FIRST DAY

This week we sent our littles out into the open sea, two of them for the first time, into the rolling waters of public school. I joined our daughter Annie when she took little Beth to Kindergarten, under the ruse of keeping an eye on baby Tess. For sure, I kept a virtual leash on Tessa, who was infatuated with all things Kindergarten. But my eyes were on Beth, and on her mama. I recall vividly that day I took Annie to her first day of kindergarten. That’s a story for another day.

The last week or so Bethy Boo has been on edge, strangely emotional about the most unlikely things. She hid in the closet at her first ballet class, too nervous to dance. She refused to eat her favorite foods. Experience told me it was rising bubbles of nerves at the prospect of going into that big brick building away from her mama and little sister, every day. The great unknown was frightening to her. We tried to be all chipper and excited that first day, but she wasn’t buying it. Nonetheless, she’s her mama’s daughter, and she doesn’t like the feeling of sad, so on the actual first day she chose happy, even with the anxiety that came with it.

As I watched her walk across the playground into the kindergarten door, I was struck at how massive that  brand new backpack looked on her little shoulders. It was actually quite comical to watch the whole stream of kiddos with their giant backpacks and new first-day outfits. After she traced her hand and cut it out, filled out a questionnaire about her favorite things (Q: food- A: clam chowder), met her teachers and listened to a storybook, Beth was a happy camper. It was Annie who was in tears.

It’s a heart thing.

Mama’s hearts have all sorts of scars. Sometimes they rip in the same places, over and over. But they are resilient and they heal and they keep on pumping, even when they hurt.

The first week of school is a heart-wrecker. It feels to me like life in a micro-span. Excitement, worry, tension, work, play, anxiety, exhaustion, triggered memories and concerned anticipation… it’s all there. 

I watch Beth and Walter head off to that big old brick building with those giant backpacks and I whisper a literal prayer as they walk. Bless them with courage, and a willingness to make mistakes in the process of learning, and if possible send them one true friend.

It seems to me fitting that this week we also celebrate my mom’s walk across the heavenly playground on her way to her higher education.

Seven years ago today she drew her last human breath and headed off, leaving her children as weepy as Annie on Beth’s first day of school. That whole first year we shed the kind of tears that trickle unbeckoned from the corners of the eye, even in the most joyful moments. Especially in the most joyful moments. They still come, but we are familiar with them now. They are the fluid sap that works its way through the bark of the tree of love. 

I picture our mom with a giant brand new backpack slung over her shoulder. She dances across the playground, her slender fingers flipping to the beat as she twirls. She sees us as she spins, and calls to us to follow, but she never breaks her stride. She knows where she is going. Her mom is there, and all her sisters and brothers, and her papa and her Jesus.

She is alive and well, I have no doubt. I have a lot of doubt about all sorts of stuff, but not this. She is alive and well. 

It’s just that she feels so far away.

GET GOOD AT GUITAR (or UKE)

September 5th we will be starting up six new guitar/ukulele groups. If you'd like to join one of them, read on:

GIRLS with GUITARS (women, actually)

Thursdays for 5 weeks, Sept 5 - Oct 3

at my house in Farmington

9:15 - 10 am - Beginner 1 (totally new to the instrument)

10:15 - 11 am - Beginner 2 ( you know basic chords)

11:15 - 12 noon - Intermediate/Advanced (we will work on fingerpicking)

$45 (materials included) BYOI (bring your own instrument)

REGISTER through Venmo @Cori-Connors-1. Put your class time and phone number in Venmo comments. I will text you confirmation and my address.

Class size is limited.

email if you have any questions: cori@coriconnors.com

FARMINGTON CITY CLASSES

Thursday evenings, Sept 5 - Sept 26 (4 weeks)

at Farmington Arts Center lower level

Beginner UKULELE -  4:45- 5:15 (ages 9 and older)

Beginner Guitar - 5:30 - 6:00 (ages 11 and older)

Intermediate/Advanced Guitar - 6:15-6:45

REGISTER through Farmington Parks and Recreation
$40 Residents/ $50 non-residents
801-451-0953 or online HERE

Both groups are half hour lessons, we just allow an extra 15 minutes to our ladies groups because we like to gab.
If we have less than five people register, the class is cancelled. I'll let you know if this is the case, and you'll be refunded. Maximum 15 per class. I teach accompaniment style, which is basically chords, strumming and fingerpicking. I do not teach how to read sheet music or classical style guitar.

LOVE LETTERS

In four decades of living with Dave Connors I can only recall two times when I heard him passionately and forcefully raise his voice. Once was as a coach on the ball field, defending one of his teenage softball players. The other was in the cafeteria of the Junior High, defending his son. I had arrived late for parent/teacher conference and when I entered the room I thought I heard my husband’s voice, but it didn’t register because it was so out of character for him to be at that pitch and that volume. I must have a husband-homing device, because it didn’t look like anyone else noticed it, except the teacher, of course. I found David in a heated discussion with our son John’s English teacher. I don’t even recall his name, but he had a particularly elementary attitude about the importance of spelling in creative writing. What started out as an amenable interchange turned into a little philosophical brawl, the teacher defending the value of correct spelling, and David defending the importance of safely expressing creative thought without the hovering stick of an editor restraining the writer. I slipped over to their table and listened, proud of what I heard my husband saying. “If you insist that this talented thinker worry about being punished for misspelling, he will train himself to use safe words rather than accurate ones. We are not willing to let you do that. He is a gifted writer, and a true thinker, and we will not let you squelch that creative brilliance over something like spelling.” It’s not that we don’t appreciate the value of correct spelling in a finished piece, but when one is in the process of creating, spelling must not play a role. The editor gets to come play after the creator is done. I don’t recall how the whole thing resolved itself. I do know, however, that this boy ended up being a lover of words, and a fine wordsmith. He has the heart of a poet, with a large diverse play list perpetually spinning in his brain, and he’s one of the most creatively gifted humans I know.

Everyone has a story.

The thing about creative people, at least the ones I’ve encountered, is that in the process of owning that piece of genius bestowed on them at birth, they tend to grow a little off center, like unpruned trees that have a split trunk where one side takes over and throws things off balance. John appears pretty balanced, at least on the outside. Not that he doesn’t have his quirks, like the rest of us. He has exceptional social skills, and unlike many introverted creatives, he has real interest in other people and how they think and work. He has this way of leaning into you in a conversation, especially if you are new to him. Like a magnet, he draws people’s gifts out, as if they were little shreds of metal shavings. He is able to see their gifts, and appreciate them. So, it is no surprise that he has made a career of assembling talents and making something of the collection. His latest venture seems the perfect marriage of his talents. He has gathered together the raw materials of human communication: Letters - and wrapped them in their finest most creative dress: Art. 

Larger than life.

For months I have watched, from my distant maternal perch, this boy-turned-man rotate on the axis of the English alphabet. All through the winter and spring I made weekly stops at thrift stores, purchasing 100 pounds of books at a time, buying them by weight from the Goodwill store, and storing them on our back porch in stacks and stacks of boxes. Each time we stopped at John and Ashley’s house there was some new creation in process: a scene from Alice in Wonderland sculpted from pages of the book; a large literary arch of books reinforced with metal rebar; wood carved letter blocks. Their home was a wonderland of creative process always in the works. Kudos to Ashley for understanding the messiness of creativity. Blessings on their children for getting to swirl in that space.

John in the rainbow library.

This week we took our family to the finished product, the culmination of this creative assemblage: LOVE LETTERS. At the Gateway Mall, where Coldwater Creek and The Gap used to be, the space has been transformed into an artful intimate look at our relationship with letters. He and his friend, renowned letter artist Becca Clason, have orchestrated a symphony of letter artists from around the world, shining a spotlight on each of their particular talents, and at the same time introducing we plain old humans to the magic that is around us every day. I am reminded how magical it is for us, in this juncture of time, to have access to beauty without hardly trying. The Love Letters Museum is an aesthetically moving reminder that we are blessed with 26 pieces of raw material with which we create unlimited things of beauty, or pain, or tragedy, or grace. Like the collection of our limited number of music notes creates unlimited magic in all its forms, so do Letters. We use them daily, on paper and audibly, stringing them together in our own way, with our own distinct patterns. I came out of LOVE LETTERS with a quiet reverence for them, for the role they play in my personal life, grateful for the tool they are in my relationships. 

Gracie learns to stamp her name.

I am reminded that we are all wordsmiths, and understanding that makes me a more conscientious steward over the tools of my trade. Even more, I am moved by the brilliance and beauty of a world of artists I had not known before, whose work stirs me. I am in awe of their gifts, as they work with the holy trinity of a visual artist: the heart, the mind and the hands. Its apparent they mold their letters with love.

Click HERE to see more about Love Letters Museum: An interactive art exhibit encouraging guests of all ages to use letters, words and art to tell their story. It's only in SLC until mid-September.

My favorite people on
giant letter blocks that move.

Goofy kiddos

You can visit wonderful exotic places and never leave your couch.

Write a letter to someone you love and they will mail it for you

John and his buddy Sophie, a partner in creative crime!

Ruby slides down the pages of Alice in Wonderland.

There is a magical art gallery where artists
were invited to paint from one of their favorite
children's books. You can open some of the paintings
and peek into a tiny spaces, one of them a
replica of the room you're in.
(or, as Anna has done here, you can enter that space!)

Tiny kids in a tiny room.

In the end, there is a large paper shredder
inviting us to let go of our mistakes

Calvin makes his own button,

My brother, George,
constructs with letters.

this wonderful exhibit lets you
walk through words, literally.

Before we can construct some things,
we must first deconstruct the norm.

Watch how this changes as you walk past it.

Thank you, Uncle John.