Say what?

My daughter talks. A lot. We just usually have no clue what on earth she is saying. And what’s great is that it doesn’t really matter right now. She’ll begin to say more recognizable words before we know it. For now, it’s fun trying to get her to repeat words and hearing her attempts to navigate all the different sounds. The latest word is “Shakespeare.” It sounds more like “Shaw-shue,” but hey, the fact that she’s even trying is fantastic and this is one proud theatre mama.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the way it doesn’t matter that my daughter can’t say or mispronounces most words. Or that she still sometimes points to me and says “Daddy” or points to a mirror and says “baby.” Similarly, I wonder if it could matter a little less that I’m sometimes less than clear on what’s what.

My identity as a mom and as an artist is usually fuzzy at best. How am I an artist again? I’m not out there making theatre these days. I haven’t been writing my morning pages. I haven’t performed in ages. How do I justify writing this blog if more than half the time I feel like I have no idea what on earth I’m talking about or who I am?

Then I remember. This blog is part of my art-making right now. I need to keep coming back to it. I recently revamped my meet up group and have gotten four new members in the past week. That’s a huge step forward! And the cherry on top? I am directing a school play this year and I even get to pick it! How is that not making theatre? Why am I comparing myself to other artist parents who are doing more professional or financially lucrative projects than I am? Like my toddler is with speaking, I’m just not there. For now. And while I have oh so many moments of that feeling unspeakably frustrating, it’s also okay. Really and truly okay. And it’s not settling as long as I keep moving forward and try to wrap my brain and lips around this “artist parent” identity and own it, even when the “artist” part feels a little smudgy.

Say What 1


Two Tools and an Unexpected Story (Artist’s Way Week 12)

(This post, like the Artist’s Way program, is long and totally worth it, if you feel like putting in the effort. And the mushrooms will make sense at the end ;o)

I’ve officially completed all twelve weeks of Julia Cameron’s Artist’s Way program for creative recovery. It feels good. Not exhilarating. Not incredible. Just simply good. To be honest, my last official day of the program was pretty anticlimactic, but not in a disappointing way. Yes, it’s good to acknowledge the progress I’ve made over the last twelve weeks, but really what I’ve learned is a new creative lifestyle and that’s not something that ends. I’m going to keep evolving as an artist. And I’ve already committed to continuing to use the two basic tools of the Artist’s Way, tools that I would like to share with you here and encourage you to try yourself, if you’re so inclined.

Mushroom 4Artist’s Way Tool #1: Morning Pages

Get yourself a notebook. Every morning when you wake up, write three pages. What should you write about? There is no “should.” Just write anything. Morning pages are a stream of consciousness exercise when you write down whatever comes to you in the moment. It might feel a bit like a diary or journal some mornings. Other days it will feel like a to do list as you gather your thoughts about the day ahead. Some days it will be a rant about the inconsiderate thing your partner did or didn’t do or the way your child has suddenly stopped eating anything that isn’t white. Other days it will be line after line of “This is stupid. I could still be sleeping. I have nothing to write about. This is stupid.” It really doesn’t matter what you write. Whatever you wind up writing is exactly what you need that morning, whether you realize it or not. Morning pages are not pretty. They are personal, sloppy and not to be reread or shared with anyone. Everyone can do them—not just those who consider themselves writers. They are a way to clean out the cobwebs before you tackle the day. They are worth waking up an extra half hour early so you can have time to yourself. They are exhilarating, excruciating, and illuminating. And they work.

Mushroom 2Artist’s Way Tool #2: Weekly Artist Date

Every week, plan an outing that feeds you artistically. The only rules are that you have to go alone and that it has to be fun. Artist dates are about making time just for you and even though you love your friends and kids, it’s not really a date with your artist self if you have to consider what other people want to do or how recently they’ve visited the restroom. The point is to make play time for your artistic wellbeing and to attend to your personal artistic needs and whims. Artist dates can be simple or extravagant. Here are a few that I’ve tried or hope to try soon:

  • Go for a walk.
  • Swing on the swings at a local playground.
  • Go for a long drive with the windows rolled down.
  • Go for a long drive and blast your favorite music and sing as loud as you want.
  • Go to a dollar store and browse. Buy your artist a present, like stickers or a bird feeder.
  • Go to a craft store and browse. Fabric and yarn are two things my artist loves to look at and touch.
  • Take yourself to a concert.
  • Go to a coffee shop and color while sipping your favorite beverage.
  • Visit your closest urban center and soak up the hubbub. Maybe try some new to you ethnic food.
  • Light some candles and take a bubble bath.
  • Dress up and go to a fast food place for a treat and a chance to people watch or doodle or both.

The options are limitless. The hardest part is making the time for your date and honoring it every single week. And believing that you deserve it. You do.

Those are the essentials. While I wholeheartedly recommend that you try the Artist’s Way course in its entirety someday, just experimenting with these two tools is a great start.

Mushroom 5

An Anecdote and a Story

Before I return to writing posts that are only indirectly connected to the Artist’s Way, I wanted to share one more anecdote with you.

On my final day of the Artist’s Way course, I had a bad morning.

It was our last day of vacation in the Adirondacks and my daughter had woken up before I had a chance to write my morning pages. It was too early to take her up to the main cabin where her aunts and uncles were still sleeping, so I wandered over to the neighbor’s house. They were away and had offered their beautiful screened-in porch for our use. I thought it would be a nice change of scenery for my toddler. But as soon as I got there, I realized how many breakable things were there. So instead of writing my morning pages or at least getting to quickly check my email and Facebook using the neighbor’s Wi-Fi, I spent a frustrating hour and a half saying, “No” and plucking fragile coasters and plants and bottles out of my daughter’s eager fingers.

Eventually, we’d both had it. I stomped back to our cabin, found my husband was awake and grouchily asked him to take over baby duty so I could finally write. He was more than willing, but the baby kept being grumpy and disruptive, so my morning pages were feeling fruitless and I was increasingly pissed off. So I raged in my morning pages about how infuriating it was not to have a tranquil writing experience on my last day of the Artist’s Way course in this beautiful place and how I might as well just write nonsense since I could barely concentrate through my frustration. So I wrote nonsense. And that nonsense turned into a story:

Once upon a time there was a painter. And she hated everything she painted.

Perfectionism pinched all of the play from her work. She could never get her colors just right. Her compositions were always a bit askew. And no matter how hard she tried, the proportions were always off. Day after day, she’d paint and rage. Her friends would stop by and compliment her work and she’d insist that it was rubbish and they’d sheepishly leave and she’d keep painting and keep hating it and her paintings would get messier and messier as the day went on until she was overloading her brushes and her paint strokes ran like tears down the canvas. Then she’d throw herself in bed and do it all over again the next day.

Until the morning she woke up trapped inside one of her paintings.

She rubbed her eyes with an effort, her elbows unaccustomed to the two-dimensionality of canvas. At first she didn’t recognize that she was stuck in one of her own paintings. It was a painting of a forest floor with fingers of light filtering through the unseen leaves and resting on a cluster of toadstools and mushrooms. She never painted anything that simple and fanciful anymore. It must have been one of her earlier disasters, she thought to herself.

Ah. Now she remembered. She had been in her fairy tale phase then. This painting was inspired by Alice in Wonderland and the mushrooms that Alice ate to grow larger and smaller. What a stupid subject for a painting and what a horrible place to be stuck. The painter was starting to feel claustrophobic in this flat world of useless flora. How did one escape a painting? Then an idea tickled at her like whiskers. The mushrooms. Alice ate them to escape sticky situations in the story. Maybe one of these horrid creations could transport her back to reality and three dimensions. What did she have to lose? So she bent down, grimaced, and nibbled the edge of a red-capped mushroom, vaguely thinking that if this didn’t work, she’d never make it to her dentist appointment on time.

Apparently, thinking about being late while in an Alice in Wonderland-inspired painting was a bad idea. Her nibble of mushroom did successfully transport the painter back to the real world, but as she blinked and stretched, she realized that she was far too short. Not only short, but white and fluffy. And craving carrots…

 After a few terrifying incidents involving traffic and a red-tailed hawk, the painter found that she had hopped to the edge of a circus tent. While she was admiring the prowess of the lion tamer, she suddenly found herself snatched up by the ears. She was nose to nose with the circus magician. Before she knew it, she was a part of the circus magic act, being stuffed into and pulled out of a musty top hat. At first it was quite fun. She had always loved magic shows as a child and she enjoyed the applause. But after a while, she grew bored. Magic wasn’t so fun when you knew they were just tricks. Besides the repetition was excruciating. So she ran away.

 After more incidents with traffic and an under-exercised and over-excited border collie, she found herself stuck in some bird netting laid across a small patch of strawberries in a suburban garden. The painter squeaked in alarm as a curious cat came stalking into view. Lucky for her, a little girl came out onto the front porch at that moment, spotted the painter, scooped her up in her arms and adopted her with all of her heart.

They were inseparable. The painter slept in a rather spacious hutch right outside the little girl’s bedroom. She had plenty to eat and drink and was allowed to hop freely around the house, provided the doors and windows were closed. They had tea parties together, played dress ups and doctor, snuggled during thunder storms, and whispered secrets to each other without saying a word.

One day, the little girl was painting on a big pad of paper propped up on an easel in her room. It seemed a lifetime since the painter had picked up a brush. The little girl had no sense of color combinations, composition or proportions, but her creations were certainly expressive. The painter felt a twinge of jealousy. As she turned to distract herself with the bedside lamp cord, the little girl paused in painting her landscape of endless grass and sky and noticed the satisfying fluffiness of the painter’s white tail. She had an idea.

 The little girl scooped up the painter and gently dipped her tail in a smear of yellow paint. Then she studied her landscape and moved the painter’s posterior towards the blue part of the page. The painter panicked. There was far too much paint on her tail. She knew from experience that the color would run and the little girl’s picture would be ruined. The painter struggled to get away, but the little girl held tight and squished her tail solidly against the page. Then she put the painter down and admired her work. The painter was right. The yellow would-be circle had drips oozing down the blue and into the green. The painter sighed sadly and looked up at the little girl. She was grinning. “Look,” the little girl said, “the sun is reaching down to touch the grass.”

The painter sat transfixed, twitching her nose, and vaguely aware that she was getting yellow paint on the carpet. But she didn’t care. She was a rabbit in the presence of a painter and her masterpiece. And it was perfect.

The end, for now.

Mushroom 3

Playing Photographer (Artist’s Way Week 11)

The penultimate week of The Artist’s Way program focuses on recovering a sense of autonomy. The reading talks a lot about how we define success. It’s really easy to get distracted by false heralds of success–things like money and fame. Wondering whether or not anyone else will like what we make can hinder us from simply enjoying the creative process. From just making art because we love it.

Sure, we have to pay the bills, but if that’s the only thing we pour our creativity into, then it’s going to get tired and so will we. We need to make time to play, to mess up and around, to drastically reduce the stakes from whether people will like or buy what we make down to whether or not we had fun making it. 20160707_124347

So these days I’ve been playing with a relatively new, low stakes creative outlet: collecting pictures. I don’t consider myself a photographer of any caliber–all of my photos are taken on my trusty phone–but thanks to this blog and the Artist Way process, I’ve found myself more inclined to take photos and to pay more attention to composition. We went on a small vacation recently and as we drove through endless farmland, I found myself eagerly scanning the horizon for particularly picturesque scenes. I enjoyed the challenge of snapping photos in a moving vehicle, oftentimes through a closed window. As a result, I paid more attention to where we were going than I usually do and it made the journey more meaningful.

In addition to taking pictures, I’ve really started paying attention to how much I enjoy including images in all of my creative processes. There’s a reason why Pinterest and Instagram are so successful–people eat up images. They dress things up, they add color, texture, and life to words and ideas. They can shift your perspective or reflect something you’ve always felt to be true, but perhaps couldn’t put into words. I’m not exactly an artist, but I’ve started doodling out story ideas and details instead of just writing them down. I’ve rediscovered a delight in making collages and collecting pictures from magazines. So many images are digital these days and it’s deeply satisfying to have hard copies. And yes, I also dapple in the adult coloring book trend.


I’m in a stage in my life where I need to just play with art. Playing with pictures is one fun way to do that. And one of the best parts is that it’s something I can share with my daughter. Whether I’m snapping photos of her latest antics or coloring with her (while trying to keep her from eating the crayons) or pointing out the details in her picture books, together we can saturate ourselves in colorful, creative images and let our imaginations run wild.


Tuning Out (Artist’s Way Week 10)

Only two more weeks to left in The Artist’s Way. Wild! This week focused on recovering a sense of self-protection; defining the bad habits we have that get in the way of our creativity and admitting why we hold onto those habits when we’d be so much happier if we let them go. I didn’t have to dig very deep to identify my current destructive habit.

Hi, my name is Justine and I’m addicted to Netflix.

You might laugh, but I actually just wrote that sentence, got uncomfortable, and proceeded to open a new tab to continue binge-watching Nashville instead of writing this post. It’s ridiculous. And it’s actually a problem.

It kills me when I think of how much more mastery I could have playing my ukulele or how much of a story I could have written or how much more I could have played with my little girl by now if I didn’t spend hours of my time in front of my laptop, streaming the product of someone else’s creativity.

You’d think I would have learned from my media deprivation exercise in Week 4. But big problems don’t disappear overnight or even over the course of a week. Besides, doing the media deprivation was a task from The Artist’s Way book. I’ve always been an A student and doing homework is something I’ve always done well. I’m programmed to do things that are assigned to me. And I often enjoy that structure of being told what to do. But I struggle to motivate myself. If no outside force tells me I should do something, I’m geared up with all sorts of excuses to talk myself out of breaking unhealthy habits.

There’s a reason why The Artist’s Way is modeled on a 12-step program. Creative blocks are often addictions–things that we cling to so that we can stay stuck, because we know how to be stuck and the unfamiliarity of open creative channels is terrifying.

It feels stupid to be writing this because, to be honest, I still don’t have a whole lot of resolve to change my Netflix-binging ways too much. I am about to go on two weeks of TV-free vacation. Maybe something will click then. But for now, I’m putting it out there. I’m admitting that it’s a problem and one that I will probably be dealing with for some time. I like watching Netflix. It’s calming. It’s easy. It allows me to stay stuck in this strangely seductive pattern, this illusion of not having time to do things that I’d really rather be doing and that would be better for me. I do have time. It might not be ideal amounts or types of time, but I have it. I might tell myself that my daughter takes up all of my free time, but it’s not true. I waste plenty of it–just me and my screens.

But being a full-time mom, it’s so easy to convince myself that I’ve earned the respite that watching TV shows and movies provides. And there’s nothing wrong with television in moderation. It is a fantastic art form in its own right and watching TV can be a great break. But maybe someday, I’ll truly realize that the real respite–what I really deserve–is time to tune into my creativity, instead of tuning out.

Cheer vs. Fear (Artist’s Way Week 9)


20160618_152707When my daughter discovers how to do something new, I applaud her. When she first rolled over. When she walked for the first time. When she makes the “ma-ma-ma-ma” sound anywhere in my vicinity. I praise her with actual applause, with “Good job!” and “Yay!” and with hugs and kisses. Last week, when she successfully climbed up on the couch without assistance, I cheered. On the outside at least.

On the inside, I was freaking out a little. Oh no. This new ability to climb on the furniture means more opportunities to fall. What if she gets too close to the edge? What if she starts climbing the bookshelves? What if can’t keep my eyes glued on her every second and she falls and hurts herself on my watch? One accomplishment. Dozens of fears.

The same thing happens when I try a new creative outlet. I ask for a ukulele for Christmas and actually get one. Yay! But now I actually have to learn how to play. What if it’s too hard? What if I don’t really have time to play it? What if I can never strum and sing at the same time? What if I never become Ingrid Michaelson?

I go to the craft store and buy some new yarn. Yay! It’s so soft and pretty and would make a beautiful hat. But I don’t know how to make a hat. I’ve never followed a pattern before. What if I can’t figure it out? I don’t even hold my knitting needles properly and knit so slowly. What if I wind up with a tangled mess? Better stick to knitting straight stitched scarves. That’s what I know and I’m okay at it, so I’ll just keep only being able to knit one kind of thing.

The problem is that I give much more airtime to the fear than I do the excitement. I don’t do that with my daughter. At least, I try not to. Since last week, she has continued to climb on the couch and has added a few choice arm chairs to her climbing repertoire. And I do my best to cheer her on first and caution her to be careful second.

What if I did that with my creative endeavors? What if I tried letting my cheers outweigh the fears? Campy? Perhaps. But it seems to help my daughter continue to learn new things, so why couldn’t it work on me?

In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron talks about our inner artist being a child. If that’s true, then it makes so much sense that taking care of our artistic lives so perfectly parallels raising our kids. We’ve got children running amok in our homes and a creative inner-child begging to join in the fun. We’ve got creative projects that we’ve abandoned or never even started. Each one is a newborn.

We don’t expect newborns to talk or crawl right away. If they did, we would totally freak out. But we load ourselves down with expectations that are just as outrageous. We’re not okay with being beginners. Or perhaps are and we find the “beginner” label so safe that we refuse to try advancing to a new level.The point is, we need to have some compassion for our fledgling forays into creativity. That’s what Week 9 was about: being gentle with our inner artist child.

So that’s what I did. I never learned how to crochet in elementary school even though it was part of the art curriculum. I don’t know how I got away with it, but I managed to never learn. It was too hard. I felt too clumsy trying to do it. Instead, I invented “knot crocheting,” which was taking a piece of yarn and tying knots on top of knots until you got a chain of yarn knots. I thought it was cool and it seemed to produce the same effect as a chain stitch and was far easier, so I thought I had it made. Until the teacher told me I wasn’t allowed to “knot crochet” anymore because it was really “not crocheting” and I was wasting yarn.

This week, a dear friend came to visit who happens to know how to crochet. I feel totally safe with her and if anyone was going to be able to teach me it would be her. So I asked if she would teach me. Not only did she say yes, but she also brought me my very own crochet hook and a new ball of yarn. We didn’t try it until the last night she was here, but eventually we sat down and she walked me through the steps.

It was hard. I felt clumsy. I had trouble keeping the tension in the yarn just right. But I kept going. I finally crocheted. The result was a lumpy, holey creation. And I all I can say is, YAY!



Failing in Action (Artist’s Way Week 8)

Creative people are dramatic, and we use negative drama to scare ourselves out of our creativity with this notion of wholesale and often destructive change. Fantasizing about pursuing our art full-time, we fail to pursue it part-time–or at all. (Julia Cameron)

Raise your hand if this resonates with you. Mine practically shot up in the air Hermione Granger style when I read it. 13502589_1098146843591505_6805950920256557315_o

After a week of creative triumph complete with a dragon mask-filled pageant, I hit a slump. Maybe it was classic post-mortem depression after a creative project is finished. Maybe it was grief that I won’t get to direct this pageant for this congregation again, since we’re moving back to the US this fall. Maybe it was realizing just how much I wanted projects like that to be the norm and not the extraordinary.

It was probably a combination of all of the above. And it hit me hard.

Even though I suddenly had more flexible time on my hands now that the pageant was over, I didn’t know what to do with it besides housework and errands. And that was so depressing after the hubbub of pageant preparations.

Things spiraled from there. Even though I had a new project to look forward to (directing the school play in the new congregation we are moving to later this year), I still felt flat. Directing a play is great, but it isn’t now. And as I got more and more bogged down by not knowing what to do with my newfound time, I suddenly found myself wanting to do everything now, but didn’t have the energy to do anything at all.

I wanted my Artist Parent Theatre Lab Meet Up to be a huge success. I wanted to have a community of creative friends who I could start making some parent-friendly performance art with. I wanted to write a novel. Or even read one. I wanted to relearn to to play the piano. I wanted to learn new strumming patterns and maybe even some picking on the ukulele. I wanted to learn a second language. I wanted to be in a play again, not just direct one. I wanted this blog to be a community of give and take conversation and not just a soap box for my reflections. I wanted all of these things and with the tools I’ve gained from doing the Artist’s Way, a hopeful little voice said that I could totally start doing any or all of them if I really wanted to and if I took gentle, small steps.

20160618_152315But I had cast my fantasizing net too wide and found myself flailing and caught inside of it instead of using it to seize creative opportunities. I fell prey to negative drama. If I couldn’t have it all, I wasn’t even going to try. And instead of a week of recovering artistic strength, I got a week of half-hearted bleh.

I started listing off all of the things that I wanted to do and just as quickly generated a list of reasons why it wouldn’t work. Too expensive. Too outlandish. Too stupid to bother starting if we’re going on vacation for lots of July and we’re about to move anyway.

As soon as I would try to pull myself together and hop online and look up an American Sign Language course, I would suddenly realize that instead of genuinely looking to commit to something new and exciting, I was instead killing time daydreaming until I had to fold laundry or feed the baby or empty the dishwasher. And then I would beat myself up about it and do chores and play with my daughter and wind up watching TV after she went to bed instead of continuing a heartfelt search for something to feed my hungry artist.

Creativity requires activity, and this is not good news to most of us. It makes us responsible and we tend to hate that. You mean I have to do something in order to feel better? Yes. And most of us hate to do something when we can obsess about something instead. One of our favorite things to do–instead of our art–is to contemplate the odds. (Julia Cameron)

Ouch. Another part of The Artist’s Way that totally hit home for me.

It took a while to realize that things like getting on my computer and browsing for classes I can’t afford or daydreaming about being a part of a theatre community again aren’t actually actions. They are ghosts of action. They feel good for a little while, but if they aren’t done in earnest, but really as a way of passing time or trying to put a bandaid on my creative discontent, then I feel awful after doing them. Instead of moving forward, I tumble backwards. It’s obsession, not action.20160329_135438.jpg

So this past week was frustrating. No tremendous insights. No glittering silver linings. It was blah. It was grey. It was imbalanced. It had some perfectly pleasant moments, but I found myself constantly tripping on little uh-ohs and instead of getting back up, I allowed myself to wallow in the mud I had made by throwing artistic tantrums on the ground. I had zero resilience. I did some things, but skipped a lot of the actions that really mattered–like taking my artist out for a play date even if I didn’t feel like it.

But it’s a new week. Action is possible. Failing is an action, after all. It’s better than nothing. And all I can do is try to do better. Writing this post at a new-to-me coffee shop, slurping on a frozen hot chocolate is a start.


Here Be Dragons (Artist’s Way Week 7)

Dragon 1

Don’t be scared. You are looking at my latest project: dragon masks that I made for my church’s birthday celebration. It is tradition to mark the occasion with a religious pageant depicting portions of the book of Revelation. When I decided to direct this year’s pageant, I knew that I wanted to portray the dragon from Chapter 12.

But how could I depict something that fantastical and frightening in a live performance? I didn’t want it to look silly, but also didn’t want to break the bank. And I needed seven dragon heads. Seven! Why couldn’t it be a one or even two headed dragon? I turned to Pinterest for help. I love searching through this online pin board and collecting compelling ideas. I almost always find treasure buried in the myriad images. This time, Wintercroft was my choice gem.

This company designs and sells beautiful, affordable mask templates that you can download, print, and then construct using simple, recycled materials. Eco-friendly and user-friendly? Count me in! As soon as I saw the dragon template, I completely lit up and thought, “Eureka! That’s exactly what I want.”

Now, here’s the thing. I’ve never made a mask before. Not to mention seven masks all consisting of twenty-three pieces. Each. And even with the very simple instructions, there was this nagging part of me that said I was crazy. The church has simpler versions of dragon heads in storage, it said. Why not use those? It would save a lot of time and effort. Why bother taking this on?

I hate that part of me.

It’s the part with the ever-present sneer. The part that’s always telling me that I shouldn’t try things if I might fail. And I hate how often I listen. But not this time.

Dragon 5This time, true to the focus of Week 7 of the Artist’s Way, I decided to take a risk. Not only did I make the choice to go for it, but I did it gently. I committed myself to the mask-making project and set myself the goal of making seven dragon head masks. But I also allowed myself to make lower tiered goals, in case it wound up being too much. If seven heads weren’t reasonable–and they might not have been, I had no idea what I was getting into–I could look into making three or four and coming up with simpler options for the remaining heads–such as using the pieces already available from previous pageants. If even that was too much, I could just make one “master” dragon head mask and do something else for the rest. Besides giving myself different levels of goals, I also asked for help.

And I got it.

I had cardboard donations by the bagful and cheerful teams of volunteers came to my house to cut, paste, re-paste, score, and fold cardboard for hours. They did most of the prep on the pieces, and then I put them together. Still more volunteers came and played with my daughter so I could try my hand at spray painting for the first time.

There were plenty of hiccups. Glue that didn’t stick well enough. Realizing that I had actually gotten people to fold the pieces backwards, so the first mask was technically inside out. A paint can that took five people and some online research to figure out how to get it to spray. More glue not sticking the way it was supposed to. Hot glue burns.

But there were far more successes than snags. In fact, some of the snags turned out to be Dragon 3successes. Making the masks inside-out–at least from the way the instructions said–was actually better because they were more durable that way. And I got to have some good laughs with friends  and strangers alike as we problem-solved.

We we wound up with seven exciting, fire-red dragon masks.

I’m glad I took the risk. I’m glad I took the time. I’m glad I asked for help. The dragon was a huge hit at the pageant, and my idea to have it played by three people wearing masks and holding the remaining four worked beautifully. (Photos of the masks in action later).

This risk was a gift and it will keep giving. The church now has seven cool masks to use in future years. I have new mask-building and spray-painting skills and a new level of confidence in myself. I’m already day dreaming of making more Wintercroft masks for future Halloween extravaganza’s and plays and church pageants. I love the idea of making some with my daughter one day. And I just might have the wherewithal to take another gentle, creative risk not too  far down the road, come hell, high water, or even dragons.

Dragon 2