us about the Mayan calendar. Of Mayan ancestory himself, he mentioned the prophecy of 2012 that Hollywood and others have depicted as a doomsday event. His take on 2012 was much different. To the extent I can recall the lesson he gave us on the Mayan number system and the sophistication with which they measured time, he simply said Dec. 21, 2012, is the date when the Mayan long count calendar ends. No fear. No freak-out. Simply the end of a cycle.

My take on it is this: What humanity does with this transformative time is up to them. It is an ending, but it is also a beginning.

And so I’m back home in Bloomington. The first thing I checked was my daffodil garden. They had thick buds ready to pop, but none had opened yet. Two days later, they bloomed. I was happy they waited for me to get home.

Spring comes to Bloomington — not a moment too soon

2010-03-11T12:19:00.002-05:00

by Kim Evans for the Herald-Times

Last night the geese came back,

slanting fast
from the blossom of the rising moon down
to the black pond. A muskrat
swimming in the twilight saw them and hurried
to the secret lodges to tell everyone
spring had come.
And so it had.
By morning when I went out
the last of the ice had disappeared, blackbirds
sang on the shores. Every year
the geese, returning,
do this, I don’t
know how.

(excerpt from “Two Kinds of Deliverance” by Mary Oliver)

This is a challenging time for a columnist. Let me rephrase that — this is a challenging time for this columnist. Why, you ask? A simple, one-word reply sums it up nicely:

Spring.

This week the sun, warmer temperatures and birdsong have made it tough to concentrate on anything but the outdoors. V-formations of warbling Sandhill cranes have been flying overhead in their northerly migration. I recall seeing and hearing the cranes flying south on the day after Thanksgiving. And now they’re coming back. Those few months went fast.

But then again, they went oh-so-slowly. It’s been a long winter.

Like the muskrat in Mary Oliver’s poem, people are in motion, shaking off the winter dust. Driving in Bloomington has been erratic recently. In some ways, we are newborn colts eager to balance on our legs so we can run free. Traffic signals and lane markers are less important in times like this. Extra vigilance is called for when traveling through town.

So this column isn’t about the Waldron or education cuts. My mind cannot find words about these topics, as important as they are, when my heart is enamored with the daffodils sprouting out of the ground.

It’s simply time for a break.

Many of us who are traveling for spring break will be thrust into a drastic change of scenery. My family of three will be traveling opposite the migration patterns, southward to a warmer climate and ocean waters. We decided a blast of summer would help us get through the last few weeks of winter.

Those who stay home will witness more subtle changes. Trees and flowers are budding; the Earth is waking up. Not wanting to miss a minute of this transition, a part of me wishes we were staying home to watch spring come to Bloomington.

After break, we begin to eye the end of the school year. We begin making plans for graduations, reunions, summer vacations, camps, and home improvement projects. My husband and I will begin planting our garden. I’ll plot to repaint the chairs on our front porch. We’ll rake the flower beds and seed the lawn. The birds we have been neglecting all winter will have seed in their feeders again.

But first, we rest. We soak up the sun, visit new places. We find time to slow down and catch our breath before the rush into summer begins.

And the daffodils will still be here when I return. I wonder if they will bloom while I’m gone.

2010-02-25T07:20:00.001-05:00

Camp songs and cold hot dogs:

Bradford Woods memories last a lifetime

by Kim Evans for the Herald-Times

"I have lost my underwear. I don't care, I'll go bare. Bye, bye long johns..."

1977: I learned this song (to the tune of “Bye, Bye Blackbird”) as a fifth grader at Bradford Woods. I’m sure my Arlington Elementary classmates remember our counselors teaching it to us on the first night of camp in the dining hall after dinner.

“Oh, they were so dear to me, tickle me, hee, hee, hee. Bye, bye long johns ...”

We also learned how to square dance and tap maple trees for syrup. During crafts, I personalized a leather bracelet by pounding my name into it with a mallet and metal letters. I wore my hair in a bandana all week. My group had to stay in one of the old cabins, while the lucky ones got the new cabins with reading lights built in to each bunk. My friend showed me a letter she was writing to her best friend in Ohio. I wrote to my family. I treasured one whole week of adventures in the woods, snoozing in my Campbell’s Soup sleeping bag each night.

“Oh how I miss that trap door there behind me .”

1984: Fast forward to my senior year of high school, when I had the opportunity to return to Bradford Woods as a counselor. After meeting the girls in our cabin, I wondered if I was this small, curious and excited only seven years ago. One of the privileges of being a counselor was getting to stay up late with a teacher and listen to the IU vs. North Carolina basketball game on the radio. Not wanting to wake the girls, we stifled our cheers as IU won the game and advanced to the next round of the NCAA tournament.

“If you see them you’ll know where to find me .”

2008: Fast forward again. Now, I help my daughter roll up the old Campbell’s Soup sleeping bag, which I’ve saved for this very occasion. I deliver her to the gymnasium at University Elementary, where she learns of her cabin-mates and meets her counselors. Even though the Bradford Woods program has been cut to two nights only, it’s hard for me to let her go. She’s done sleepovers before, but this fifth grade camp thing feels more like a rite of passage.

“I have lost my underwear. I don’t care, I’ll go bare .”

Two days later, I hear joyful laughter from the buses as they return and pull up to the curb in front of the school. I wade through the sea of luggage and parents reuniting with children to find my daughter, stepping off her bus as happy as I’ve ever seen her, singing a new song she learned at camp.

She’s full of stories about how they got drenched by a surprise rainstorm on their first night, eating cold hot dogs on the hiking trail because the fire wouldn’t start, learning archery and having to get out of bed at 5:30 a.m. to raise the flag.

“Long johns, bye-bye.”

1977: After our last meal, we heard a commotion outside the doors of the dining hall. Our craziest counselor came running in, waving a pair of underwear on a branch. His underwear was found. Laughter erupted, followed by wild cheers and a memory was sealed in my mind forever.

And now this unique program is on the cutting room floor. I hope our community will support a referendum or another funding source can be found to save the Bradford Woods experience for future generations.

Winter storms shift life to an interesting state of suspension

2010-02-11T09:24:00.001-05:00

by Kim Evans for the Herald Times, Bloomington, IN

It’s Monday night. Snow’s in the forecast again.

Tomorrow morning I’ll be listening to the radio as they run through their list of school closings. Bartholomew...Bedford/North Lawrence...Brown County...Eastern Greene...Richland-Bean Blossom...Martinsville... and ... and ... time stands still...will they say Monroe County schools?

If they do, the decades-old snow-day-butterflies-of-joy will resurrect in my stomach and flutter a happy dance once more. When I was a kid, MCCSC was always the last to declare a snow day.

As a self-employed mother of a sixth-grader, I have the benefit of flexing my hours when needed, which means a snow day offers the opportunity for a slower morning pace, more time under the warm covers, and the opportunity to reminisce about winters past.

I was a sixth-grader when one of Mother Nature’s biggest snowstorms, the Blizzard of ’78, moved through Indiana.

This was an exciting storm. My family and I huddled around the news broadcast on the small black and white television in our kitchen. A little “Blizzard Warning” box was a constant reminder in the corner of the TV screen. I was enthralled. I never wanted that little blizzard box to leave.

Campus was shut down, so my parents got to stay home from work. They joined my brother and me for a marathon session of Monopoly on the card table in the living room. We kept the game going for the duration of the blizzard, taking breaks only for meals, sleep, to check the weather report, or to gaze out the window. I think each of us bounced back from bankruptcy at least once, borrowing Monopoly money from one another to get through the rough patches.

It was a sad transition for me when the storm finally passed through our part of the country and the news station removed the blizzard warning box. But the next phase of discovery was about to begin. We ventured outdoors to explore the pristine Arctic landscape left behind.

Getting the door open was our first challenge. A snow drift reached halfway up the door. Once we dug out, it took several hours just to shovel the sidewalk, resulting in snow banks up to my shoulders on either side. The wind had sculpted interesting curves and drifts in the snow around our house and trees. My brother and I couldn’t resist jumping into a drift by the house that reached over our heads!

Our house sat a quarter mile from the highway, and with pioneer-like determination, we trudged our way to the road to survey the scene. We finally arrived, only to discover the highway was no longer discernable. I remember the odd sensation of playing in the road, eerily silent, without a care of traffic.

Eventually the roads were cleared and life slowly resumed its normal pace. The string of snow days had reached a total of nine, and returning to school was like returning from a long vacation break. Teachers sent home thick “snow packets” filled with make-up schoolwork. It was time to shake the snow out of our heads and get our minds working again.

We now fast-forward up to 2010. By the time this column makes it to print, we’ll know if the 5 to 8 inches that was forecasted actually made it to the ground. For now, life is in a temporary state of suspension; a nice break from the normal routine.

Bloomington loves the Waldron, but do we trust the BAAC?

2010-01-14T10:26:00.004-05:00

By Kim Evans

The Herald-Times, Bloomington, IN

OK. The cat’s out of the bag. The Bloomington Area Arts Council has been operating on a deficit averaging $183,000 for the past six years.

It’s strange how this has been kept relatively quiet, until the latter part of 2009 at least, when the red flags began flying as the arts council suddenly announced a drastic increase to rental rates for performance spaces at the Waldron Arts Center.

And now we have the sudden announcement that $120,000 must be raised by March 1 or the Waldron’s doors will close.

One thing that can be surmised with certainty is the current BAAC is great at making big, jarring, sudden announcements with regards to finances. As a result, they have created a public relations nightmare.

The people of Bloomington may be hard-pressed to find anyone who is willing to step forward and help bail out an organization that has failed to maintain consistent leadership, adequately manage the Waldron or make efforts to forge good relations and transparency with the people and arts groups it serves.

The current BAAC board members insist they inherited the management troubles. In their recent seven-page press release, they reveal that they have been doing some homework and have mapped out a viable action plan. They are correct in their statement that “.it is therefore essential that opportunities to generate more income from building sources are leveraged at the same time the fundraising activities are pursued.” But do we trust this particular organization to follow through on this mission, while maintaining good will with the public? At this point I would say no, unless some serious bridge-building takes place. Fast.

Arts and business make strange bedfellows. It’s in our biology: Creativity and analytics reside in opposite sides of the brain. This separation is precisely what is being played out in this scenario. And the creative side — in our culture, anyway — is undervalued, which leads to a perceived imbalance of power.

Perhaps this imbalance is what led the BAAC to feel justified in laying the hammer down on the arts community, only offering an explanation in hindsight. And perhaps this imbalance is why the realities of the finances have been swept under the rug for so long (“it’s just for those crazy artists, anyway .”).

We are definitely in a new era of accountability.

It does makes sense that the rates for arts education and space rental at the Waldron need to be raised. It also makes sense that some serious fundraising efforts need to occur — pronto — so that patrons don’t have to completely foot the bill.

People do need to realize that the city subsidization of the building ended when they gifted it to the BAAC. The space needs to be self-sustaining. And it is not cheap to deliver arts education and services. I know this from my own experience in shared leadership of an emerging writing program in our community.

Whatever entity ends up managing the Waldron after March 1 needs to understand how crucial it is to develop and maintain solid relationships with the public. If this occurs, my sense is that while people may not be eating out of the palm of the organization’s hand, they will make an effort to understand and do their part in sustaining the gem we know as the Waldron.

And I won’t even enter into the debate about the necessity of the arts in society. They are necessary. Period.

Kim Evans is a Bloomington native and IU graduate who moved back to Bloomington in 2005 to open her graphic design studio, raise her family and circle back to her writing. She can be reached at kimevans_columnist@att.net .

A look back over the past decade brings wisdom for the future

2009-12-31T15:10:00.004-05:00

By Kim Evans
From the Herald-Times, December 31, 2009

Today, we find ourselves on the cusp of a new year and a new decade, a significant time to write a column. This calls for another visit with The Fortune Teller.

Her parlor smells of lavender and mint. The curtains are pulled over the windows for now, so we can focus on the task at hand. She gently places her crystal ball on the table. She is glad to be back, eager to reveal messages that may be helpful at this time.

“What is your question?” she asks.

I think for a moment, then say, “what do my readers and I need to know as we enter this new decade?”

She nods and centers herself, then begins moving her hands over the mysterious orb. I notice a new ring on her hand. She winks. A gift from a loved one.

The fog inside the crystal ball begins to clear, revealing a scene from Australia’s Sydney Harbor. I recognize this scene: the millennium celebration on New Year’s Eve, 1999. A gigantic smiling face on the Harbor Bridge, lit up, winking beneath fireworks shooting endlessly into the night sky.

“This decade began with a peculiar mix of hope and fear,” she says. “We were full of hope with the coming of the new millennium, yet we were so afraid of the unknown, embodied in the Y2K scare, which never materialized.”

Sydney and the fireworks fade away, and a new scene is revealed from beneath the Fortune Teller’s hands. Under a bright blue sky over Manhattan, the airplane crashes into one of the World Trade Center towers.

“This is how our fear was manifested,” she says. “In the absence of solid leadership, our nation spent the next seven years scrambling and fumbling in the shock waves.”

She cups her hands around the ball again. The scene changes to the mall in Washington, D.C., on a frigid day, filled with masses of people. Barack Obama stands at the podium, preparing to give his inauguration speech.

“Here is where hope made its return,” she says. “The final year of this decade began with a similar mixture of hope and fear as did the decade as a whole.”

The Fortune Teller relates this to her own life. She sadly recalls a recent gathering in which a family member turned her back on her because of their differing political beliefs. This had never happened before. In spite of differences, politics had never caused a rift like this in her family.

She redirects her attention back to the crystal ball as it reveals a final scene. The Grand Canyon, seen from above in all its vastness. A beautiful, undeniable split in the earth. We pan right down into the split, revealing layers of complexity on either side.

“There is wisdom in this complexity,” says the Fortune Teller. “We are living the split right now. Rather than fighting it and feeling hostile toward the other side, we need to explore its complexity. Difference can be seen as a gift. We need to put our fear aside and seek understanding. I challenge you to go to the person most different from you and begin a conversation.”

I notice my resistance to this challenge. To be honest, I’d prefer to wait for the “other side” to approach me first. This is something to think about.

I thank the Fortune Teller for her messages and weave them into my intentions for the coming year.

Seasonal rituals and objects transcend the moment, open the heart

2009-12-17T09:34:00.001-05:00

By Kim Evans

As I sit nestled on my living room sofa, I glance at our Christmas tree and think about how every tree tells a story.

We cut this tree on our annual pilgrimage to Fowler’s Tree Farm, where we have found our tree almost every year since I was a girl. Each time I set foot on this particular piece of land, I remember myself at age 8 in my orange flowered coat with the fur-lined hood, hiking on the hill that overlooked many magical acres of Christmas trees in their natural form.

Early in our marriage, my husband and I were opposed to the idea of killing a tree just for use as a decoration in our home. So we went to the tree farm and pulled what I recall was a large branch off a brush pile. The proprietor let us take that one home for free. The following year, I came to the conclusion that Christmas trees on a farm were planted with the intention of being cut, therefore I wasn’t violating any laws of nature. I am glad I allowed myself that process, because it’s no good kicking off the holiday season with a sense of guilt.

Last weekend we joined my mom and dad and went to Fowler’s again. I was sad to learn that owner Harry Fowler had passed away earlier in the year at the age of 93. With this reminder of how quickly time passes, I wonder if my daughter will continue enjoying the tradition of visiting the tree farm as she grows into her teen years. So far I see no signs of her enthusiasm waning, and I value the significance of the shared experience with her grandparents – a special bridge between three generations.

I look at our tree again, now decorated and glittering with lights. I could write an entire story about the ornaments alone. There’s the God’s eye I made in kindergarten, a simple decoration formed by criss-crossing two twigs with yarn woven around in a diamond pattern, forming a bright orange “eye” at the center. There’s also the pine cone I spray-painted and sprinkled with glitter that same year. I’m so glad my mom saved these treasures for me.

I see the white star from Olivia’s first year in preschool, colored by her small hand with blue marker and garnished with gold glitter.

I see the small scroll of sheet music for “Silent Night” hanging from a low branch, a gift from one of my husband’s students during his band directing years.

My favorite ornaments are the ceramic Rudolph, Clarice, and King Moonracer purchased in 1999 at the Morgantown IGA. Each year I pull these boxes out of our ornament bin, slightly more tattered than the year before, I remember our home in Morgantown and the transitional years we spent there.

Seasonal rituals and objects contain keys to our history, and holding them opens up a part of our heart that transcends the moment. This is a real piece of magic, a wonderful gift, if we slow down enough to notice.

Communication needed to find affordable rates for Waldron Arts Center

2009-12-03T08:12:00.009-05:00

By Kim Evans

December 3, 2009 The Herald-Times, Bloomington, IN

Maybe I’m clairvoyant.

A few nights ago, I dreamt of jumping from a very high place into a body of water. I was airborne for quite awhile, which gave me plenty of time to wonder how much it was going to hurt once I hit the water.

The very next day, I took my daughter to see a movie with a scene eerily similar to my dream, shown from the perspective of the lead character as she dove off a high cliff into the waters of the Pacific Northwest.

So let’s entertain the idea that I am clairvoyant, a fortune-teller who sees past, present and future.

This fortune-teller now places her crystal ball on the table. She moves her hands over the ball in circular motion. A mist forms inside. She is transported back to 1993, the date of her wedding. The setting is the John Waldron Arts Center. Hers is one of the first weddings to be held in this space after its renovation. Show tunes from “West Side Story” are played by a brass band as the guests are seated. She walks down the aisle and stands at the altar facing her husband to be.

Afterwards, the happy bride and groom descend the stairwell and make their way through the joyous crowd to the limo waiting outside on Walnut Street.

The scene fades out as a new vision emerges within the crystal ball. It is 2006, and there is an 8-year-old girl in costume performing on the very same stage where her parents were married 13 years earlier. The fortune teller unmistakably recognizes this is her daughter portraying Chip, the teacup in the musical “Beauty and the Beast,” a performance by a local children’s theater group. The fortune teller sees herself and her husband watching the performance, caught up in the pride and synchronicity of the moment.

Next, the crystal ball reveals a more recent scene where the fortune teller sees herself again enjoying a performance at the Waldron Auditorium, a night out with friends at Cardinal Stage Company’s performance of “Boom.” The stage design is perfect for the space, the acting is superb, and she is reminded why she loves Bloomington so much.

She prompts her crystal ball for more visions. The mist once again swirls and reveals a scene in which someone is throwing many years’ worth of theater costumes into a dumpster. Conference tables and chairs fill the space left empty by the removal of the costumes. Bloomington Area Arts Council leaders are scratching their heads over financial spreadsheets. Headlines in The Herald-Times reveal that the BAAC have raised their rates well beyond the point of affordability for our local performing arts groups, therefore cutting them out of their very own market.

The fortune-teller is anxious now as she feels the opportunity for more fond memories at this local theater venue fading away. In a panic, she asks the crystal ball for one more vision, one of the future that shows how this situation will be resolved.

The mist swirls and swirls, and finally, a scene is revealed. The BAAC leaders, realizing they have acted rashly out of a sense of panic about finances, extend an invitation into meaningful communication with the very groups who have a vested history and interest in the Waldron’s performing arts venues.

Through a series of meetings, a win-win situation emerges. The fortune-teller is relieved that fairness prevailed.

Mixed messages abound for our dual purpose, multi-tasking girlfriends

2009-11-19T07:27:00.001-05:00

By Kim Evans

A couple of weeks ago, while walking through the mall with my daughter, I passed the window ads for the latest Victoria’s Secret push-up bra. Irritated by the message these ads send my daughter who is on the cusp of adolescence, I found myself wondering just how important it is to “Be a Bombshell.”

Do women really want or need to be an overwhelming surprise? As in, “oops, I’m so sorry I knocked you over with the force of my super-sized, pushed-up breasts.”

Conversely, do we really want to engage in the use of smoke-and-mirrors, which sets the stage for disillusionment as soon as the bra hits the floor?

And I find the parallel between physical attractiveness and a military weapon very strange.

It’s all an illusion.

Then, last week, I read a friend’s post on Facebook about her recent experience as a passenger on a flight where she was asked to cover up while nursing her baby (her story was highlighted in Dann Denny’s article on Nov. 15). My thoughts immediately went back to the Victoria’s Secret ads.

We’ve heard this debate before, but once again, I find myself wondering why the sexual display of breasts is more socially acceptable than the natural, biological one.

Despite popular belief, breasts do have a function beyond sensuality, a function that provides optimal nutrition and nurturing to babies. Dual purpose, multi-tasking girlfriends, they are indeed. And there’s nothing more real, more down-to-earth, more lacking in illusion, than nursing.

I am a modest person. Because of this, nursing in public took me to the edge of my comfort zone. When my daughter was 4 months old, I was in the bridal party for my brother’s wedding. I made the mistake of buying a gown that was not nursing-friendly. As a result, I spent a large part of the reception in the women’s restroom, undressed from the waist up, nursing my hungry, over-stimulated baby.

On another occasion, I was in the stands at a high school marching band competition, sitting with my mother, baby in arms. When my daughter needed to nurse, Mom, in an effort to be helpful, pulled a baby blanket out of the diaper bag and inadvertently made a huge production draping it over me, which was probably more distracting than simply nursing discretely would have been. And to top it off, my daughter kicked the blanket off within minutes.

In spite of these challenges, I persisted.

Everyone is entitled to their personal opinion and comfort level. But I wish people would try to be more understanding. I’ve written before about the balancing act women find themselves in. Women don’t nurse in public to make a point or be exhibitionist. They need to take care of their children.

I applaud local restaurants for welcoming customers of all ages, and I hope people will not boycott Bloomington’s “breastaurants” because they fear these establishments are full of topless women wandering the aisles with a baby hanging off each breast.

Have faith. Have tolerance. Most people abide by table manners in public. Breastfeeding can be done with table manners in mind. As the popular commercial says, “ya gotta eat,” and that means nursing babies, too.

I’d rather my daughter see a mother nursing her baby in public than those ridiculous posters in the mall. Perhaps if there weren’t such a stigma attached to breastfeeding, more women would choose to nurse, and our culture’s obsession with breasts would subside. Then our girlfriends could enjoy a happy return to their natural function and size.

“This Is It” a riveting documentary of Jackson’s gifts and legacy

2009-11-05T08:22:00.001-05:00

By Kim Evans
November 5, 2009

I am fascinated by the link between music and memory. Isn’t it amazing how a certain song or melody can transport you back to a pinpointed moment in your personal history? When you think about it, each of our lives has a soundtrack.

In the 1980s, with the debut of the MTV sensation, the dynamic pairing of music and video entered the scene. Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” is one song that stands out to me: the bass line slinking in to set the tone, the syncopated keyboard hits, MJ’s pulsing vocals and the squares in the pavement that lit up as he stepped on them. This memory takes me to Campus Casino, a high school hangout on Kirkwood in the ’80s. This was a fun place for teenagers, full of arcade games, a pizza parlor and a huge video screen where music videos flickered throughout the evening.

So many Michael Jackson songs project onto the movie screen of my high school years. I remember the feel of the living room rug underneath me as I sat on the floor, watching the debut of the Thriller video.

That’s why I bought advance tickets to see “This Is It.” This documentary film features two hours of footage recorded during rehearsals for the already sold-out Michael Jackson concerts that would have taken place in London this past summer. The footage was originally intended for Jackson’s personal library rather than the general public. But as the tragic end of his life unfolded, the documentary suddenly became viable as the public’s last glimpse of Jackson’s work.

I found the movie riveting, not only because I am dazzled by Michael Jackson’s talent and the rhythms of his music, but also because it was an intimate look at how he worked on his art. His personal life may have been a shambles, but the man had laser focus and was able to balance this intensity with nothing but love and kindness toward the musicians, dancers, producers, and crew with whom he collaborated.

Jackson’s work ethic was nothing short of inspiring. It was as if he were performing for a sold-out concert arena every time he stepped on the rehearsal stage, even though his audience was a mere dozen or so of his backup dancers and crew. He’d apologize to his team if he occasionally needed to back off the vocals to save his voice.

I was touched by the tenderness with which Kenny Ortega, creative partner and director, worked with him. In one poignant scene, he urges Michael to hold on to the handrails during his first test run on the cherry picker that would carry him out over the audience. It was as if Ortega knew how fragile Michael was. I found myself wishing Ortega had been this father figure for Michael when he was a child.

I cringed over the years as Jackson’s face made its very public transfiguration into what looked like a mask. But he took off his mask in order to perform. The man we saw on stage was the true essence of Michael Jackson. The stage was the venue where he was his best self. I am thankful for the contribution Jackson made to the movie screen and soundtrack of my life.

A glimpse into one woman’s never-ending mental checklist

2009-10-22T08:39:00.004-04:00

By Kim Evans

for The Herald-Times,

October 22, 2009

The Oct. 26 issue of Time Magazine features a poll that reveals the staggering but not surprising result that while women now comprise 50 percent of the U.S. workforce, they report feeling less happy than they did in 1972.

From my perspective, the root of the unhappiness is this: in our climb to prominence in the working world, most women have not given up their role as homemaker; they’ve merely added professional work on top of it.

By my calculation, that’s two full-time jobs.

Men try to help with housework. I know they do. But I’m convinced their brains are not wired to multi-task like ours are. Allow me to introduce the Never-Ending Mental Checklist. Mine looks something like this:

Don’t forget to make sure the gecko’s water dish is full; you don’t want it to die of dehydration and make your daughter sad; help the 13-year old dog down the stairs, encourage her to go outside to do her business WHILE fixing breakfast and packing lunch for your daughter AND making sure she has all her homework, permission slips, and school materials packed and ready to go, KEEPING IN MIND the bills that need to be paid and the bank run that MUST BE DONE before the automated mortgage payment overdraws the checking account WHILE confirming with your mother that yes, it would be WONDERFUL if she could visit with your daughter after school, but FIRST let me check the calendar to make sure there aren’t scheduling conflicts because there MIGHT be a soccer make-up game tonight, or there might be horseback riding, or a school event, and there’s ALWAYS the required amount of time each evening for homework with extra help on math because no one in our family truly GETS this Everyday Math stuff, so not only do I need to help my daughter, I need to teach it to MYSELF first lest I show her the wrong way, causing her to do poorly on her ISTEP test and – HELLO – the cat just knocked the brownies on the floor and OH YEAH I wanted to print out a piece of writing for class today AND will I have time to take a shower before I go; I want to be fresh because I’d better drum up more freelance work, so gear up to sell, sell, sell, THEN later that evening, Dear Husband agrees to cook dinner while you write your newspaper column but you feel compelled to remind him to butter BOTH sides of the bread before he grills the sandwiches AND you are fully aware that soup and sandwiches are the last meal in the fridge before another grocery run is needed and WOW that new Kroger is humongous and where did I put those coupons THEN consider one more time HOW you can fit some exercise into your schedule and think SERIOUSLY are you really going to have time to MAKE all those Christmas gifts and WOW what a beautiful Fall evening it finally is, when are we going to find time to take a family hike, much less get our pumpkins and where DID the days go when we rode a hay wagon to the pumpkin patch and took photos of our little girl like your friend just posted on her Facebook page, which reminds you to update your status so your friends don’t think you’ve withered away, but haven’t you done just that?

Calgon, take me back to 1972. (Did I just say that?)

"Exceeding Expectations" Exhibit

2009-10-16T13:29:00.009-04:00

An exhibit celebrating outstanding alumni of the Visual Communications program at Ivy Tech Community College, Columbus.

Sept 20th - Dec 31st

Columbus Learning Center

Columbus, Indiana

- Graphic Design

- Photography

- Illustration

4555 Central Avenue

Columbus, Indiana 47203

812.374.5156

Monday - Thursday 8 a.m. - 10 p.m.

Friday 8 a.m. - 5 p.m.

I'm excited to say that some of my graphic design work is represented in this gallery show. I'm honored to be included. There is an opening reception next week that I am planning to attend. What should I wear? It's all about me, right? (Note: the figure in the promo photo is not me.)

Here is one of my pieces on display:

When car shopping, don’t rule out the potential for serendipity

2009-10-08T08:35:00.003-04:00

By Kim Evans

Community Column for Herald-Times, Bloomington, IN
October 8, 2009

About a year ago, my husband and I realized we needed to replace our 1995 Ford Contour. With an odometer reading of 120,000, she was running poorly, requiring us to purchase the expensive grade gasoline, and she only gave us 22 miles per gallon.

We had special memories in our Contour. She was the car in which we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital. She was the car whose rear passenger window became plastered with sparkly dolphin stickers placed by little hands. She was the car we drove on family vacations to the Gulf and Atlantic coasts.

It was hard to part with our Contour. But a decade had passed, and it was time to let her go.

We began thinking about what kind of car we wanted: economically-priced, fuel efficient, yet not hybrid (out of our price range), with plenty of room for our family of three. And safety was important. This could be the car our daughter would learn to drive in about six years. (Where did the time go?)

After many hours of online research, we decided our first choice was a used Toyota Corolla.

Next was the task of finding our perfect Corolla out there somewhere, our vehicular soul-mate. I intended to conduct this car search as efficiently as possible without letting it take over my life. I entered the car-shopping zone, that hyper-alert state where one’s eyes are drawn like magnets to every car ad in the newspaper and every car lot in town. I was on a mission.

I searched Cars.com for local deals. Nothing was quite right. I turned to the classified ads and didn’t see any prospects at first.

Then one day I saw an ad that looked promising. Model year 2006: Check. Reasonably-low miles: Check. The type of transmission we preferred: Check. In our price range: Check. Sunroof: Bonus! CD player: Bonus! I called the number listed and scheduled a test drive that evening.

When we arrived at the owner’s house, I noticed he looked familiar. I thought for a moment. Could he possibly be someone we knew? As it turned out, the answer was yes. He was an old friend of my parents, and was actually a guest at our wedding 15 years ago!

We drove the car — loved it. Everything felt right, even the color. When we returned, our friend even volunteered to drop the price by $300. Sold!

Things don’t usually happen this smoothly for me. Really.

The serendipity continued. With the deal done, we chatted for a while, and the topic of music came up. Our friend mentioned to my husband that he knew a guy who was looking for a new bass player for his band.

My husband, who had been thinking about playing in a band again, wrote down the guy’s phone number and scheduled an audition later that week. He was asked to join on the spot.

So the end of this story finds us with a beautiful dark blue fuel-efficient car in our driveway, my husband playing bass in a band called Lazy Piranha and our Contour sold at our neighborhood yard sale to a couple who were happy to buy her.

And whenever anyone asks me where we bought our Corolla, I tell them we purchased it from a family friend.

Active listening is foundational to a civil society

2009-09-24T08:51:00.001-04:00

What’s truly hopeful is that we have the means to evoke more goodness from one another. I have witnessed the astonishing power of good listening and healing available when someone gives voice to her experience. I have also learned that when we begin listening to each other, and when we talk about things that matter to us, the world begins to change. –Margaret Wheatley, Turning to One Another

This quote takes me back to a paper I wrote during my senior year at IU. It’s somewhere in a dusty cardboard box in my basement now, but I recall the topic was about listening – listening as a means to facililtate change. Looking back, I think I was on to something. As a 22-year old, I didn’t think I had much wisdom to offer, although I think I got an A on my paper.

Current events have me once again thinking about listening, and how we don’t do it well in our culture. Listening is fundamental to a civil society, and one could argue that the lack of listening has reached a crisis level in our country.

Listening is something that is demanded of children, yet we forget there is a difference between merely hearing and truly listening. Listening is a learned skill.

Learning to listen is reinforced in one of the earliest places of learning, the classroom. Why is our state considering beefing up subject matter training for teachers when they really need more support in how to facilitate the learning that occurs in their classrooms?

Striving for more and more expertise is an investment in mastery that isn’t necessary. What good would the enhanced subject material do for students don’t know how to listen well? Wouldn’t learners be better served by a teacher who is invested in providing an environment where these students can take more responsibility for their own learning?

We are a resource-rich nation. Placing the expert label on teachers sets up a dangerous model for learners to always be searching outside of themselves for the answers.

This is what is playing out in our country right now, and it isn’t working.

I spent several months earlier this year in a leadership training group where we practiced active listening. Our sessions took place in circles, where each individual could see the others, face-to-face. There’s something about sitting in a circle that provides better acoustics for listening. Perhaps it is because there are no corners. The leader sat in the circle and participated with the rest of the group rather than professing to be an expert on the subject matter (although she was the creator of the program).

Each voice was valued equally in this circular setting. The introverts had equal opportunity to share with the extraverts. We reflected listening to one another by recording powerful “readback” lines from one another’s writing and sharing these lines with the group. What a wonderful feeling it is to be listened to in this way. And it is a great way to lift up themes coming from the group for further exploration.

I facilitate writing workshops using this model. It is a joy to witness the rapid improvement in confidence, voice, and writing ability in young writers over the course of even a single session. I believe this is a direct result of the active listening we practice.

Perhaps this is an over-simplification of a complex issue. Yet it is true that listening is foundational to a civil society. Try a simple experiment today. When having a conversation, repeat back one phrase to the person who spoke it. Begin with “So I hear you saying…” Don’t interpret. Just repeat what you heard.

See what happens.

Interesting messages received along the journey home

2009-09-10T08:01:00.002-04:00

by Kim Evans

I’m driving home from a fun-filled Labor Day weekend with family in Chicago. The dome light shines on my page. Wind rushes through the moon roof. A semi-truck roars by me on the passenger side.

“Winds of Change.” I see these words pass by on a billboard along the interstate. At night billboards appear like illuminated messages floating through space. Signs are everywhere. I recently saw a sign that read “A Call to Consciousness” outside a church when I was in the process of deciding to take a step into a new chapter of my life. And now I notice a yellow road sign that reads “Watch For Ice on Bridges.”

Winds of Change ... A Call to Consciousness ... Watch For Ice on Bridges .

My thoughts go to images of angry people at town hall meetings. One such photograph was on the front page of this newspaper. I am disturbed by those who are being influenced by the fear mongering, allowing themselves to be manipulated without learning the facts. It’s so much easier to let others do the thinking. I wish people would suspend judgment and emotion long enough to do some research, then engage in a civilized exchange of ideas.

Emotions are so high right now. Emotions cloud thinking. It is painful to watch people rage at one another. And now with electronic communications, it is too easy to push the send button and spread negativity to others, even those in one’s own family, one’s own flesh and blood.

Winds of Change ... A Call to Consciousness ... Watch For Ice on Bridges .

This late night drive continues to activate the right side of my brain. The color red transports me back to the scene in the tailgate area before the IU football game last Thursday. We park a few blocks south of 17th Street, and are treated to a walk through a sea of drunken college students. I’m a little stunned at this public display; if this type of consumption must occur, isn’t it best limited to private residences and bars?

My 11-year-old daughter points to a group of red T-shirt-clad young men and women preparing to drink beer from a tube attached to a funnel. She asks “What’s that, Mom?” I don’t want to lie to her; nor do I want to ignore her question. So I respond, “That’s called a beer bong, honey. It allows someone to drink a whole bunch of beer really fast, basically by-passing the process of swallowing, and pouring it straight into their stomach.” I tell it like it is. She cringes.

I draw a parallel between beer bong consumption and fear-mongering. They both recklessly bypass the intended channels of consumption. No swallowing of beer. No examination of facts. Straight to the stomach. Instant gratification is the quickest way to the desired effects. A jolt into an altered state of consciousness is so much easier than a thoughtful one.

It’s getting late. We leave during the third quarter of the football game, and pass a group of red-eyed students staggering into Gate 14. I wonder if they will be able to navigate the stairs. Walking south of 17th Street again, we pass the lawn littered with empty Natural Light cases, beer cans and bottles. A uniformed crew appears to be preparing to clean up the mess left behind. There is no connection between the individuals who participated in the mass consumption and the clean-up of their mess.

Winds of Change ... Call to Consciousness ... Watch For Ice on Bridges .

Sometimes messages come from interesting places.

This column appears in the 9/10/09 issue of the Herald-Times newspaper, Bloomington, IN

Bloomington changes with the seasons, but learning never ends

2009-08-27T07:31:00.001-04:00

It’s time to gear up for the annual migration of students into our small town. Circumstances are always changing here, and as much as my human nature resists change, I love the total package of Bloomington: the seasonal fluctuations, the town and the gown. As the product of two IU students who fell in love, got married, and decided to build their lives and family here, I bridge both worlds.

This summer I had the opportunity to stroll through campus, deserted and quiet like a ghost town. In my current phase of life, activities like walking through campus carry more significance than they did when I was student here. I feel as if I am walking on hallowed ground. My mind stirs with the thoughts of the students and scholars who walked these very paths over the past 189 years.

Here are some campus scenes and sensations that are presently calling up from my memory to be shared in this community forum.

The Hippie Hangout. I don’t think I’m hallucinating. In the 1970s I remember riding down 10th Street in the back of our red Dodge station wagon, passing by Dunn Meadow and staring wide-eyed at the mass of bell-bottomed, long-haired students throwing Frisbees, sitting in the grass talking, and enjoying the sunshine. We called it the Hippie Hangout.

The Sugar and Spice shop. When I was in early elementary school, Mom returned to college to finish her degree in education. I frequently accompanied her to campus. One of my favorite places to visit was the Memorial Union. I called it the Elevator and Escalator Building. Mom always treated me to a gingerbread man at the Sugar & Spice shop. I remember munching on my cookie while I sat in the row of seats at the base of the escalator, biting off one arm at a time, watching the students walk by.

The Wrubel computing center. Dad worked at Wrubel when it was located in the basement of the HPER building. We descended a concrete staircase to enter his department, humming with room-sized mainframes, the cutting-edge technology at that time.

Tenth Street stadium. Just steps across the parking lot from Wrubel stood the old stadium, now the location of the beautiful campus arboretum. The Marching Hundred practiced there. My brother played trombone in the band and I loved watching them rehearse.

Assembly Hall. I was lucky enough to be in a family that held season tickets in 1976. Need I say more?

Showalter Fountain. I was a student in 1987, part of the mad dash of NCAA championship revelry to Showalter Fountain. I was there when one of the fish statues was stolen. (Disclaimer: I didn’t steal the fish, and I don’t have a description of the people who did.)

The Library. I never quite got over the amazement that the IU library is huge enough to hold a cafeteria. And the stacks: floor after floor, row after row of nothing but books. A guaranteed quiet place to study.

Ballantine Hall. Even as a young adult, I always appreciated the beautiful walk along the creek from Jordan Avenue to Ballantine Hall. Back in the ’80s, “Mad Max,” a campus crusader, shouted his sermons to passersby outside the building where I spent many hours in liberal arts courses.

It is my hope that the influx of new and returning students take a moment this semester to realize they are making history: their own personal history from a brief yet important time in their lives, and a contribution to the collective history that walks the pathways of the Indiana University campus. I sometimes wonder why we are given the wisdom to appreciate something so many years after the experience itself. Again, I return to the truth that the learning really never ends.

It’s too early to say goodbye to another summer season

2009-08-14T14:57:00.002-04:00

I’ve always had trouble saying good-bye to summer. As much as I try to deny it or push it down, I feel a grief at summer’s end like no other. The 10 weeks fly by so quickly.

Written or unwritten, most people have their list of summer wishes. While some are realized and some are not, this is the time of year to accept it all and begin making the transition to a new season. So, as we gear up for the start of another school year, here is a look back at this columnist’s memorable moments from the summer of 2009:

Being away from my family for seven full days in June — the longest separation I’ve had from my daughter. While I was away, we talked on the phone as she was putting her very first batch of homemade scones in the oven. This produced a flash of awareness that, at age 11, she doesn’t need as much help in the kitchen as much as she used to.
Sneaking away one evening to meet my husband halfway between Bloomington and Cincinnati at a Batesville pizzeria for dinner — being reminded that the most romantic dates are those that aren’t set up to be romantic.
The feeling of terror upon finding out my 70-year old father fell off a ladder while trimming a tree near his house. Relief that he only has a small fracture in his lower back that should heal up just fine.
The realization of a dream to offer a Young Women Writing for (a) Change circle in our community.
Making moon-blessed water: setting out a jar under the full moon — an emerging tradition between mother and daughter, daughter and friends.
Moon jellyfish glowing in the ocean near our feet as we walked along the beach at night while on vacation in coastal Alabama.
Floating on the waves.
Watching my nephew’s theater camp performance of “Man in the Mirror,” then finding out about Michael Jackson’s death right after the show concluded.
Late-night firefly shows. There’s nothing like fireflies in Indiana.
Discovering how a sensitive person is prone to difficulties with reading Harry Potter books at bedtime. “He Who Shall Not Be Named” has a tendency to creep into one’s dream life and frighten one into a shivering crouched position on top of the toilet seat.
Letters from a reader, reminding me of the “I-me-my” syndrome in my columns — that I am close to Bob Hammel’s record (which isn’t such a bad thing in my book).
Sharing Mom’s peanut shell antics with Herald-Times readers — Mom saying she felt “like a celebrity” that day.
The sights and sounds of Drum and Bugle Corps performances in Lucas Oil stadium, sitting between my brother and husband, reminiscing about our involvement in the activity more than 20 years ago (has it really been that long?), all in agreement that Indiana University’s Memorial Stadium offers a much better atmosphere for the experience.
Buying fresh basil from my friend Denise at the farmer’s market.
The unusual coolness and low humidity — not so conducive to juicy red tomatoes in my garden.
Retiring my daughter’s purple L.L. Bean dolphin backpack from school use, the one she has used since first grade, not due to wear and tear, but because she’s grown into a more stylish, over-the-shoulder, messenger bag for sixth grade.

OK, now the nostalgia has really kicked in. Therefore, I officially declare that summer isn’t really over until sometime after Labor Day. This declaration is supported by a Google search that reveals the last day of summer is Sept. 21.

School starts too early, anyway. Let’s just submit to the illusion of eternal summer, youth, happiness, barefootedness and freedom. Who’s with me? We’ll call it the Declaration of Never-Ending Summer.

Wise words of girls create inspirational week at summer camp

2009-07-30T07:52:00.001-04:00

It is simply self-defeating for any community to discriminate against half its population. We need to challenge these self-serving and outdated attitudes and practices .” Jimmy Carter, July 15, 2009

I was relieved to read Jimmy Carter’s recent stand against the Southern Baptist church’s subjugation of women. His article titled “Losing my religion for equality” reminded me of the importance of my emerging resolve to do what I can to nurture the voices of girls and young women.

I was recently blown away by the depth I experienced in the words of girls ages 9 to 11 during a week of summer camp I helped facilitate, themed “True Nature: Our Wild Dreaming Selves.” We held the camp at the Poplar Grove Schoolhouse on Bloomington’s east side, the new writing home for Women Writing for (a) Change, a project that has been active in Bloomington since 2004. It was through my participation in the women’s classes that the calling sprang forth to bring this work to girls.

I feel the temptation to write this column from merely a historic perspective: how the sound of pencils scratching on paper and the sights of children deep in concentration filled this building, how we ate lunch at picnic tables under the large shady trees in the back yard, followed by spontaneous games that filled the yard with joyful running and laughter, complete with a skinned knee. These scenes transported me back in time to what it must have been like in the early 1900s when this schoolhouse held classes for elementary-aged children. I enjoyed the full circle sensation, the connection of today’s ultra-modern, high tech life to a more simple time sans computers, televisions and cell phones.

But the experience held a depth that transcends history. These girls carry within them a deep wisdom that cannot be ignored. I was honored to be bathed in their words about sacred places, dancing candlelight, ocean waves, the way flowers know how to make the earth feel better, the intertwining of earth and soul, mother nature, breathing underwater, love as mentor, awakening courage and the shared love of writing as a means of self-expression and imaginary exploration. Writing in community with these girls strengthened my own words.

These topics did not need to be coaxed out of these young writers. Once they trusted that they were in a safe space, the words flowed freely. On the final day of camp, each writer stood at a podium and shared excerpts from what she had written in front of parents and guests. I was again blown away by their solidness and courage to share. Some of the written comments from the audience included:

“These girls were all able to express so much emotion through their writings. You can only leave here knowing there is so much good in our world.”

“What beauty lies within each of our girls. I was so touched with the depth of their wisdom. It was a gift for them to have a safe place to share their words. It was a gift to all of us to hear their words.”

“These young women remind us to be open, to see anew, to experience the world with the heart and senses wide open to possibility.”

“The gift of these young women together, learning, sharing, giving, growing — together. Amazing talents — the future.”

I believe the world needs these wise voices, whether they are housed in the body of a girl or boy, woman or man. Let’s not muffle anyone who wishes to speak from her heart. Let’s listen. Let’s celebrate. These voices are ripe with hope and healing, and that is sorely needed in our community, nation, and world.

My hat’s off to you, girls!

2009-07-17T21:42:00.002-04:00

Working mothers should have more ways to keep their balance

By Kim EvansCommunity columnist
July 16, 2009

I’m sitting on the patio at the downtown Bakehouse, poised to write my column. After digging through my purse in search of my earphones, then untangling them from the tube of lipstick I rarely use, I am plugged into my laptop with Aerosmith’s “Dream On” filling my ears and a deadline looming. I hope the song choice isn’t prophetic.

I’m writing with the topic of work-family balance in mind, which seems appropriate as I feel the afterburn from a tense morning with my 11 year-old daughter. Most of our morning struggles are over her difficulty getting out of bed. Right now, she’s suffering from sleep deprivation induced by late nights reading “Harry Potter.” I haven’t been strict about making her turn off the reading light — who am I to discourage her from reading? (J.K. Rowling, I bless and curse you in the same breath. Note to H.P. fanatics: This is not an actual curse.)

It’s summer, and summer is for staying up late, sleeping in and roaming through the fields barefoot, playing outside all day until it’s time to catch lightning bugs. These were the summers I knew for many years. I woke up each morning and wandered into the kitchen sleepy-eyed to the sounds of Phil Donahue on our small black and white TV. I wouldn’t trade these memories for anything.

This summer, my daughter hasn’t had many Phil Donahue-ish mornings. I’ve been working more, recently taking the leap into renting an office space for my business, and feeling more pressure to show up there regularly.

I was my daughter’s age when my mom went to work full time. I remember wearing a house key on a string around my neck to school, often forgetting that key and entering the house by taking the screen out of my bedroom window and forcing the glass pane open enough to climb through.

Finding a work-family balance has been one of my deepest values since the moment the pregnancy test was positive. Like those parallel pink lines in the little window, my motherhood mission lined up before me with military precision. In my heart, I knew I wanted to be as present as possible for my child. For me, that meant working from home.

For the past 11 years, I’ve chosen the precarious world of self-employment in order to find the flexibility I need. I have carried the torch for moms working from home, starting our own businesses, cradling our nursing babies in one arm while typing e-mails with the other, holding on to the thread of showing up for our professional lives while holding the center of caring for our children.

And now I find myself feeling tired — and distinctly lacking in 401(k). I wonder how much professional equity I have built up these 11 years, working for myself from my basement office, spending many, many hours alone each day trying to get the work done before I hear the squeal of the school bus brakes outside.

I envision a future where there are more choices for working mothers, flexible working arrangements and a steady paycheck with benefits. Employers need to recognize there is strength in diversity, and a diverse work force includes working parents with varying needs and preferences.

I guess there is still hope that my writing career will turn out like J.K. Rowling’s, and even if it doesn’t, I know all is well. As I jam out to the music on my headphones, I remember the excitement I felt as a teenager at rock concerts in Market Square Arena.

I’m still that girl who loved to run barefoot in the grass and spend summer days playing in Stoutes Creek. But maybe I should turn the volume down. I don’t want to get hearing damage.

2009-07-02T07:47:00.003-04:00

The old man and the tree: a journey on an unmarked trail

By Kim Evans

Herald-Times Bloomington, Ind.

Community Columnist

July 2, 2009

It’s summer, and my thoughts turn toward vacation. It was about this time twelve years ago that my husband and I had a memorable vacation experience hiking in the Smoky Mountains. The beginning of the story finds us enjoying the earthy sights and smells of the forest, noticing the unique air quality here – the moistness, the pure freshness – as if the forest were inside a cave with a view.

Then we begin to see that the trails aren’t marked as clearly as we are accustomed to back in Indiana. In fact, as we hike on, the trail markers disappear altogether. We are still on a trail, but we no longer know which trail. According to the map, we should have looped back to the campground by now. I am tired and hungry, and unbeknownst to me, hormonal from the early stages of pregnancy. A layer of fear begins to emerge in me like a thin sheet of fog at ground level.

Finally, we descend a hill and spot a paved road. My emotions are lifted slightly by this vision of civilization, but we have no idea which way to turn. There is a fifty percent chance of getting lost even further. No cars pass by; there is no one to flag down and ask for directions. I know of nothing to do but sit down on the side of the road and weep. We are lost in the Smoky Mountains. Score: Smokies:1; Kim and Trent: 0. I clasp my hands, rest my forehead on my knuckles, and pray for help.

Within moments we see a man walking along the road toward us, whistling and carrying a small pine tree in his hands. It occurs to me that this man might possibly be the answer to our call for help. Could an angel appear in the form of an old guy carrying a pine tree? I struggle to grasp the immediacy and humor with which our prayer may have been answered.

We explain to the man that we are lost. He tells us his friends are following him in a van, and they could give us a ride back to camp, as long as we promise not to tell anyone they are digging up pine trees from national park property. We accept his offer with gratitude, happy to trade mild lawlessness for a ride home.

The van appears. The man opens the hatch and adds his tree to the collection in the trunk. He introduces us to his friends, three couples altogether, well into their retirement years, partying and stealing pine trees in their boogie van. I suddenly have a vision of how fun old age could be.

We discover that our campground is about 11 miles from where they picked us up. We arrive safely and thank them all profusely, our new friends we will probably never see again. We slide the van door open and hop out, glad to be back on familiar ground. I had been to the forest and back, lost, then found, and was about to become aware of the larger journey I was beginning: the journey into motherhood, not unlike a hike deep into the woods with unmarked trails.

This summer we are heading straight down I-65 to the beach. If you happen to be on Dauphin Island, Alabama the last week of July, you’ll hopefully find me walking in the sand, hand in hand with my husband and daughter, listening to the ocean, feeling anything but lost.

2009-06-18T09:19:00.003-04:00

One for the history books:

A tale of baseball and peanut shells

By Kim Evans

Herald-Times Bloomington, Ind.

Community Columnist

June 18, 2009

I come from a family of Cincinnati Reds fans. There was a time when Southern Sporting Goods in downtown Bloomington was the local ticket outlet, and I remember going there with my mom and brother, wooden floor creaking beneath our feet, air scented with leather and cigars. The salesman would pull out a small map of Riverfront Stadium and Mom would pick the best available seats in our price range. These were the days before online ticket sales.

It was a real treat to attend games and watch Johnny Bench, Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, and the rest of Sparky Anderson’s Big Red Machine of the mid-1970s, and I had the most fun when we were joined by my cousin Jeff and his family. Jeff and I were people-watchers more than game-watchers. There is one particular night I will always remember. It was chilly enough for sweatshirts. The stadium lights were smudged by the evening haze. Jeff was pointing out people in the crowd, drawing my attention to strange hairstyles and funny outfits. The scoreboard showed two chunky hands clapping in an effort to get the crowd to join in. Jeff and I bent our fingers at the knuckle to make our hands look chunky like those on the scoreboard. We grinned like clowns while we pretended to clap with exaggerated motion.

Mom had just returned from the concession stand with the classic baseball snack, unshelled peanuts. She passed the crinkly bag down the row to us. I pulled out a small handful and rested them in my lap. After I cracked the first one open, I wasn’t sure what to do with the shell. I noticed Mom was throwing hers on the ground, so I followed suit, enjoying this opportunity to be messy and carefree.

Then I noticed the man sitting directly in front of me, leaning forward in his seat, inadvertently exposing a big gap in the back of his jeans. I didn’t look too closely because I was embarrassed on his behalf. I quietly pointed this out to Jeff, and we looked at each other with our mouths wide open, silently hysterical. I glanced over at Mom again, and saw she had that familiar devilish look on her face. I watched her as she took aim and tossed a peanut shell directly into the man’s pants.

I felt my eyes widen as far as they would go as she repeated the ritual several times. I wondered if I could get way with this, too? I decided to give it a try. Bingo. My shell landed on top of the small stack that was accumulating. Then Jeff joined in and before long the back of the man’s pants was full of peanut shells. My stomach muscles hurt from stifling my laughter. I kept wondering what Mom would say if the man turned around to confront us. Would she defend us? Or were we on our own? I wondered what else I could get away with if I got away with this. I started questioning why I tried so hard to be good all the time when being nasty was so much more fun.

Suddenly, the man stood up. A few shells spilled out the back of his pants. I grabbed Jeff’s arm and squeezed. The man looked around, hiked up his jeans and exited the row. We never saw him again.

I don’t remember who won the baseball game that night, but the peanut shell story has become “one for the history books” in our family.

Community Column #1

2009-06-04T07:59:00.003-04:00

http://www.heraldtimesonline.com/stories/2009/06/04/column.qp-8661325.sto

Newspaper with an editorial page required for residence

By Kim Evans

Community columnist | kimevans_columnist@att.net

6/4/2009

Hi, my name is Kim, and I’m a Bloomington rubber-bander. I’ve fulfilled the classic scenario for many townies like me: We grow up here, not fully appreciating all this community offers. In search of some perspective, we move away for awhile. That’s what I did; shortly after graduating with a psychology degree from IU, I seized the opportunity to relocate with my soon-to-be-husband. Thirteen years, one baby and a more marketable associate’s degree later, there was nothing more I wanted than to come back here.

We lived in a very small town for eight years. While the kindness of the people in this small town was unsurpassed, the lack of town leadership started to get to me after awhile. There was no organized forum for public conversation. I hungered for a local newspaper with an editorial page.

So, as I launch my stint as a community columnist, I’d like to get a few things off my chest by sharing a sampling of brief letters to the editor I would have written to my small town newspaper:

Dear Editor,

Is there anything that can be done about the “antique shop” across the street from my home? I am concerned that my property value is being adversely affected by this eyesore with unfinished plywood siding, old rusty bathtubs on the front lawn, two buildings crammed so full of junk no human could possibly walk through, not to mention the conservative talk radio blaring all afternoon. Isn’t there a local ordinance that at least requires finished siding on buildings? Thank you.

Dear Editor,

I’m writing to convey my shock that a policeman knocked on my front door today and asked to speak to my husband and me about a complaint that a toddler was running around our front yard. That naked toddler was my daughter playing outside on a hot summer day. Is there a law against a toddler playing naked in her own yard on a hot summer day? Thank you.

Dear Editor,

Is there any way our town can find a more effective way to corral the loose, aggressive dogs across the street? I fear they will attack my child (yes, the naked toddler) if we dare take a walk to the park. Just how effective is a town official walking the streets with a box of dog biscuits tucked under his arm? Didn’t Mayberry have its act together better than this? Thank you.

Dear Editor,

When will the “renovation” work be done to our town park? We previously enjoyed going there to swing and play, but now all the playground equipment has been ripped up and there are dangerous trenches in the ground, filled with green liquid. I haven’t seen anyone working on it for several weeks and would like to know what the master plan is. (Is there a master plan?) Thank you.

Dear Editor,

Is there any way that residents can be forewarned when the town plans to flush out the water system? On several occasions we’ve been shocked to suddenly have rusty red water flowing from our bathtub faucet as we prepare to give our child (yes, the criminally naked toddler) a bath. How hard would it be for officials to hang door tags about this? Thank you.

Dear Editor,

Why are chickens residing in the town limits? Don’t get me wrong, I love chickens, but I don’t live on a farm, and I don’t love being awakened by a rooster crow at 5 each morning. And the smell of chicken poop knocks me over every time I’m in the back half of my yard. Isn’t there an ordinance that addresses this issue? Thank you.

Ah, it’s good to be back in Bloomington. Life handed me the perspective I needed. Along the way, I discovered some of my bottom-lines: town ordinances, freedom for toddlers to play naked in their own yards, and a local newspaper with an editorial page. Everything else is gravy.

Kim Evans is a Bloomington native and IU graduate who “rubber-banded” back to town in 2005 to open her graphic design studio, raise her family and circle back to her writing. She can be reached at kimevans_columnist@att.net.

It's Time for a Post

2008-12-05T21:31:00.002-05:00

Nothing exciting is going on. I'm sitting on the couch under my chenille blanket watching Olivia play Wii tennis. Trent is munching on a bag of Christmas M&Ms. The last time I wrote on this blog was Labor Day. Where did that time go? To all my loyal readers (do I have any loyal readers?) I apologize for keeping you waiting so long. I have discovered Facebook, so if you are hungry for more interesting nuggets and more photos about my life, visit me there. Christmas is in 20 days. I haven't done any shopping yet, how about you? I have this fantasy that I will force myself into getting all of my shopping done in ONE DAY. No consternation about what to buy. Just one day to decide and shop for everyone on my list. Think it will happen? I also have a fantasy of going on a cruise over Christmas vacation. Somewhere warm and sunny and oceany. That would be wonderful. Mmmmmmm.... Now Olivia is bowling on Wii. I love the sound effects, the country music in the background, the sound of the ball hitting the pins. Just like the real thing. Okay, now she is boxing. My daughter is a tough cookie. You go, girl!

Labor Day at the beach

2008-09-05T22:20:00.003-04:00

We bid farewell to summer at Lake Michigan this weekend. My cousin lives in Ogden Dunes and our whole family visits every Labor Day. It's become a tradition. Olivia and her cousins love it. We love it. We laugh a lot with our family. There are enough adults there to allow the parents to steal away a few moments to take a walk on the beach. Our walk is a mini-movie inside me now...cool sand, sunset behind Chicago, miniature like a city inside a snow globe, so far across the Lake from us...the light changing every every moment...orange sky turns red before giving way to a darkening blue...pebbles sink under my wet feet. A reggae band is playing at the beach party...we meld with the crowd swaying gently to the rhythm...then it's time to go back to our family, our stolen moments have come to an end for now.

Drum Corps Captured Her Imagination and Changed Her Life

2008-07-30T12:04:00.003-04:00

This article appeared in the August 9, 2008 edition of the Herald-Times, Bloomington, IN

There is a unique phenomenon rolling into my town very soon, in the form of large coach buses driving through our streets, brass music and percussive rhythms, and ensembles of 100+ sun-baked young people on local football fields repeating choreographed movements and musical passages, putting the finishing touches on the performances they have been working on since winter.

All these buses and young people will converge on Memorial Stadium for three days in August, the culmination of many hours of sweat, hard work, and pushing themselves further than they could possibly imagine. They will compete for the crown jewel of their activity: the Drum and Bugle Corps World Championship.

I was first introduced to Drum Corps in 1979, the summer before my seventh grade year, at the Drum Corps Midwest Championships in Whitewater Wisconsin. I will never forget the feeling that swept over me when my family and I entered Warhawk stadium. A corps by the name of The Troopers from Casper, Wyoming was on the field, and they produced a brass sound so rich, so bright, and so LOUD, that it raised the hair on my arms. When we found our seats I was treated to a visual delight as well. Their show was based on a civil war theme, which befitted their uniforms, and I remember their color guard forming a circle around the flag and saluting. I was captivated by this focal point and how it created a climax of the performance. I was sold on drum corps from the very start.

Back at home, I listened to homemade recordings of the shows and memorized each corps’ repertoire. This educated me about classical, jazz, broadway, and contemporary music. I watched video tapes of the performances and taught myself the choreography, learning the beauty of how movement and music can intertwine.

I auditioned for the Bloomington-based Star of Indiana in 1986. As a member of the color guard, it was thrilling to perform to this electricity. It energized me and allowed me to persist for many days of 12, sometimes 16-hour practice sessions. I was in the best physical shape of my entire life. I learned valuable lessons from our talented staff, especially George Zingali, our visual designer. His passion for the activity was contagious. He taught me to approach each performance as if it were my last, to put my heart and soul into it, and to consistently put forth my best effort. His fast evolving, curvilinear designs on the field revolutionized the activity from the military formations to the artistic realms it explores today. These shows are full of tension and release, subtlety and climax – a hallmark of this activity that has entertained audiences since the beginning.

So the Drum Corps are coming to town! Be ready! Enjoy this special opportunity to experience this unique performance art form. The Troopers will be here – in fact, they are celebrating their 50th anniversary season this year.

Our family returned to Whitewater for several summers. I remember walking through the souvenir stand area behind the stadium one year, telling myself, “Someday I will marry someone that knows and loves drum corps.” This was more prophetic that I could have imagined: my husband Trent knows and loves drum corps. We met in 1986 as fellow corps members.

Heart in the Sky

2008-07-03T18:06:00.004-04:00

Yesterday while Olivia and I were driving through the parking lot at the mall, she spotted this heart shaped cloud. It was a puffy fluffy cottony heart right there in the blue sky. Its shape was changing quickly - shortly after I snapped this image with my cell phone it had evolved into something more abstract. I was happy she spotted it when she did. Reminds me of the painter on public television who painted "happy clouds." Remember him? What was his name? Jim-something? If anyone knows, please post a comment.

A safe and happy 4th of July to everyone!

Chance Encounter with American Idol, David Cook

2008-06-20T16:08:00.007-04:00

Olivia and I have been HUGE AI fans for the past 3 seasons - and HUGE HUGE David Cook fans this year. I had to share this story...

We were at the Indianapolis airport - very early - Sunday the 8th of June. Because of the severe flooding going on, both of our normal routes to the airport were closed. We had to take a LONG detour and we weren't even sure if this route was open. Information about road conditions was very sketchy at that point, but that's another story...

Anyway, we arrived at the airport way early, and I was trying to catch a cat nap at our gate while we waited for our plane when my husband said, "that's David Cook." I was like, "yeah, very funny, is the Easter Bunny here too?" Then he said, "No, really." I bolted straight up and fumbled for my glasses and SURE ENOUGH - I saw THE HAT - and it was HIM - being escorted by an airport person into a restaurant for breakfast. My heart started POUNDING. Olivia and I started jumping up and down. I was freaking out because literally if someone had asked me to pick which celebrity I would most like to meet it would have been David Cook!!! I know that might sound shallow, but it's the honest truth. Yes, I'm letting my inner teenager out! Totally seredipitous....and it just so happened that I had purchased a copy of the June 16 People Magazine when we got to the airport - the one with a nice photo spread and article about him - but little did I know I was going to have it autographed!!!

The waitress told the small group of fans gathering that DC would meet with us when he was finished (he was sitting at a secluded table out of our view). So we waited patiently and I gathered a SHARPIE and my camera and we went back down about 30 minutes later. The crowd of fans had grown, but was still not too large - thankfully our gate was at the end of a wing, so there weren't a lot of people around, and it was only about 6:30AM. I noticed a flight to LA was departing at 7:00 and knew that must be his (we were going to San Fran). So then, (I apologize if this is too long, I just don't want to leave anything out) he came out and said, "how's' it goin" to us and we all laughed. Then he proceeded to sign autographs and pose for photos with every single person who requested them. He was wearing his hat, as I mentioned, and a t-shirt with a really cool vest, and of course, the boots. Someone asked how Adam (his older brother who is undergoing treatment for a brain tumor) was doing, and he said great, and the had been in IN visiting family for a birthday celebration. The fangirl in me wanted to go up and hug him and have my photo taken with him,but I decided to restrain myself and take Olivia's photo with him instead. When it was our turn, a lady pushed in from the side, saying "would you pose with an older lady?" And here is a testament to DC's character: he said he sure would, but this young lady was next in line. And he motioned for Olivia. And I snapped the photo. Then I asked if he would autograph my People magazine and while he did, he joked about how his dad had been giving him a hard time about the article. Very humble about it. And finally, I congratulated him on his AI win. It was really great to be able to tell him that in person, because his performances were very inspiring to me. We were floating on Cloud 9 - I couldn't believe how fortunate we had been. What a thrill.

Then, part 2 of the story is....when we got to our hotel in San Fran, we realized we had lost our camera - the one with THE PHOTO. I was heartbroken. I started thinking that this was a sign that I was too old for this kind of nonsense and I should start acting my age. But I kept hoping and praying it would turn up. We got hotel security and the taxi company involved, and sure enough, three days later, the taxi company called and said they HAD MY CAMERA! I immediately checked, and yes, THE PHOTO was still on there!!!!

I hope you enjoyed this rather long account of the day my daughter and I met David Cook. And yes, we purchased our tickets for the Idol concert in Indy - before the finale was over! Have a great day, and keep the faith. Have a question in mind for David - or whomever your favorite celebrity is - you never know when you might get the chance to meet him or her!

Scarecrow

2008-03-08T09:54:00.004-05:00

The show is over. For two full months, I was mother to The Scarecrow.

Olivia did a great job. She had over 80 lines to memorize! We spent many days at home practicing with the script in hand. We even recruited one of Olivia's closest friends to help out by reading Dorothy's part (She thought she was coming over for a playdate). It takes a village to learn a script!

I wanted to post this photo from her first scene, before Dorothy comes and releases her. (This photo makes me wonder if Scarecrow symbolized a Christ figure in the story??? Maybe I'm getting too deep here.)

After the show, we had lots of family join us at our house for dinner in our partially-finished kitchen. Everyone marveled at the new openness, space, and light. It was very reinforcing for all our efforts - and encouraged us to move forward.

Today, Trent is hoping to hang the pendant lights we picked out this week. I'll post a photo soon to show our progress.

"Electrical Over Peninsula"

2008-02-17T09:21:00.005-05:00

We’re remodeling our kitchen.

I’m amazed at how my kitchen being in disarray affects my mood. I am off center, grouchy. I think my inner compass must be aligned with my kitchen.

The finished product seems very far off. I miss my husband; it’s hard for him to be a husband and a drywaller, painter, and contractor. He enjoys the work; he never complains; he just quietly and steadily gets it done. I find myself struggling with balancing the long term goal of a beautiful kitchen with the need to sacrifice the short term (instant) gratification I receive when I have his undivided attention. In other words, I miss him.

I don't know if I'm being helpful or controlling sometimes. I feel it’s necessary each weekend morning to write down a master list of items for him to do. For example, today’s list says 1. Hang cabinet on fridge wall, 2. Bust out wall, 3. Electrical over peninsula, 4. Trim opening – 2x4 framing, 5. Shop for lights, countertop, 6. Install lights, 7. Patch floor. My list could probably be thrown in the trash, but Trent never says a word. I miss him. When he’s occupied with the kitchen, he doesn’t pay attention to me. I feel disconnected like the wiring in our dining room.

Gifts and Fog

2008-01-04T05:08:00.000-05:00

It's time to shake off the holiday fog.

I had a really, really good holiday break. The family get-togethers were spaced out more this year, so I had a chance to catch my breath in between each one. I had quality time with my husband and daughter, too, even though I can think of many more things I wish we had done. We did manage to play a game of "Horseopoly" that spanned over the course of two evenings at our card table in front of the fireplace. I won, mostly due to the acquisition of "Thoroughbred" and "Saddlebred," the Horseopoly equivalent of Boardwalk and Park Place, then gradually developed them with "stables," (the Horseopoly equivalent of hotels). Olivia, our horse lover, was just happy to have the opportunity to buy horses, playing out out in fantasy what she has been asking us for ever since she began riding lessons in August.

On New Year's Eve, we attended the local professional theatre production of Oliver! which was truly wonderful. What a gift to see such a high-caliber production in the local, intimate setting of the Buskirk-Chumley theatre. We waited until the day before to buy our tickets, so we were in the back row on the bottom level. At first I grumbled about the seats, but they were unobstructed, and because the performers were miked, we could hear just fine. I have to admit I was losing my patience with a boy in front of us whose family allowed to leave his seat several times. He had lights on his shoes that flashed every time he ran past us to the door, which he opened noisily as he ran back and forth between the lobby and his seat. He also was allowed to talk and whine during the performance. Out of my frustration, I shot a "shhhhhh" in their direction a couple of times, but it didn't seem to help much. Then, during the climax of the show, he surprisingly called out, "run, Oliver!" which revealed he must have been paying attention after all, at least enough to cheer for the hero. Somehow it was sweet, and several of us chuckled as we cheered for Oliver along with him. He redeemed himself (and his caregivers).

My family and I also received a gift from nature this holiday season. Toward the end of one of our family gatherings at a retreat center in southern Indiana, we decided to take a walk before the sun completely set. As we made our way down the road, we heard an owl call. Olivia quickly identified it - a barred owl, with its distinctive "WHO COOKS FOR YOU?" sound. We looked at one another in amazement. This was no small deal. You see, we have been trying to hear owls for well over a year now, ever since Olivia became fascinated with them in third grade. We've attended State Park and local Parks and Recreation naturalist programs. We've listened each time we visit my parents in Brown County, but to no avail. Until this time. The practicing Olivia had done on her owl calls paid off, because she was able to call back and the owl responded to her call. I marveled at this brief, amazing conversation between my daughter and an owl.

So the gifts came, some in packages, some in loved ones' responses to gifts given, some in community, some in private. Some with a human touch, others with no effort made. No effort other than being in the right place at the right time. And now, it's time to transition back into my life routine, the routine that involves packing lunch each morning, getting to the bus stop in time, working, securing work projects, making space for writing, school events and meetings, and yearning for the next vacation. It takes a vacation to make me appreciate my routine, and it takes my routine to make me appreciate a vacation. Most likely a universal thing on this human plane. Happy New Year everyone!

Off Duty

2007-12-19T10:57:00.000-05:00

It's December 19th and I cannot put off posting for another day. (My apologies to my readers for the lapse.) I've been cranky as a result of trying to juggle my life responsibilities along with the added list of holiday preparations. The other day I was on my way somewhere and started fuming that the off-duty ambulance in front of me was driving too slowly. An unusual switch - usually I'm swerving to get out of the ambulance's way. Then the brakes lights and turn signal went on and I noticed they were turning into the fire station. Probably where they park the ambulance when it's not in use.

After fuming more about slowing down MORE so they could turn, I experienced a split second opening of my cranky thoughts, a tiny slit that allowed a better thought to flow in, and I realized the importance of the work the ambulance drivers do. I was glad to see they were heading back to their bay rather than out on an emergency run.

I'm ready to head back to my bay for awhile. I need the rest and the break from my juggling of roles. I need some time to just be...

The Final Box

2007-11-26T19:59:00.001-05:00

We moved into our current home two years ago. Yesterday I unceremoniously decided to unpack the last remaining box in our bedroom closet. I knew there was something in there that I must have been avoiding. That’s why it sat there for two and a half years. Laziness hadn’t kept it there. Avoidance had. I excavated through layers of Olivia’s old baby toys, her wooden bear puzzle with the interchangable facial expressions and outfits, her very first cloth book, her original “Po shoes,” the sandals with the Teletubbies characters she walked in during her second year. This box also held some my old belongings from high school that Mom gave me: my senior year concert band program, buttons I pinned on my competition jacket, rusted now around the edges. But that wasn’t the stuff that got to me.

It was the photographs. Of course there were photographs. I found the first ultrasound images of Olivia, made around ten weeks’ gestation, probably at the first appointment with my OB. She was just a little lump inside the gap which was my womb. But she was so much more. This must be what my other two babies looked like when I lost them around this same stage of gestation. The questions came up again: why did I lose them? What went wrong?

There were more photos of me and my family taken during those difficult three years, from miscarriage to miscarriage. I looked fine – my hair was nice – Jane in Columbus was my stylist then. I had a stylist because I worked full time and made good money, so I could afford a stylist. I was exercising twice a week. The classes were in a facility right down the hall from my office. It was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do: push aside my maternal instincts in order to work a corporate job. I did it to support my family and my husband through his career change. It forced me to work on those parts of myself that resisted doing what I hated doing.

Looking at these photos now, I deeply fear that this work-filled period of time consumed my last years of opportunity for having another baby. I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time. I was too busy loving the child I had. And working. For some damn reason the embryos just didn’t hold on. I will be forty two years old soon, and the option of a full term pregnancy becomes less likely with each passing day. This is a reality that is so, so hard for me to accept. I’m the kind of person that likes to keep all my options open. But it’s starting to look like I have to decide if it is time to give in to my body’s failings and call it quits on childbearing.

My friend Iva does spiritual readings. She sent me a message recently that tells me I am not a failure for not having another child, and asks me to release that falsity. She relays to me that after I have moved through this letting go, there will be a gift; a surprise.

I like surprises, but I think I’m going to need a lot of help with this. Time to tap my resources.

Dear God,

HELP!!!!!!

I’ll think of a more refined prayer tomorrow. Although I don’t think that’s a requirement, is it?

The Results are in

2007-11-23T11:01:00.000-05:00

Drumroll ......... My daughter will be the Scarecrow.

Have you seen those cute clay jars with phrases on them like "Cruise Fund," or "Dreams," or "Shoulds & Oughts?" They've been around for awhile. Well, I need one right now that says "Things to Let Go Of." That's where I can neatly put any suspicions I have regarding the politics involved in how the roles were assigned. Then I can put the lid on the jar and place it neatly on the shelf next to my fireplace.

Elaine Mellencamp wrote a guest article for the Herald Times on September 9 about the politics involved in her boys' sports program. I could write a similar article about the politics I suspect are involved with children's performing arts. But I think I will stick to my little jar this time. My little jar and this blog forum.

That leaves me lots and lots of room to feel very happy, because the Scarecrow will be a very fun part for her. It suits her personality very well. She's goofy. I can totally see her pretending her legs are made out of straw. She's bright and loving. She wouldn't be happy running around in a gingham checked dress all day.

I am actually very excited that she continues to earn lead roles when tons of kids are auditioning. That's pretty cool. I'm a proud Mom. But I can't help wondering if there was anything more I could do to give her the best opportunity possible to win the role of Dorothy.

The larger question here is this: What is within my control? What I can do to ensure that my daughter's light isn't overlooked in this world (or at least in this community)? At what point does that responsibility shift from me to her? I'm forty-one years old, and it feels like I am just now starting to take responsibility for shining my own light. I think she'll get it before then. She probably already has it. And "it" overrides politics, doesn't it? It's too wonderful for the pettiness of politics.

In the Beginning...

2007-11-18T22:55:00.000-05:00

...I started a blog. Talk about Blank Canvas Anxiety! I'm just diving in, without a clear idea of what subject matter I will cover. I just want to write and share my thoughts with whomever is interested in reading them (hi, Mom.) I came up with the name Cozumel Dreamin by combining one of my favorite vacation spots and one of my favorite things to do. Nothing more glamorous than that. A close runner-up was Choco Mom (one of my favorite things to eat and definitely my favorite thing to be).

Today my daughter auditioned for a part in The Magical Land of Oz, a children's musical being staged by a local theatre organization. At the ripe old age of nine, my child is an "Old Hat" at this kind of thing. She wasn't nervous at all. It is I, always I, who is more nervous. At first she wanted the role of Toto, but Toto has no lines. So then she switched her interest to the Cowardly Lion - a really fun part in my opinion - and now she really wants to be Dorothy. I want her to be Dorothy so badly, that I secretly (or not so secretly now that I've posted it on a blog) imagine myself wrapping my fingers around the neck of the person responsible for denying it to her, if in fact that is what happens. (Okay, now I'm taking a deep breath and smoothing the wrinkles out of my skirt as I gently sit down and re-gather my dignity. Actually I'm not wearing a skirt, but still...).

The scene wasn't a suprise - A church hallway packed full of Moms and daughters (and a few sons) with neatly combed hair. I know every single Mother there was thinking the same thing. Why don't mothers in these situations just throw away the pretense, get it out in the open, and have a free-for-all-my-daughter-is-more-talented-than-yours Mama Cat fight in the hallway? You know, just to break up the tension a little.

In all sincerity, I did have a coping strategy. I prayed for a peaceful and clear mind. I took my journal along and planned to find a quiet place to write during the audition. But then I saw a friend and we sat down and began a nice chat. My husband was her grandson's band director about seven years ago, before he switched careers (another story for another time) so we have a lot of memories in common. Her grandaughter is my daughter's age and loves theatre too. So I decided to leave my journal in the car. Then another friend from my writing group joined us - I introduced my two friends, and we had a really wonderful conversation. Before I knew it, it was time to meet up with our kids again.

Wow. Sometimes you get what you pray for - in a different way than you expect.

My daughter felt really great about her audition. And I have to trust the Powers That Be to make the best decision based on the talent they saw today. And I'm sure she will have a great time - no matter what (I say as I smile through gritted teeth).