A life full of love is a worthy life, indeed

Peaceful Tempest

This is a painting I worked on for some time playing with dark and light, as it is in life. The three red jags represent my children. I am represented by the light blue swirl with the red mama heart in the middle overcoming the black wave below me as I encompass its more dark than light. However, the light, represented by yellow, seeps out toward my figure and blue is a representation of truth, peace, calm and harmony. Blue is the overwhelming color in this piece. There's more there, but I'll let you find meaning on your own. Perhaps it means something entirely different to you. And, that's a wonderful thing! 

Love is infinite and unbounded. It is more than a googol (Nerds know I spelled it right.) and sweeter than π. Have some, it's worth the wait.

I Love You Jeanie Tuttle/ ALS Sucks!

Buda, TX

Photo Credit: Charlie Tuttle

Enriching Music: Blackbird, the Beatles; I'll Fly Away, Emmylou Harris live

    To me, this is the most monumental and meaningful photo in the series.

    Jeanie Tuttle has ALS. She is the former librarian at the school where I teach. Her family knew nothing about the disease before she was diagnosed in 2012. Her husband quit his job to care for her because it made more sense cost-wise to the family. He loves her and considers it an honor to be able to care for her through the duration of the disease.

    This photo was taken Sept. 15. I'd been to visit Jeanie and Charlie about a month before and told her about the series. To pep her up, I'd text Charlie some of the photos I'd taken - Washington Monument doing the Hook'em Horns sign, others. He thought it was a hoot and said send more, though, as a Longhorn, I told him it kind of made me feel a bit icky that every time I texted him a photo that Aggie fight song would play to alert him to it because that's his dang ringtone.

    The Tuttles are great people. They are the type of people who make you say, "Why in the heck did this happen to them?" They are the type of people who make you say, "What the heck am I complaining about?"

    Charlie joked about taking a photo of me in the dress with Jeanie at a truck stop, but by the time we got around to the photo, Jeanie was no longer able to leave the house.

    She couldn't talk. She was sleeping about 18 hours a day. She had to have a washcloth lodged in her mouth to absorb her saliva because she could no longer swallow and may choke to death. When you enter their house there is a prominent sign on the door that reads, "DNR instructions in the kitchen." It took me a minute to absorb that. It means Do Not Resuscitate.

    It was Charlie's idea for me to hold the oxygen mask and the mask that pumps and pulls out oxygen for Jeanie to breathe, "like a bouquet," he said. "I know it seems macabre, but it has meaning," he said. "People need to know about this disease."

    I asked Jeanie, who could barely nod, to blink when her response was yes to my series of questions. "OK here is what can happen with these photos: 1.They can just be private for us. 2. They can go on a blog. 3. They might get shown in a story. 4. They may go into a book." Blink with what you think is OK for you. Private - no blink; blog - blink; photos in a story - blink; photos in a book - blink.

    She wants to be known. A beautiful red-headed, Texas gal who read stories to thousands of children and recorded them in her lovely Texas drawl. She had a zest for books and inspiring readers. She would instill Charlie to make and paint cutouts and props for the library to inspire children every year in reading contests.

    That's what I thought anyway. I was wrong.

    Without hesitation, when I asked Charlie how Jeanie wanted to be remembered, he said: "Oh, her love of Jesus."

    He told me she realized something was wrong when she couldn't pronounce certain words like she used to do. When she found out, she recorded tons of books with her voice for the library and sent flash drives to all of her nieces and nephews on both sides of the family. "Now Jeanie can read to them forever," Charlie said.

     A teacher friend and I prayed with Jeanie before we left. Charlie left the room. "You women pray, Your prayers are powerful." We prayed silently and held hands all three of us. We all cried. My silent prayer was that when God finally decided to take her, that it was peaceful without pain, without choking. I left thinking I will never see her again. I kissed her goodbye and thanked her for her friendship and told her I loved her.

    I got to see Jeanie one last time on Oct. 3 with several teacher friends. By that time, Charlie said Jeanie was losing lots of blood and nurses suspected she had ovarian cancer as well. She would likely lose so much blood, she would drift off to sleep and not wake up, he told us.

    "What a way to go, peacefully, drifting off to sleep. Yeah for cancer!" he sarcastically laughed. "I bet you don't hear people say that very often? She's ready. She said she's not afraid." He always says, "Jeanie told me," though she can't talk anymore and they communicate with mostly blinks now.

    This last time, we stood in a circle and prayed, teacher friends and I - Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, holding her hands in a circle. If it hadn't been such a sad moment, it could have been the opening line to a joke, "So this Catholic, Jew, and Protestant walk into…" I got to tell her one last crazy story about an adventure I'd had. She could smile a little but was on heavy pain medication wearing an oxygen mask.

    Here is my take away on this beautiful, sad moment that was intimate, loving, and pure. I have encountered many deaths in my life and seeing folks for the last time and knowing it would be the last time or close to it.

    I have zero regrets on each encounter.

    I don't have any "I wish I would have spent more time with them." "Why didn't I go see them?" And that's a beautiful feeling.

    Love the people you love when they are alive so they feel that love and you feel that love for them. If they die before you get a chance to tell them, it is too late.

    When you go to a funeral, it's too late. That mourning is for you. It is for your loss of them.

     I am free of that feeling and I never want to have it.

     If you love someone, tell them. Write them a letter. Let them know it while they can hear you and you can hear yourself say it. But don't ever just say it, do it, show it. I have always lived my life that way.

    I have co-workers whom I love and I tell them, "I love you." They may think it's weird and I don't care. I want them to know how I feel.

    I tell my students as they exit my classroom, "I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. Get out of here!" I mean it. I don't really mean the get out part, they dawdle and I like it. That means they like being in my classroom and that is one of the most ultimate compliments you can pay a teacher.

    I came to realize, over the last few years of life's tribulations that I had numbly settled into talking the talk – to my own children, and to my students, and even to myself. It was typical do as I say, not as I do. Go out and do great things! Be your best! Love! Be alive! But I was not fully, truly living by example. 

Now I am. I am a revolution of action and love, even if it just affects those caught up in my minutia gravitational pull.

   
 It's not lost upon me that I may be the only person who tells my students they are loved that day. Some of my pupils think it's weird and tell me so. I say, "Haven't you ever had a teacher say I love you?" They say 'no.' I say, "Well, I do and I want you to know it. I don't care if you think it's weird. I love you. I want you to have a happy kid's life and I want you to be safe when you're away from me. It's not weird for me." They just look at me funny and cock their heads. Most of the time, by mid-year, they are giving me hugs as they exit and are saying, "I love you" back to me.

    But I will tell you, it gives me peace to hug my kids and to tell them I love them - my own too. If something happens to any of them, I know that they will know I loved them. 

And pure love, not clouded by preconceptions, prejudice, over thinking, deception, is a good thing for everyone. It is living joy.

Jeanie died a few days later on Oct. 8. I loved her and still love her. I have no regrets.

Dream Prelude

Title: Dream Prelude

By Clara G. Herrera

Copyright AcidNeutral Art LLC

This piece was created as the first layer for another painting I am creating called: "The Nightmare of Reality." However, it seemed to stand on its own and has become a prelude to that painting. 

When someone undertakes any artistic endeavor, they don't really know how it's going to turn out. What's in your head may splash upon the page in words or paint, or in some ways, it just seems to create itself. It's a wonderful examination of the human mind and the complexity of thought and action. 

Daybreak, abstract painting

Title: Daybreak
Abstract acrylic by Clara G. Herrera
Copyright AcidNeutral Art LLC

My Father's Day Tribute

Title: Honor

Photo credit: Rachael Ellisor

Rose Hill Cemetery, Merkel, TX

My father's gravesite

My father, Arturo Quintana Herrera

Roscoe, TX

1954

Wide-grinned, Dad held the lid of the sealed heavy metal trash can and coaxed Mom over to see what he’d found. Dad had been working on the land all day, and sometimes brought home cute, fluffy bunnies or baby skunks to show her. 

As she approached smiling, he lifted the lid to hear her screams and feel a swift slap to his arm as he laughed. Inside was a mess of slithering snakes, rattlers, corn snakes, and every other kind that he’d captured as they wriggled out of the brush he’d been burning to clear land.

Dad had a wicked, Texas boy sense of humor.

My three children know “Papa” through stories, because they never met Dad. He “bought the farm,” as they say in the country, or “died,” as they say in the city, many years before my three babies were born.

Arturo Quintana Herrera was born in Casa Piedra, Texas, a town that no longer exists. He was the son of a cotton farmer who was literally pulled from the field to take a bus, as he enlisted in the Air Force.

Dad’s been gone more than 20 years, but is well-remembered through stories. He owned Art’s Barbershop in Tye, Texas after he retired from the military, raised five children with my mom, and continues to live in our memories.

That’s how people live on, through the stories you tell of them. Father’s Day isn’t about a day. It is about a life.

When I decided to take some artsy fartsy photos in my wedding dress after ending my 19-year marriage, I remembered Dad in a mosaic of thought: Catholic, Hispanic, Heritage, Honor, Closure.

Hauling my old wedding dress in the back of my Ford truck in a scented trash bag, I took photos of myself in the dress in places that were meaningful in my life as I moved forward after I divorced my husband. I dubbed it the Acid Neutral Art Project.

The photo at Dad’s gravesite was my daughter, Rachael’s, idea. “He never saw you in the dress when you got married. He may as well see you in it in the divorce,” she said.

At first, I thought it was macabre. Then, I thought about being Catholic and Hispanic.

The Catholic part was the pain of ending a marriage. I think sometimes, as women, our faith instills in us to keep marriage and family together at all costs, even our own. But sometimes, honoring the family, means letting go to be a stronger woman in faith and family. Faith guided me to divorce and spiritually, I knew my father would understand.

The Hispanic part was connecting the past with the present, celebrating where my family came from and where we were going in the next stage of life.

My dad has always been connected to that, even in death.

I have a picture of my daughter playing violin for my father at his grave.

Over the years, we have often visited and eaten fried chicken with him, leaving him a juicy piece. We tell Dad stories about our lives, talking out loud, so he can hear us. My kids climb all over Dad’s tombstone, and it is not disrespectful to us at all. If he were alive, they would scale all over him, like any child who loves their grandfather.

Mom, the best woman I’ve ever met, retells “Papa” stories to my children there, as we eat at the gravesite.

There was the time Dad tried to cover up the gray on his mustache once with mom’s mascara. That didn’t go over so well once his mustache itched and the side of his face was covered in black.

There was also the time when two baby skunks climbed into the dog food can outside. He took them to the land, in Texas heat, and did something akin to mouth-to-mouth by blowing on their faces to revive them as they looked whiskey drunk and meandered to the woods.

Or the many times, Dad would sit still on a stump, listening to wind through the mesquite trees as birds landed on his hat while he watered his garden.

And, oh, there was also the time the trailer he bought to haul Curly, a big black bull, got so many flat tires he was sure that 666 in the Texas license plate was some sign, so he got a new one. He threw the devil-cursed one over the barbed wire fence into some other rancher’s yard.

So for me, posing in a wedding dress at his grave wouldn’t be much different. It would create new stories of my Hispanic heritage for my three children.

I toasted him as I entered this new, glorious phase of my life with fake champagne since, Merkel, the town he’s buried in, was still debating selling alcohol at the time. I poured him a glass on his side and then poured it on his grave.

“Well Dad, I tried my best. Now, it’s time to move on,” I toasted, as my daughter Rachael took the photo. “Thank you for making me who I am. I love you.”

It was closure. It was honor. It is faith.

Anyone can be a father on Father’s Day, but it takes a special man to be Dad. My father, as he was in the beginning, is now, and forever shall be, Dad.

(Enriching music: Love Without End, Amen by George Strait; Tu Guardian, Juanes)

Follow Clara Herrera on Twitter: AcidNeutral Art
AcidNeutral Blog

Follow Clara G. Herrera on Twitter: www.twitter.com/acidneutralart

Fly Freely Into Your New Life After Your Divorce

Butterflies are fascinating insects. Those who harm these incredible, intricate creatures with purpose should be excommunicated from life. Only cruel kids squish butterflies.

Not one person in the world thinks butterflies are not beautiful. Unless, they are that one person whose family was exterminated by the swarm of zombie people-eating butterflies in the late 1900s. That part, of course, is not true, but somebody’s bound to make a movie out of it, if they haven’t already.

More than 17,000 real butterfly species exist in the world. Butterflies and moths, known as the Lepidoptera order of insects, come in all hues of brilliant blues, yellows, and the recognizable Monarch orange.

I figure, if I were one, I’d choose to be the one called, Queen or Fiery Skipper. But not the California Dogface or the Mournful Duskywing. However, I could go for being the Mormon Metalmark, just because it sounds like a heavy metal band you would thrash dance to politely.

Unique species of butterflies are still being discovered. One was identified in Alaska just a few months ago.

You could be a butterfly. You may just not know it yet. Only, you have to discover yourself.

(Title: YOU) acrylic, copyright AcidNeutral Art LLC)

Divorce gives you that opportunity of discovery.

Butterflies emerge from their caterpillar past to become creatures completely transformed and different. It is a beautiful, free, flying being. It is the stuff of new beginnings.

You too, have that ability to break free from the chrysalis prison of your former life to be someone new. You have the power to take the good, leave behind the bad, and fly away into a life filled with flowers, nectar, wind at your back, and everyone appreciating your beauty as you soar through this next phase of your life completely changed.

What you once were, is no more except perhaps a memory - and a fleeting one at that.

When caterpillars surround themselves with their cocoons, they are protecting themselves from the elements, until they are ready to become stronger and able to take flight.

Scientists studying the soupy, slimy, mush of the moth’s larva stage in its cocoon, have discovered it maintains a memory of its past. Scientists exposed caterpillars to unpleasant odors and found that they repelled against the scent once they became moths.

They still had that distasteful recollection. Yet, they had gone through a complete metamorphosis with wings, six legs, vibrant color - rebirth.

Moths learn to repel the old memory that was part of their past in this transformation. When moths and butterflies break free, their vision seems excellent moving forward, and they can fly with accuracy avoiding barriers.

We can learn a lot from butterflies and moths.

Be one. Be beautiful, changed, and soar out into the world as your true self. When you do, give yourself a good name. Don’t be Mournful Duskywing or Gray Hairstreak.

(Enriching music: Jet Set Radio Future (JSRF), Fly Like a Butterfly; Maddie & Tae, Fly)

Follow Clara Herrera Twitter.com/acidneutralart 

Follow Clara G. Herrera on Twitter: www.twitter.com/acidneutralart