Inner Space

A child and adolescent curriculum writer devoted to the exploration of inner, and individually driven spirituality that strengthens world wide inclusivity. My curriculum comes from Life's inner story. This is a record of my Life's inner space.


January 2018

On learning.

I adore curating children’s art.

It’s funny how many years of experiencing it took for me to create that very tiny sentence.

Maybe 15 years?

When I was 5 my kindergarten teacher let me invert an old stapler and attach boarders to her bulletin board. I guess I never looked back. She also taught me perhaps one of the most valuable lessons of my growing life- I thought it was Saddam WHO IS SAYING. I thought that was his leader name. During circle time I had a lot to say about this, my nickname was jabber Jawz, she let me talk freely, then she methodically dismissed everyone else and she told me.. “his name is Saddam Hussein,” and she wrote it out for me. Could you imagine if I never learned that, or even if I hadn’t learned it in that very exact moment?

On the last day of school I held her by the knees and cried while others passed me by, dropping hot pink pencils and running for their parents. I wasn’t stupid. I knew it was the end. 5 years later I found her and we agreed I’d do a gymnastics routine to Mariah Carey at the kindergarten graduation that year, 1994. I was a distinguished 5th grade gymnast and a sentimentalist who went back 3 elementary schools to find Mrs. Surrett and say hi.

Every chance I’ve had to curate children’s artwork I have the same feeling I had when I spoke freely in that kindergarten circle, and then I learned something privately.

“An average walk.”

“An average walk.” 2018

Painting in notebooks

A Boy and His Bunny, 2018

Shower Curtain, 2017

I paint a lot. Painting is like handwriting, it very distinctly transmits your stories. I work a lot in small notebooks that I try to keep, but lose track of. There are a lot of vivid stories in those notebooks.

Sometimes I finish a painting that teaches me something about myself or the world, and I wish it wasn’t in a little flimsy notebook.

I think I might need a space, a really special space, with an easel and some canvas and maybe some other tools. A pencil, a feather, a comb…. maybe some wax. A straw.

“I’m catching all these pieces of the sun”

Christmas in Colorado

The cold.

When it falls at night you can look straight up at it and it feels like you’re sinking into the center of the universe. It involves your bones. It smells like a star, or a planet, spread with butter. It’s still.

Christmas time can be onerous. It seems like everything around me is unwinding, moving slower and slower by the second. The light, the time, the flowers- and I resist and reject the change in pace with an unwavering fierceness. So many December days feel like a crappy circus. Around the holidays I often feel like my head is loose, spun, and unraveling. Maybe it’s just the sun.

I’ve never had a Christmas like the one I just had. It seemed softer than all the others.. or maybe slower. Some of it was a little sharper too.

I’d like it to keep getting simpler, December. Or perhaps I’ll need to get simpler.

We sled for the first time, on these giant orange discs. Oh I just loved it. I wished the snow hadn’t been melting, but it kept melting, I could have frozen out there, still giggling and with a giant grin.

It was Christmas in Colorado.

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