Fond reflections

The best part of my job, hands down, is getting to teach the Freshmen Interest Group.  While I have two TAs (that are doing fabulous work), occasionally, I get to speak to them directly.  Planning these sessions is always a delight for me.

Lucky for me I get to present twice in the coming weeks... supposedly on different topics, but let's be honest, they'll probably turn into the same thing.

Anywho, folks. My charge for one class is to talk about ME (terrifying), and open up to the kiddos about my time in school,  have a candid Q&A, and hope they still respect me as their Advisor when we cross the finish line.   Cue soul-searching, and desperate quest for lessons I have learned (see: still learning and i-might-not-be-put-together-enough-to-teach-them-anything)

The other, is to talk about what to do with a music degree

(welfare. kidding.... kind of)

and how to maximize music school.   don't screw this up, AMC.

NO PRESSURE AT ALL.

As I sort through my wispy thoughts... and try to form a concrete thesis, my mind keeps returning to one amazing person.  Since I can't turn my lecture into a tribute for her, I'm doing it here.

Sometimes,
if you're really lucky,
you'll meet the quirkiest person you can imagine. 

She'll pack strange lunches, sing in the hallway, laugh louder than anyone you've ever heard, and remind you of the common root words between "temper" and "tempest."

You'll be mesmerized.

Then, one day, you'll look up and realize that this person is now one of your best friends.  As a young college student, I was blessed to have a person like this enter my life.  Her name was Kristin Cunningham, and she is, to this day, the most interesting person I've ever met. 

She was a Master's student, but didn't resent that I was a young and naive undergrad that she was assigned to work with.  She encouraged EVERYONE, but she also let you know when you were letting yourself down.  Her smile was contagious, and when she loved anything, it was with amazing ferocity.

When she started getting sick, no one even knew what was happening.  Her sickness crept in the backdoor and shook up her entire life. But she refused to stop.  She continued teaching, playing, supporting and being all around powerful.


On St. Patrick's Day of 2008, she passed. 

Saying it was "too soon" does not come close to expressing it.  I couldn't believe it.  Sometimes I still can't- her energy was too big to stop being.

So, what I want to say to my students is the following:

Everything I want you to learn today is:
you have to love with your whole heart. 

Love what you're doing, and don't ever let anyone take it from you.

Love your friends, they will truly never forget you, or the strength that you gave them. 

Love living. 

Just, Love all of it, and you won't have regrets.

Most of all, Love you. You're amazing.

That goes for you folks, too.  Got it?

New Awesome Plan

Run away to become a Gypsy.

If you have known me a long time, or were my kindergarten sunday school teacher*, you know that this is a possibility I've been contemplating for years.

In an incredibly thorough (and obviously logical discussion) I worked this out with my friend Liz earlier today:

Me: I want to be a gypsy. The End.
Liz: hahahaha. but seriously. amazing.
Me: mean. i really always have wanted that
let's consider this: 
1) lots of driving?  love it
2) journey to many different places? great
3) travel with your dearest friends/family awesome
4) wear pieces of mirror in your hair and play sexy violin music   ... hmm, sure?

Now, I know what you're thinking at this point of the discussion:

AMC- that is just a terrible stereotype of a complex and beautiful life style!

or, if you're my parents, you might be going the: your-grandparents-would-kill-you-if-they-were-here route.

ALL OF THIS IS TRUE

However, I firmly believe (not true) that the image of Gypsy-ing (go with it) that I treasured as a child speaks volumes about what I now value as an adult, and can help me analyze my true desires and goals. So, there! (she said maturely and wisely..... yikes)

Also, Liz contributed an excellent point:
Liz:  uhhhh, YES. also 5) dancing with a tambourine? clearly on board with that. 

As you can see, we are not messing around here.  Trained professionals that we are, we know how to ask the difficult questions and develop practical stratagems on achieving goals.

STEP 1- buy this gypsy mobile: 21st Century Gypsy digs

ok. perhaps not.

The moral of this story, however, remains clear:

Extensive hours of playing "dress-up" with scarves and crazy 70s clothes during a child's formative years can seriously skew their trajectory in life. SWEET.

Secondary Moral:  It's Friday, and my brain is clearly the worse for wear.

PS Dear Mom and Dad, do not panic.

*This poor woman asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.  My answers (keep in mind I was five) were:
1) Bank Robber -- she promptly informed me that stealing was wrong and Jesus wouldn't like it.
2) Write a book of the Bible -- Jesus would have to like that more, right? no? oops....
3) Gypsy Princess.  We decided, together, that this was my best option.  I'm pretty sure that poor woman was scarred for life...

Tiny Spaces, Big Hearts

Tiny Texas Houses is running an essay contest to promote their newest prototype.  If you are not familiar with this company, or their adorably sustainable designs you should check out their website: fascinating website

You are guaranteed to fall in love with their ingenious and petite dwellings!


The theme of this contest struck a chord with me; the fascinating idea of reworking the refuse of our past into a beautiful future.  With a little urging from my awesome coworkers, I decided why not toss my hat in and try to win a tiny house!

Below is my submission, for your perusal (and hopefully enjoyment).   

Did I mention that I was limited to 300 words (not including title)?  If you know me, you might doubt that this is possible, reserve your snark and read on!

The Hum In My Heart and The Song In My Voice

I grew up bouncing between two worlds: vibrant Austin; and tranquil Muldoon- steeped with tradition and surrounded by rugged Texas beauty.

My Austin hands played piano, drew pictures, consumed fiction, sculpting an entrepreneurial life in the arts.  The Muldoon blood, however, led my feet down wooded paths, kept my eye on the giant sky and my heart dead-reckoned on the gentle hum of country life.

My family owns land in that small Fayette County hamlet, but that is not why I call it home.  No, home is seeing four generations of your family in one small cemetery, learning trust and gentleness in the workshop of agriculture, and knowing everyday that nothing you do is temporary.

My brain thrived off the energy of ever-changing Austin, but my heart was nourished by the sustainability of home.

When I was a child, my grandfather loaded me into the truck, bounced me through a thicket of cedar and into an open field.  At first unimpressed, I grew ecstatic as he explained that this very field, its huge rocks, blanket of freshly planted oats, and fortress of cedar was mine.  He was giving it to me.  Suddenly, I was a part of this fabric stretching backwards into family history, and no other field would ever look as beautiful.

Remarkably, I later learned that my great-grandfather bought that land, and built a cabin (now vanished) for his children to have a place to start their lives.

I cannot think of any sentiment that resonates more strongly with me at this point, as an artist and human, than wanting a place to start and anchor my life. A place that is rooted in tradition, connected to (or salvaged from) the past, and all the more beautiful as I lend my own voice to its story.

it's not you, it's me

ok.



sooo....when you get a blog, the idea is to post on them.  point taken.


interwebs, it's not you, you're wonderful...and overwhelming.


i promise to post.  next week.

When I was a baby Ewok

Nostalgia

1. a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one's life, to one's home or homeland, or to one's family and friends; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time: a nostalgia for his college days.

2. my state of mind this week.

Everything is reminding me of childhood times in Wimberley, recently.  My grandmother's house seemed like a fairytale land when I was little.  The Blanco River roaring just down the hill,  the giant Cyprus and cedar trees, the bamboo forest... even the house itself with floor-to-ceiling windows, knick-nacks from her world travels all over the walls and shelves, and a plethora of fold-out sofas waiting for grandkids to fall asleep.

Then there was my family.  I remember getting positively giddy at the thought of going to Wimberley.  From the moment we arrived, there was a houseful of my cousins, aunts and uncles, the ever present soundtrack of someone playing piano, my aunts and my grandma singing along.  My dad and uncles building things, or working on things, or watching football. Everyone with a mug of coffee or hot tea in their hands at all times.

In the midst of the whirlwind of activity in this seemingly magical place, there we were, 9 cousins, building forts out of pillows, having soccer tournaments, making spears out of bamboo (safe), swimming in the river as long as they'd let us, walking up and down the road laughing and singing, catching fireflies in giant pickle jars....

Oh, and playing Star Wars. You should understand that Star Wars featured prominently in my childhood.  Not so much the actual films (and by Star Wars, I'm referring to the original ones, the REAL ones) as the universe of stories we created from that framework.  

For years, it seemed, we would claim one particular fold-out sofa from the adults, open it up and transform it into the Millennium Falcon (don't knock it, until you've tried it).   We had the stock cast: my older brother as Han Solo, cousin Danny as Luke Skywalker, Helen as Princess Leia. 

Then we reached the impasse where George Lukas had clearly not explored his possibilities...that and none of us wanted to be chewbacca.  So, we added Princess Leia's daughter for my cousin Madeline (just go with it), and a family of Ewoks portrayed by Jeannie, Becky and Myself.  I still insist that this is type casting.  sigh  

(if you're counting, that's only 7 of us. yep. Kathleen and Julie were not in the Star Wars cast... I mean, we needed an audience, come on) 

 It. Was. Magical. 

In this one place, this safe-haven of childhood, we were just a gaggle of kids running around and loving each other. 

(full disclosure: sometimes loving eachother may have included arguing, crying and locking ourselves in closets to get away from the littlest ones...)

One thing that sticks out in my adult mind is the love we were surrounded with.

Talk about feeling blessed.  My own parents (who are super cool), my mom's 3 sisters and their husbands, and my grandma (I still maintain that she's the most interesting person I know), all of them encouraging us to be the weird kids we were.

  

(and by weird, I mean weird.  did you teach yourself to write in runes from the LOTR as an 8 year old? didn't think so, because you're normal.  P.S. if you didn't pause to think about what "LOTR" stands for, congrats. NERD.)

Anywho, I've been thinking more and more about the roles adults have played in my life.  This may be the direct result of finding out that Martin and Lora are having a baby.  They will be  wonderful parents, p.s.  

I will be the aunt that buys them quirky toys from ThinkGeek and Toy Joy, and encourages them to be silly.  There will probably also be fort building.

Friday is for...... detox

I think it's impossible to be in a bad mood when you're eating fresh raspberries.   Just in case you were curious.  Research, done. 

There's a process referred as "toxification," wherein things increase in toxicity due to enzymatic metabolism (cheers, Wikipedia).  What, you ask, could cause a Friday to go toxic?  

Behold: 

According to my car, central texas is pretty much an easy-bake oven right now.  rough times.

Lorem Ipsum Dolor

For the last few days, the wise and witty Anna P. Luce has been vacationing on my couch. (she is currently head-banging to Simon & Garfunkel, fyi)  Delightful.  

Chica can cook- FACT.  My appliances and kitchen are pretty excited as I've been neglecting them for...well,  our entire acquaintance. They will be molto sad to see Anna return to the frozen north.  My feelings on this subject are similar.

During our fantastical adventures, many pistachios have been consumed, movies watched, and life-coaching commenced.  Not sure if this really qualifies as a vacation for Anna..... hmmmm.

Anywho, here we are, interwebs, on our awkward first-date.   I feel under-dressed. 

Nerd Moment: the subject line you see (Lorem Ipsum Dolor) is part of a common graphic design placeholder, it's a little trick that designers and publishers use while tweaking formatting.   If you knew that, congrats, you've earned an Intelligentsia Merit Badge. 

Since there is a considerable drought in the original-thought department this evening, I will conclude by sharing a poem by my favorite, Billy Collins.

The Moment

It was a day in June, all lawn and sky,
the kind that gives you no choice
but to unbutton your shirt
and sit outside in a rough wooden chair.

And if a glass of ice tea and an anthology
of seventeenth-century devotional poetry
with a dark blue cover are available,
then the picture can hardly be improved.

I remember a fly kept landing on my wrist,
and two black butterflies
with white and red wing-dots
bobbed around my head in the bright air.

I could feel the day offering itself to me,
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment–but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,

or any of those that were scuttling by
seemed perfectly right for me.
Plus, I was too knotted up with questions
about the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.

What churchyard held the bones of George Herbert?
Why did John Donne's wife die so young?
And more pressingly,
what could we serve the vegetarian twins

we had invited for dinner that evening
not knowing then that they travel with their own grapes?
And who was the driver of that pickup
flying down the road toward the single railroad track?

And so the priceless moments of the day
were squandered one by one–
or more likely several thousand at a time–
with quandary and pointless interrogation.

All I wanted was to be a pea of being
at rest inside the pod of time,
but that was not going to happen today,
I had to admit to myself

as I closed the blue book on the face
of Thomas Traherne and returned to the house
where I lit a flame under a pot
full of water where some eggs were afloat,

and, while they were cooking,
stared into a little oval mirror by the sink
just to see if that crazy glass
had anything particular to say to me today.