Leisa A. Hammett

Hot-Off-the-Press: GraceArt Cyber-Week-Plus, Locavore & Artisan Deal!

Monday, Dec. 5: THIS SALE HAS ENDED! We have a skeleton inventory (3 sets!) Thank you All who purchased. We will print more cards probably by spring or before but these were the last of the archival inks & papers if not these designs as well. The bottom design is still available in original form and the top left makes a beautiful print. Thanks again!!

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If you've been following "The Journey with Grace" you may be aware that things are seriously percolating with GraceArt--that's the originals, print and card line of my 17-year-old daughter with autism, Grace Walker Goad-- www.GraceGoad.com. The scale got tipped this morning when I said "yes" to our seventh exhibition invitation since May--six since October, all unsolicited. (I was waiting a year to re-rev GraceArt as Grace approaches transition. The Universe seems to have another idea. Yesterday, I got "the memo.")

Quick recap: In addition to her usual annual participation at this Vanderbilt Kennedy Center-based show, GraceArt showed in autism art exhibits in Washington state and in Soho in October. This spring she will have at least three solo shows, two in April and one in May. (I've been contacted about the fourth venue--a local gallery, but it is yet unconfirmed.) The May exhibit will be at the Green Hills Library. And commemorating national Autism Awareness Month, GraceArt will show in Hillsboro Village's new hip Hot and Cold of the Bongo-Java family. For three weeks that month, she will also be the featured artist with autism at a museum in Georgia. More details to come as I secure them.

That last invite just came in yesterday morning. Which got me to thinkin': We gotta get busy! And that's where you come in. We broke our budget when we printed our fourth and last batch of GraceArt cards. Our printing costs went up by half--necessitating a small price increase in the cards--plus and we have lots of framing to do before April! I need to recoup those funds to prepare for these exhibits. We will print more cards, but these will be the last set that will be archival inks and papers, and depending on prices, these may or may not be the last fold-over-style cards we print. You can frame these, as you will be able to future ones, but again these are fade resistant. All proceeds from GraceArt originals and prints go into her future independent living fund. Her card line, however, covers the expenses of printing the cards and framing, etc. 

Help us sell these newly printed archival-quality cards! We have 50 sets. I've not even assembled them and put them into bags yet, but I will and I'm offering them to you because we need to sell these. (Did I say that already?) So, in a set you receive 8 cards. There are four designs with two of each design. The cards and envelopes are made of archival quality paper and printed with archival inks. You can frame four of them, split them up, give them as singles, etc. You decide. Each set of artisan-made, locally produced (in Nashville) cards by a teen (mine!) living with autism is $25.

And, because I'm so nice and a little anxious to recoup costs and get additional work framed by April (repeat-repeat), if you are in Nashville, I will deliver them to you to save you shipping cost. (Ack! I can't believe I'm doing that to myself!) If you want them mailed, I will foot the postage for the first packages of three. We've had a frustrating snafu with our web design, so I regret we are still not e-commerce at GraceGoad.com. So, you'll have to place your order with me through email: lahammett(at)gmail.com and I will send you a paypal link so that you can still have the ease of paying online. Deal?

Now, don't you want to support an about-to-transition-to-adulthood really cool artist with autism (who's also really sweet and adorable), create autism awareness (there's a blurb on the back of the card about autism plus a bonus postcard about the artist,) do your shopping online during this cyberweek, support an artisan who's also local if you live in Nashville? (Say "Yes!") Your conscience will thank you and so will we.  Buy now!

And one more nice thing I'll do for you, here's a link to the Autism Society of Middle Tennessee's website where you can send a GraceArt card to someone online. For Free! Thank you! I look forward to receiving and fulfilling your orders!

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About the cards. These designs were produced in 2006 when Grace was 12. Because of set-up costs, we've never done additional designs. But that's probably changing soon. Here's what's become of these  originals. From top left to right: Multimedia Collage I--unfortunately the original was inadvertently ruined during a solo exhibition, but this makes an excellent print as a card or enlarged. Multimedia Collage II is one of Grace's most popular pieces and  was purchased as a part of the Tennessee state artist's Collection, which resides at the state museum. Bottom, left to right: Ribbon was originally purchased by Grace's maternal grandfather for her maternal grandmother. After her grandmother died in 2008, the painting was the featured auction piece, selling for $450 at the Autism Society of Middle Tennessee's Pieces of Hope benefit. Multimedia Collage IV is still available as an original. For more of the backstory on GraceArt, you can read about how Grace's gift was discovered at age four and the rest at GraceGoad.com.

Please share this blog link with your friends who may be interested in helping our cause by cyber shopping local, artisan and supporting an individual on the autism spectrum!

Gone Now

Every holiday we gathered, in the chairs on either end of the dining room table sat our parents--our mother nearest the kitchen, our father heading the furthest end. Each year, the last decade-and-a-half,  we watched as they, bookending us, grew more feeble. First one left us. Then, finally, so did the other.

This year someone else sat in their places. A sibling. A sibling's spouse. New friends joined us at our family table.

Our parents are gone and Thanksgiving was the first holiday my sisters and I communed without our parents. This December marks the third Christmas since mother's death and Daddy died at the dawn of this year's spring.

Their departure left ruts in our souls. And mysteries unsolved about what weighted their own souls.

Daddy's death turned my world upside down. And, not because I was Daddy's Little Girl. My middle sister held that role. Nothing I begrudge. It took his death for me to wake up to the patterns sown in my life that repeatedly reaped unwanted harvests.

Now I am digging up the fields. Arduous work it is. Much discovery going on beneath the deep, dark soil. I am planting a New Life. It is slow work. Soil tending always is.

Thanksgiving has come and gone and the calendar of days hurl us, now orphaned children, into Christmas and on into the New Year. In our hearts we bless the abundance for which they labored to leave us at their departure. And the rest of the legacy, we work on our own to understand and unravel.

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With poetic license, I use "we." It is "we" who have lost our father and our mother. But in fairness I must only speak of me. The "we" of the inner journey left after our parents gone is mine, traveled by me.

Thanksgiving Blessings

 

 

My sisters and I will be gathering for our first Thanksgiving as orphaned adult children. We will resume the tradition started by our father: When we sit down to the blessed feast steaming before us, we will go around the table, each of us sharing what, during this last year, we are Thankful for in our Lives.

For me, this year, I am Grateful for the Gift of Adversity. Amidst a year of unexpected turns in my Life, I created this mantra of sorts to propel me through with Gratitude, and I share it with you here:

 

Thank you, Life, for the Gift of Adversity....

For, in You, I find greater Strength, Wisdom

and Resilience.

These days, I am practicing GrateFULLness. How does that differ from "Gratitude" and "Grateful"? It means being thankful for what I like to call/"label" those "less than optimal" Life experiences. Being in a state of GrateFULLness even amid turbulence. Which, in the end, as I choose to see it, is a part of the Perfectly Divine, the Perfectly Imperfect. IGBOK. And, it's All Good. I hope you know this....

May your Holiday be blessed. May you find GrateFULLness in your heart to cherish the day, your loved ones, all that is important to you, that with which you are blessed--great and small--and even the Adversity that Life sometimes serves up alongside.

Namaste.

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About the above painting: This gorgeous oil on canvas, entitled "View From the Mountain," is by Nashville artist Susan Goshgarian McGrew. Her work can be found at The Renaissance Center's new Artisan Market. This is the "Journey with Grace, Autism, Art & All the Rest of Life "ArtsFriday" post a day early as a holiday gift you, my readers. And, there is an autism connection here. Love how that works time and again. (Dr. Susan McGrew was a pediatrician specializing in autism for many years at Vanderbilt Medical University.) And, I took some liberties with the spelling of Ken Wheaton's "Grateful" here.

Our Differences & "What Others 'Think'"

Today's usual Wednesday "Autism/DisAbility" blog entry is posted over at imamomtoo. Please click over and read my take about taking responsibility for our own feelings when we "think" others are staring at or judging our children with autism (and other disAbilities). Not cooking and got some holiday lull? Then leave some comment love over at Meghan's, will ya? Thank you! I'll be back on Thursday with a short, contemplative holiday wish and a beautiful piece of art for you. Bye-bye!

Why Do We Fear What We Will Someday Become?

Tell me: Why do we fear what we all, as humans--if we are lucky--will become? And that is: Old. Why do we disrespect what we will someday be? Why, when we are still young, do we embrace stereotypes about a certain age? Stereotypes that damn us and perpetuate predjudice?

What do you think?

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Starting this week, "The Journey with Grace" is stepping away from our (me, myself and I's) computer and yours a bit. Instead of Monday-Wednesday-Friday posts, through the first week of January, I'll be posting twice weekly. It's the season for a breather, don'tcha think? Thank you for reading. I love your support via emails, Facebook and especially via comments on the blog.

A Lucky Literary Resurrection For Nashville

Last December found Nashville book lovers mourning the loss of our city's last full service independent book store. It was a sign of turbulent times in the publishing world. Soon, three Borders here would also turn off the lights and permanently close their doors. More than a few us knew that three fingers on our own hand also pointed back at our own selves. The day I heard that Davis-Kidd Booksellers was closing, a ginormous package arrived on my doorstep ala Amazon. I had done my Christmas shopping online. Gulp. Yep. I helped kill Davis-Kidd.

Have we learned our lesson? Have I learned my lesson? We're damn lucky, we are. Because in this last  year, we celebrated what we had left, Franklin's Landmark Booksellers, Hillsboro Village's Bookman/Bookwoman and a couple of other used and specialty book stores. Bookman/Bookwoman began carrying New York Times bestsellers in addition to used varieties. And native daughter, best-selling author Ann Pachett was gifted a vision. And so were a few other tenacious book lovers. This week, the fruits of their literary loving labors opened its' doors in Green Hills as Parnassus Books. And less than a week earlier Barnes and Nobles expanded from Cool Springs and combined forces with Vanderbilt's bookstore to open in the old WestEnd Borders.

Books are not Dead. Not in Nashville. But these Nashville purveyors will need us to help keep the heart of their stores beating. Same goes wherever you are reading this from--support your local bookstores, please. As an author, speaking for all authors, we need you to help us have local venues to sell our books, to read them to you, to meet you face-to-face. Much creative, sacrificial toil goes into writing books. Good art deserves monetary support from us all.

By the time you read this, I will have walked down the street and into Parnassus and finally purchased a copy of my Nashville friend Carson Morton's successtful Stealing Mona Lisa to give as a Christmas gift. And in this last year, I have ordered from Landmark Booksellers and I've not purchased any books from Amazon. (I don't hate Amazon. The giant has its' place. But really, what's happened in part is the Wal-mart-ization of the local book vendor. Think about it. The consequences of our choices here in Nashville were painful. They cost us our locally-owned bookstores!)

In my humble convicted state of remorse, a debt I owe to myself, to other authors and to these bold folks that dare to keep alive the art of reading "Real Books," is to buy local. I've been doing that with my books, much of my produce, my jewelry, my housewares and some of my clothing since coming back from the land of locavore champions in the Pacific Northwest, summer 2010. It is the right thing to do for the economy, for the environment, for our communities.

And here's another thought...Do we really need to purchase six books at a time for ourselves from the virtual store? Yes, via the monopoly, we can buy six for the price of sometimes just two. But, what if we purchased one or two at a time? Radical concept? How many of us (I'm raising my hand here) have stacks and stacks of unread books? What if we helped the local bookseller by buying what we can afford from their shelves versus "more" from The Big Guy that then gathers dust on our nightstands--? And, if for your wallet that means six at top price, got for it! Good for you!

We lost a lot last year in our dear city. Let's keep history from repeating itself. Join me, will you? See you between the bookshelves!

Bi-Monthly Autism Orientation Tomorrow

 

 

Tomorrow night I will do something I do six times a year. I will stand before a room of parents, grandparents, teachers and other greater Nashville community members. I will follow an hour presentation by a speech therapist, a psychologist--by some type of professional that works in the field of autism.  They will present a 101 version of what is autism.  I will follow in the second half, for an hour weaving my experience into the universal story of the Grief Process as it applies to the autism journey.

Recently, a comment was made by someone that called it to my attention that although I sometimes link to and mention this presentation I do for the Autism Society of Middle Tennessee the third Thursday every other month, that I've never mentioned it more specifically here. The months our the presentation are January, March, May, July, September and this month, November, again third Thursday, 6:30 to 8:30 in the evening, room 241, Vanderbilt Kennedy Center.

The entire two-hour presentation is free to anyone interested in learning more about autism.  I absolutely love doing this. I have spoken in this capacity now for seven years. I also frequently address area university education and medical students about various disAbility issues. I had one course shy in my college communications major from having a minor is speech. I love to speak publicly and I am interested in coming to speak to your group for a nominal fee.

Every other month, before me are often "newly diagnosed" parents. Often they are scared. Often something I will share from my own autism parenting journey will resonate and I will see tears well in father's eyes and flow down a mother's or grandmother's cheeks. I tell them that once they leave, they are welcome to dispose of anything I say during that hour, that I am only relating my own experience but that much of it is also universal and endorsed by parents who have made it through the Kubler-Ross stages of Grief to arrive on the shores of Acceptance and that they can too. Some, though not many, will cross their arms against their chest and hold them there tightly throughout the hour. But most will hear something, maybe many things, perspectives that they either already know or have not thought of and thus resonate. It is my reward to see those shifts. To see the light come on. For the tension to ease a little....

If you are in Nashville, you are invited to come to these Orientations. Childcare is free until Tuesday at 2 p.m., the week of the Orientation, when registrations for the service are closed. You can call the Autism Society to reserve a free place or register online.  If we do not already know one another, please introduce yourself to me.

Come! Come share the Journey. Won't you?

I Am My Mother's Daughter

I am my mother's daughter.

I am my mother's daughter when I entertain company. Any occasion for her was an occasion to serve her signature chicken curry or chocolate fudge-icing bundt cake and Maxwell House coffee. I love to entertain. She used to say I was the only daughter who got that gene.

I am my mother's daughter when I pull out the special napkins for said company. When I fuss over the pretty dishes and making sure everyone is satisfactorily fed and nurtured.

I am my mother's daughter when I indulge my creativity and delight in putting together an outfit, plucking from the closet  the perfect accessory to adorn.

I am my mother's daughter when I put together a home. The pictures hung. The favorite oriental rug unfurled in just the right spot. The beloved sofa positioned, the warm wood of a table to accompany.

I am my mother's daughter when I drink the water left over from the empty container that held the celery.

I am my mother's daughter when I drink my coffee with cream and no sugar.

I am my mother's daughter when I write a thank you note. (I hope she doesn't know how poorly I'm failing at it these days.) Doing so was a religious tenant for her.

I am my mother's daughter when I offer the workmen a glass of cool water.

I am my mother's daughter when I write. When I paint. When I create....

My friend Kris once told me it'd be like this when I lost a parent. That I'd be going about my daily business when I realize in some benign act somehow her presence still infiltrates my own.

Mother, I love you. As of next month, you will have left us three years ago. I am your daughter. 

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This "Journey with Grace" is a part of a forthcoming e-book series on death, dying, aging parents and sandwiched adult children. I keep thinking I'm ready to publish it when inspiration for yet another post strikes again. And. Again.

Eclectic Visual-Written Fall Gratitude Feast

 "When we innocently pass through a day without acknowledging our good, we are denying ourselves a sense of pleasure and delight. We lose a consciousness of expectation that things will continue to get even better. Gratitude is it's own prayer." -- from "Taking it for Granted," Spirit Coach Gregory Fisher's daily e-blast, Oct. 19, 2011

From Waves of Gratitude: "On numerous occasions throughout a single day nature offers us signs of beauty for free. The artistry of a sunrise against a cloudy sky, the peacefulness of a sunset when another day has gone by. The stars that are sprinkled across the dark canvas of night that sometimes pale to full moons light. The sound of leaves rustling in the breeze or the birds as the sing in the trees."

 

"These are there to remind us that if nature awakens after a storm to display such beauty that surely so can we. The past is the past the beauty is in the moment that allows you to paint or sketch your own destiny, your own future."

 

 

I gratefully sing a seasonal song of color from local farm stands bringing happy to my little porch....

 

Clarity to say grace, give space and walk my own way....
 

When Life delivers pain, Joy can be equally intense. I am finding Intense JOY in the shapes and colors of leaves during my daily walks. Our world is the Creator's palette and I'm swimming in the colors of Autumn Joy.

"Goldsworthy styling," yours truly, as well as all "Droid-ography." Copyrighted, LeisaHammett.com.

Second photo:  Radnor clad in radical fall colour, casting admirable, unabashed glances on the lake before Her.

Oh the fun we have had this fall walking our errands in our new suburban shopping district.  

 

 

Thank you Mother Nature-Great Artist-Divine!

 

Take Your Cure & Shove It. We're Fine Just as We Are!

"Look! There's our silver lining." My friend pointed to the blackened sky, the full moon hidden by swollen clouds yet rimming their tops in silver. It was Saturday night and I'd driven The Divorce Mobile, top down--my friend riding shot gun--down to south of Nashville to a Mayberry-like community where California music business types retire and yuck it up with the local yocals. One of Nashville's best art galleries is a town hub and twice a year the owner puts out a fine spread of grub, hires a stellar band (this is Nashville,) and throws a grand party. And the art never disappoints either.

Like me, my friend never lets a chance to cut the rug--or the lawn, in this case--pass her by. A third person joined us and eventually a few others. We urged the wall flowers there--those tapping their toes and trying to jig while stayed glued to their seat--to join us.  "No," declined one woman. And then, a few moments later, she came to me as I stood at the drink table, having run into some late arriving friends. "Here, my brother will dance with you," she said. She pointed to him, he looked at me. I looked at him....Hmmm. Cute guy. We joked around a bit and then he asked me to join him for a dance. Very limber. Very uninhibited. Did I mention cute?

Then the party ended. Too soon. He was in this sweet spot that night in search of land and I mentioned I had a lead for him. He grinned and said, there was a reason for us to meet that night. And then, a few moments later I turned to my late-arriving friends again and told them the latest about Grace's art--invitations to show in New York, Washington and possibly Florida. Turning to cute guy, I gave him the context: "My teen daughter has autism and is an artist," I said. He looked at me and grinned again. "There's another reason we were supposed to meet. I have a cure for your daughter."...Suddenly the mood dampened, my face, I'm sure, grew hard, my smile disappeared and though I'm pretty aware of my own body language, I stood there most of the rest of the evening with arms crossed or in some form of "cutting off."

I am intentionally sparing the details of what this supposed cure was, but cute guy's sibling came along and the two of them proceeded to repeatedly interrupt me as I attempted to answer their questions and explain some about our history. My late-arriving friends stood there rapt. Watching. Listening. At one point, one of the friends said: "I bet you've heard this a lot." Yes. I have, I told her.

Yes, I have. So many times. Though I think the last time was probably three years ago--someone selling organic frozen food--had tried to hawk a cure for my daughter's autism. In 14 years, I've seen cures du jour come and go: hug therapy, shadow therapy and patterning. Actually, those three predate me. And for the sake of history, let's not forget the Bruno Bettleheim Refridgerator Mothers legacy that for decades blamed "cold mothers." On the heels of those theories came discrete trial training, Louvas-style. I was accused by ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) local and online evangelists of "abandoning my child," "abusing" her, even, in my refusal to sit her at a kitchen table eight hours a day while a parade of college students at $10 an hour sashayed in and out of my house drilling her. My choice to do what I believed was right for my child was likened to refusing to give her chemotherapy had she of been diagnosed with cancer. I'm not making this up. And, when we appeared on a national television talk show about autism and Grace's art,  I endured a backstage, harsh, lip curled questioning of a less than warm-fuzzy commentator "had I done ABA with my child?" (The comment necessitated a trip to my therapist once I returned home.)

And, you know what? Those Evangelists? They lost their faith. And their children are still not cured. Like mine. ABA was replaced with intravenous chelation, bone marrow transplants, blood transfusions, a myriad of off-label medications, oxygen treatments...the list goes on. And on.

My daughter is no longer a recently diagnosed preschooler. She's 17. We have survived a myriad of user-friendly interventions, most proven, some not-so. I've traveled this arduous journey a decade-and-a-half, nearly, gripping all the while to my sense of self, my truth and and an aim to always honor her Spirit. The Evangelists are parents who began their own journey with their children at the same time. And then there are whole communities of them out there. Some are still searching for "The Cure." Some of them still bitter. Some of them still asking: Why?

As the cure-promoters continued to be in my face that beautiful otherwise blissful Saturday night, I came back at them. They had ONE piece of the autism puzzle. ONE. I agreed with the validity of their one piece. But I told them that the spectrum was far too complex to generalize their theory to all. I stressed genetics. Genetics almost always came first (with exceptions for things such as birth trauma,) and then environment. I answered their questions about what I thought was the source of genetics. And I pushed back that my child was not broken. One questioned how I could say that. My child, I told them was perfect as she is. And I questioned them: What if the reason for the increase in their numbers was something spiritual? What if a child with autism is born to teach us to serve? To be tolerant? To just BE in this world?

Yes. I've heard it many times that there's yet another brass ring out there. Saturday night reignited old stuff in me. Old autism baggage. Long ago I chose to embrace our lives with all of its' extra challenge incumbent with my daughter's diff-ability. Do not tell me she's broken. Do not tell me that you've got a cure for her. You can shove that cure, cute guy. We are fine just as we are. If you want to dialogue with me, if we can put down our defenses and exercise some nonviolent communication principles maybe we can hear one another. Please respect my journey. This is my Truth. I embrace it. I cherish it. It is who we are. Perfectly imperfect. And so it is....