However, my feelings toward art purchased at Home Goods continued to plague me for months. Many times, Oprah has said that when the Universe wants to teach you something, it will keep sending you lessons until you learn it. The first lesson might feel like a pebble hitting you on the side of the head, but if you don’t learn from it, then the next lesson will feel more like a rock. It will escalate to a brick, a wall and so on until an entire metaphorical house falls on you, if that’s what it takes to get your attention.

Generally, I have found this to be true and it certainly was true regarding this art crisis. The barrage of lessons came over a number of weeks as I tried to creatively punch up our landscaping without spending a fortune on tearing up a crumbling patio or buying a lot of new plants. Once again, a solution blindsided me at Home Goods when I spotted two separate sculptures of metal frogs playing instruments. I immediately saw that I could build a little stage area off to one side of the yard and have the five frogs that comprised the sculptures serenading that corner of the garden — a fun and unexpected vignette to add a mini focal point within the middle of the hardscape.

As I was buying the frogs, the Home Goods cashier commented, “Somebody like frogs.” I responded that I had no idea I did until I saw these amphibious musicians. He quipped, “It’s amazing what we convince people they have to have.” I appreciated his commentary on marketing and out-of-control consumerism, but his words struck even deeper for me because once again, I was investing in handcrafted, made-in-China merchandise and responding to it like art.

(Before I go on, I have to tell you that I hesitated to write this column, and have once again delayed doing timely postings, because I wasn’t sure how to handle the political ramifications of mentioning all this stuff about China. I am not intending to be commenting on the artistry or workmanship of items made in China, on the business practices in China, labor policy in China, or on the import practices of the United States. I am intending to use the items from China that I am buying as a symbol of the inexpensive, mass-produced, imported goods that I am surprisingly responding to as art.)

The frog band vignette came together and I started to envision mini art scenes hidden around corners all over the garden. Over a series of about 10 weeks, I made trips to Home Goods and its neighbor, T.J. Maxx and found 12 more art pieces, all from China, to display in my garden. There were groups of dancers, there were other bands of musicians, and there were music symbols and instruments. All of them made of metal, none of them intended for outdoor use and most of them costing no more than $10. Every week I was surprised to find items within my theme newly stocked on the shelves. I fancied that the buyers for T.J. Maxx and Home Goods were thinking, “Wow, we have a real market for cheap, metal, music-themed sculpture.”

Every week, I hesitated about adding one more piece of questionable art to my garden. I would get a pit in my stomach and my heart would race. I would almost dread walking into the store for fear they would actually have more sculpture and I would have to deliberate once again on purchasing it. But my curiosity compelled me to enter as I wondered how long the supply could possibly last, and I always knew right where I would put the new additions. Each one added another layer of irresistible charm to our outdoor living space.

When my daughter’s gymnastics session ended, I no longer had reason to go to the Home Goods/T.J. Maxx shopping center and my expeditions stopped. I was quite relieved because I was weary of the conflict between my stubbornly held definition of art and my obvious disregard for that definition by my actions over three months.

The family spent many hours over the summer playing and relaxing alongside our new sculptures. Visitors would delight in walking through the garden and discovering a new vignette in unexpected places. Children who visited would touch the sculptures and go searching in and around flowers and bushes to find more. I enjoyed pruning plants to stay just clear of the vignettes so the sculptures appeared as artistic oases among the foliage. I also started to imagine what the winter garden would look like once the plants are trimmed far back and the sculpture becomes the focal star until spring arrives again.

Like any successful adoption, I have stopped thinking about where the art came from or how much it cost, and now love it because of what it is and what is stands for. It was a long and painful lesson, but the simple truth is not earth shattering or original — if you love the piece, then it is art. The determination comes from your heart and soul, not your brain. Engaging with the creative force in everyday life means being open to it in any form, without bias. And in one of life’s more unexpected twists, I find myself grateful for large, discount retailers and for China.

We had some much-deferred maintenance in our backyard and pool area that couldn’t be deferred anymore. Coordinating contractors and pitching in to do much of the work ourselves was indeed time consuming. But this excuse was just a shield to hide behind while I pondered a personal art crisis that blind-sided me in February. Here is a column I wrote then and never posted due to my unresolved feelings. Next time, I will tell you how I came to a resolution over the past five months…

(Written February 29, 2008)
I’m having a personal art crisis. It is multifaceted. I am doubting the validity of commercial art, and I am doubting the validity of my own art. Both doubts go directly against the beliefs I espouse daily as a columnist, as a mother, and as a teacher. Both doubts stem from a need to put art into my house for the purposes of design.

In my perfect world, art and I would always find each other across a crowded room in the most unexpected of places. I reject art that is purchased to be an accessory in the grand scheme of interior design. This is in part because I think loving a piece is a component of what makes art “art.” How can you love something that you chose simply because it was the right shape/size/color to fit into a specific place in the home? I need more than pragmatism to start a relationship.

We needed a sculptural element on the sideboard in the dining room. We didn’t have one before, but suddenly, I felt it was the key to the whole room. The piece needed to fit in thematically and aesthetically to the style of the room, and be just the right height and depth. I expected that we would embark on a lengthy search to find the perfect piece.

One afternoon, I was killing time at Home Goods while my daughter did a gymnastics class. Less than ten feet inside the door was displayed a large, thin-profile, hand-painted pitcher with very folksy looking instruments and music notes set against a city skyline. Funky and colorful, it suited my taste in art perfectly. There were actually two such pitchers, and the price was right, so I put them in my cart and marveled at my good fortune. They were functional pitchers with a twist, fulfilling all the needs of my sculptural quest.

But as I walked through the store, I started to doubt the pitchers. I had found them too easily. I had found them at Home Goods. Could they be considered art? The price tag obscured the label showing where they were made. What if they were mass-produced in China? Were they still art?

I examined them several times before deciding to buy them. Feeling quite a bit conflicted, I took them home anyway. At home, they suited the space on the sideboard as well as I’d hoped, but their unspectacular pedigree kept haunting me. It wasn’t hard to determine why I felt unsure about them. They were folk-art style that I wished I had found at a street fair in North Carolina, but instead they were found at a large retailer. When I peeled up the price tag, it verified that they were both hand-painted and from China. Could I accept them as art with such a mundane provenance? I espouse engaging the creative force in everyday life, and here I had been blindsided by an art connection in an unlikely place. But I was rejecting it because it wasn’t special enough. I am a hypocrite and a snob. Not a good realization.

Around the same time, I decided we needed two large canvases in the home to fulfill spatial requirements in two different rooms. Cost was prohibitive for us to purchase large works by another artist. Buying large art from a retailer would cause the same problems for me that the Home Goods purchase caused. I decided the art would need to be created within the family.

I bought the blank canvases and I’ve been staring at them for weeks. My mind sees the images I want on them, but I am certain that whatever I paint or draw, or ask someone else in the family to paint or draw, won’t be “good enough” for such a large art statement. I tell people constantly to make their own art, and my home has plenty of family-crafted art, but this time, I am feeling paralyzed by the idea.

A terrific documentary aired on PBS called “Freeway Philharmonic.” It’s about the folks who make a living as freelance orchestra musicians and they exemplify that art is as important as breathing. Have your Tivo keep a watch for a repeat airing, or go to http://www.freewayphil.com/ to find information about where you can catch it. It is inspiring and humbling.

A friend and Art and About reader directed me to an article in The New Republic about (I will quote my friend here):

….on the surface, it’s a book review, but in essence it’s a long discussion and meditation on the role of music in human life and culture. Also, the comments seem to apply as well to other art forms. Among the questions discussed:

Does the “value” of music depend on its cultural and temporal context, or does it transcend culture and time?

What does the concept of “pure” art mean?

To what extent is music a universal language, carrying meanings that are perceived similarly by diverse listeners in diverse circumstances?

Does music have a moral dimension?

Does it enlighten or otherwise humanize its listeners?

Does “classical” or “fine” music have enlightening or inspirational qualities that “folk” or “pop” or “commercial” music does not?

This is a meaty article, which may require several readings to digest. It took me an hour to read the whole thing the first time so before you tackle it, I recommend pouring yourself a hot beverage, getting on some comfy clothes and settling down in your favorite chair. Then prepare to go on an intellectual adventure. I’m still processing all the information it contains, and it has been several weeks since I first read it.

Keep living artfully!

I noticed on my list that about a year ago, my daughter asked me an awkward question. She caught me sailing through the house during my cleaning routine and said, “Mama, listen to the song I made up about a guinea pig.” She sang the song, followed by the query, “I made that up. What song did you make up today?” I was so embarrassed. Oh my goodness, it was already 9:30 a.m. and I had yet to make up a song for the day. In fact, I hadn’t set aside any time on my schedule that day to make up a song, and I didn’t have the flexibility to squeeze a song in. I backed out of the room mumbling about getting back to my cleaning, admiring her attitude and feeling ashamed of my priorities.

In the past year, she has produced an oeuvre of original compositions. Some she sings once and forgets. Some she hums again and again while playing, riding in the car or taking a bath. A few, her brother has even picked up and begun humming. She doesn’t quite write a song a day (to my knowledge) but she is way ahead of my output.

When I tuned my ears to it, I started to realize that kids are writing and singing original compositions at school, on the playground, in grocery stores, restaurants, anywhere you can name. I help out in my son’s classroom and one young lady writes songs to help her do addition. She sings them to herself while she does equations in her head. Creative and practical!

I teach choir classes to preschoolers and kindergarteners and we have a periodic activity called “music sharing.” The kids thought it up. After a session full of singing songs I taught them, the children wanted to teach me some songs. I expected them to sing tried and true tot classics but that isn’t what they meant. They wanted to share songs they had written. I learn what is going on in their lives from those songs.

At the end of class we all sing a ditty I made up: “Sing the song that’s in your heart all the day through. Sing the song that’s in your heart and let your love shine through.” I wrote the song because we needed an age-appropriate class closer that I hoped would send a positive message about singing. Turns out, the kids are living this message every day, with our without my encouragement.

Adults don’t sing songs they made up at school, on playgrounds or in grocery stores. Adults have learned that there are “appropriate” places to sing, and “inappropriate” places to sing. As children, that is either what the adults in our lives told us, or it is what we learned from our peers at a certain age. What is that age? Probably about the same time we become self-conscious about everything else. Probably about the same time we start to try to be more like everyone else at the expense of our own uniqueness. Most of us never go back to making up a song a day, let alone singing it for the world to hear.

What would the world be like if we never lost that impulse? Would it end wars, feed the hungry or make the poor rich? Can you say with certainty that it wouldn’t? My little ditty may be more than just a preschool class closer. It could be an eye opener, if we open our ears to the music pouring from the hearts of the children.

Sing the song that’s in your heart all the day through. Sing the song that’s in your heart and let your love shine through.

Most everything that goes in public view around our house gets over-thought by our personal design review committee co-chaired by my husband and myself. Heck, even the stuff in our private spaces is placed and displayed with great intention. It is Marshall McLuhan’s “The medium is the message” to the hilt. We’re overeducated control freaks striving to control the messages we’re sending through our art, our furniture, our accessories and even our utilitarian products. We buy handsome things, however we don’t go out of our way to make a full-fledged art statement with a simple spoon or a coffee maker or a vacuum. We like these items to be functional and within budget, and hopefully fit into our aesthetic ideals as well.

The soap dispenser was a quickie purchase made to replace our broken soap dispenser. I can’t say I didn’t think about my choice at all, but I certainly wasn’t looking to make an art statement. In fact, I didn’t want to draw attention to the soap dispenser at all. The one I was replacing was an oil-rubbed bronze that melded discreetly into our chocolate-brown Zodiac countertop. I doubt anyone looked twice at it, which was the goal.

The new dispenser is shouting for attention. It is a clear glass jar adorned with hand-painted red apples and variegated green leaves. It is probably more suitable in a country style kitchen than in our contemporary home. I like folk art, which is why it caught my eye, but I initially rejected it because of its country-ish flair. But the red and the green matched the color of our kitchen and the adjacent room, and like I said, I do like folk art, so I thought I would give it a try. Thematically, it sits within a few feet of a garden window in which I have three large glass bowls constantly filled with fruit, and I thought the motif might work. Still, with all this thought, I didn’t consider this an art purchase as I put it in my cart.

The magical moment occurred when I filled it with soap. We use a fairly standard anti-bacterial orange hand soap, which I actually find to be an unsettling color. But it is the one brand that our whole family agrees doesn’t smell too much like perfume and doesn’t feel too much like lotion. I have always bought opaque soap dispenser to hide the color. I knew I had made a big exception because of those apples on a clear jar.

But as that liquid soap filled the dispenser, it was transformed into glorious amber nectar creating a stunning backdrop to the apples and leaves. It looks like mango honey with the light shining through it. The color picks up on our copper backsplash and the array of autumn-hued flecks in the countertop. The vibrancy of the amber, red and green combination play off the bowls of tomatoes, oranges and lemons I currently have in the garden window. The scene buzzes with the energy of a successful still life.

Now, when I come out in the morning and flip on the kitchen light, I am greeted by this stunning display. In the afternoon, as I zip through the kitchen preparing meals and snacks, I take a moment to appreciate the dispenser. At night, when the dishwasher is filled and I shut down the kitchen for another day, I take one last look at the scenic sink area. I feel giddy from such an unexpected artistic interaction. It’s good to be out of control for a change.

If you have children, you may have been called upon to use your drawing skills in ways you haven’t attempted since you were a child. Of course, there are those of you who draw well and regularly, whether there are children or no children in your lives. Then there are the rest of us.

When my children were very young, I realized I had a lot of anxiety about drawing for them. I have always wished my brain and my hand had a little better relationship so that the pictures I see in my head come out the tips of my fingers through the pencil and onto the page. Intellectually, I understand how drawings are made of basic shapes put together. But even compiling shapes for me is a frustrating experience. If drawing were a foreign language, it would be like understanding vocabulary in my head but being unable to make it come out of my mouth.

I was comforted to learn that I wasn’t the only parent who was shy about drawing for her children. Being asked to draw a horse or an airplane was making parents sweat all around me. We shared insecurities about making unintentionally abstract art, which would cause our kids to furrow their brows and ask, “What is that, Mommy?”

One year, my sister-in-law gave my daughter the gift of a “paint date” for her birthday. My daughter was two and loved to paint, paint, paint. Auntie Erin came over and planned to spend the morning in painting nirvana. While the two were getting started at the easel, Erin confessed to me that she was worried about her own product. She envied my daughter’s uninhibited approach to paint, and wondered aloud why a two-year-old paints better than she does. I nodded in empathy.

I’ve been a mother for seven years now and I have collected many compliments on my drawings of horses and airplanes from my kids. They also like the way I paint. I’m starting to relax a little about drawing in front of them, and I am re-learning the basics of drawing as I talk them through making horses and airplanes themselves. I have been forced to draw more in the last seven years than I have since I was very young. I don’t remember being much of a doodler. Once words were in my grasp, I killed time by writing instead of drawing and my drawing development didn’t get very far. I am now making up for lost time.

Drawing happens to be my parental bugaboo. I know some parents feel self-conscious about their voices and are afraid to sing to their children. I know some feel funny about dancing in view of the children. To these people, I am the first one to encourage them to let loose in front of children. They are a very forgiving audience, and when they are young, their parents are godlike creatures whom they adore. Your kids don’t care if you sing off key or look like a dancing dork or are drawing-challenged. They love you because you’re you.

Maybe children are sent into our lives to help us un-inhibit ourselves. Maybe they are sent to free us from the creative chains of bondage we slap on ourselves. With children, we’ve all been given a creative second shot with a totally accepting and loving audience. Since this is the type of support we give them as they learn new skills, it’s a nice reciprocity when they provide us the same developmental encouragement.

Sometimes as adults, it is not so much fun to use our imagination. If we can solve a problem by buying a solution, or paying someone else to come up with a solution, then we often take the easy road. Like any other mental ability, using our imagination takes practice and if we don’t practice, it becomes harder to do.

Christmas is almost three weeks ago, but a Christmas conundrum from this year will undoubtedly be churning away in my imagination for the next 11 months. Our tradition is to cut down our own Christmas tree, and this year was no exception. My husband and I had a brief discussion about whether we would be better environmental citizens by getting an artificial tree, but we opted for the tradition because the arguments for real versus fake keep the scale almost balanced. We know that having no tree at all is best, but we are not quite ready for that step yet.

The difference between this year’s tree felling and year’s past was that we cut down a huge tree. The biggest our house could fit — 9 1/2 feet high and fairly bushy. It was the culmination of a quest I began 13 years ago when my husband and I went searching for our first tree together. As a child, I always wanted Clara’s mega tree from the San Francisco Ballet production of “The Nutcracker.” As an adult, I intended to get as close as I could. We kept buying houses with high ceilings, and I always envisioned a tree scraping the top, but none ever did before this year.

I knew that this year’s tree was THE tree the moment I approached it at the tree farm. The family didn’t disagree and a mighty effort was put forth by all of us to chop it down. It was heavy and awkward, but we got it home and decorated and it was magnificent. Underneath it, I placed some large-scale family wood toys of a rocking chair, rocking airplane and train to represent the over-scale toys under the giant tree in “The Nutcracker.” The effect was better than I ever imagined.

Except for one thing. I felt great guilt for killing this mighty tree just to decorate our house for a month. My head told me it was beautiful but my heart was conflicted. Here’s a true confession: I usually talk to our Christmas trees, offering a “good morning” and “good night” as I water them each day, calling them “Mr. Tree” and making sure they are given proper anthropomorphic attention for the important purpose they serve in our holiday celebrations. I never called this year’s tree “Mr. Tree” and barely said a word to him. It was the elephant in the room — he was dying for our pleasure and I couldn’t look him in the eye and admit that.

I convinced myself that this tree was our call to action to stop killing trees. I started introducing our tree to people as “our last living Christmas tree.” After Christmas, we shopped some artificial tree sales, got some branch samples, and pondered what a reasonable budget would be for a fairly frivolous and extravagant purchase. How much is an artificial expression of a tradition dating back hundreds of years worth? We couldn’t arrive at a satisfactory answer. We nixed the potted tree solution as impractical because I would really like the ultra-large tree. I started exploring other ways to express the tradition that may be a little more metaphorical or abstract. No solutions yet.

The decorations came down on Epiphany and our waste management company was coming to collect trees the next day. Our tree was still drinking a lot of water meaning he was far from dead. Instead of sending him with the compost truck right away, we removed the ornaments and lights, but re-erected him in the tree stand on the patio outside our living room so we can continue to enjoy his majesty as long as it reigns.

The first night out, it rained and we awakened to a sunny but cold January morning with water droplets shimmering on the tree branches. At breakfast, my husband commented that they looked like small lights with the sun shining through them. My kids saw the “lights”, and then described the “ornaments” they could also see among the branches with the light playfully weaving through. In our imaginations, the tree is still decorated and standing proud — maybe even more glorious in his natural environment than he was in our home.

One thing I know for sure: Whether we end up cutting another tree, purchasing an artificial one, buying an artistic representation of a tree, making an artistic tree ourselves or finding an alternate solution to honoring the tree tradition, this year’s tree will be the gold standard as we endeavor to match nature’s sculpting of branches and needles. He has challenged our imagination to intelligently come up with a solution.

Calling this woman a street performer sounds somehow degrading and demeaning. She fits the definition since she was performing on the street, with a box open to receive money, at a random time of day with one continuous act that had no real beginning, middle or end. Her powerful mezzo-soprano filled the alley she had chosen, a space I am sure she picked for acoustical value rather than the amount of foot traffic that passed by. She was on Maiden Lane, just off Union Square, while all the other street performers were outside the major tourist areas and department stores. She was more off the beaten path, but it worked to her advantage because her voice was gorgeous and folks were stopping and listening.

I was actually standing in the alley before she was. My husband and daughter ducked into the Sharper Image to do some window shopping, but my son wanted to stand on the street and play his Game Boy. I stayed with him trying not to think about how cold I was and convince myself that this was but a short stop on our way to dinner. Suddenly, the insipid music of the Game Boy was eclipsed by glorious opera. I scanned the street, looking for a vehicle with its radio turned up really loud. Intellectually, I know opera is not the usual music genre people crank up in the car, but this is San Francisco and I’m always prepared to see or hear just about anything. I didn’t locate a likely suspect, so I leaned against the building and decided to enjoy this strange interlude.

About two songs later, my husband and daughter were ready to go, but instead of taking the crow’s path to the restaurant, we decided to go the long way to see a few more holiday lights and sights. As we headed down Maiden Lane, we found ourselves approaching the mezzo. My husband shot me a “she’s good!” look, and I picked my jaw off the ground as I realized she had been serenading me from only a few yards away. I had been so fixated on looking for the opera source on the main street, I never perceived it was being created by a living, breathing human being accompanied by a boom box. I certainly hadn’t noticed her standing down the lane. Talk about missing a good thing right in front of your face!

My kids were transfixed for a few minutes listening to her, and it was then I decided we should put some money into her box. Aside from her obvious talent, she looked impressive in a fairly generic yet interesting opera costume that captured all of our attention. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing singing in the streets. Getting some general performance practice? Overcoming stage fright? Earning a little income? Whatever her reason, she shared with us some wonderful music which made our New Year’s weekend celebration all the more special. Too shy to give her the money myself, I sent one of my kids to deliver the offering and then we continued on our way to dinner. As we walked down the street, my husband said, “Oh, we should have gotten one of her cards. You never know when we might want to make a connection.” We didn’t go back, though, which I regret now.

A few years ago, another wonderful soprano, Jamie Bonetto, wrote me an email responding to an article I had written. I don’t remember which article she was writing about, but I kept what she wrote because it struck me as something important to consider. She wrote:

“I agree that art (and music) have therapeutic qualities.  I also agree that every human being needs this in their lives.  I always give money to street musicians.  They enhance life for all.  Where would we be without the arts?  Everyone should be given access.  It is food for the soul. “

At the time, I didn’t understand why street performers had come up in her comments. Since I had never given much thought to street performers, I hadn’t considered that they enhanced my life. In fact, I was often as uncomfortable passing a street performer as I was a beggar. Now I feel quite silly. If I am going to espouse the importance of engaging the creative force in everyday life, then my regard of street performers should be a no brainer. It’s the epitome of Art and About. My intersection with this street mezzo reminded me that even I need to be more mindful about opening my eyes and ears to the creative forces surrounding me.

We live in the San Francisco Bay Area and there is a disturbing trend when it comes to family fare offered during the holidays by our local arts organizations. I don’t quite know when it began because until my children were old enough to be good audience members, I wasn’t keeping tabs on family theater, music and dance events. But now that I am watching the ads, I see that the market for children-friendly shows is stuffed between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, but a little thin the other 10 months. There are a few theater troupes in our area that offer year-round seasons for families, and I applaud their constant commitment to nurturing the next generation. The organizations that disturb me more include the San Francisco Symphony and ODC Dance, prominent companies offering alternatives to the ubiquitous “Nutcracker,” that cater to families but don’t necessarily have anything to do with the holidays. Therefore, their offerings could be done any other time of year. However, they are choosing to squeeze the non-holiday family attractions into the last six weeks of the year and leave a bit of a drought the other 46. There are several theater companies guilty of the same scheduling glut, most offering a version of “A Christmas Carol” or familial theatrical alternatives.

I’ll start with ODC since this holiday season I attended their “Nutcracker” alternative, “The Velveteen Rabbit.” There is one Christmas morning scene, but other than that, the dance could be produced at any other time of the year. The audience was packed with appreciative young children, parents, and grandparents. Would as many of us turn up during another season of the year? Possibly, and I suspect there would be some drop off in attendance for those who associate the holidays with high-class arts and then feel they have filled their personal quota until next year. But we can’t be the only family who would enjoy seeing “The Velveteen Rabbit” at any other time of year, especially when the holiday calendar is quite so full.

The San Francisco Symphony’s offerings of “Peter and the Wolf” and a screening of “The Wizard of Oz” with live orchestral accompaniment bothers me even more. Why crunch these offerings into December? I believe “Peter and the Wolf” used to be done in the spring around Mother’s Day. I know that because I would sigh when my children were too young to go and say “someday, we’ll go to Davies Hall and hear ‘Peter and the Wolf.’” This year, “Peter” was done the weekend before Christmas when our family had 800 other events going on. The live-orchestra “Wizard” sounds like great fun but not in December. How about offering it around Easter time, when the networks used to air the movie. Technicolor and Easter seem well-suited for each other.

In defense of these organizations and many others, I am aware that a huge percentage of their yearly revenue comes in during the holidays. I am aware that they hope someone who is not a season subscriber will come with their family, fall in love with the organization and be a patron during another part of the year. I do not know how often this phenomenon occurs. But what if the non-subscriber is like my young family, wanting to go to an event together at any given time, but find there aren’t many options in February or May or September?

I also understand that one doesn’t necessarily need to bring children only to family-marketed arts offerings. We bring our kids to plenty of “regular” shows during the year. There is something special, though, about something like “Peter and the Wolf,” or the story of “The Velveteen Rabbit,” which are part of our collective arts culture and need to be ceremonially passed onto the next generation. How about having that ceremony in the spring or fall or summer?

Could the audience and the arts community meet each other halfway? Could families make a solemn vow to attend other performing arts offerings throughout the year, and could these organizations stage some family-oriented entertainment outside of December? If the arts are going to survive, then the children of today need to get into the habit of attending live performance all year long. I understand that the holidays are perfect for special traditions, like going to a fine ballet or concert. Speaking from the experience of taking our children to arts events all year, it actually is a special feeling no matter the time of year. It seems we all could be starting down a dangerous path of teaching our children that arts patronage runs hot and cold in opposition to the weather.

The tradition during the Christmas season is for the two groups to come together to sing carols. This tradition was honored earlier in December this year. When I arrived to pick up my daughter on Monday, I was surprised to see a note on the door from the teacher that the children were once again singing for the grandmas and grandpas and they would be returning to the classroom shortly. I went inside to stay warm and caught the first wave of preschoolers running back to class. With twinkling eyes and beaming smiles, they held up small red satin stockings and exclaimed, “Look what they gave us!” At first glance, the stockings looked nice enough and I gave a rather pat, “Wow! Neat!” before asking if they had a good time. “A really good time!” one boy answered.

It wasn’t until my four-and-a-half year old, Allyndreth, and I were walking to the car that she held the stocking up as close to my face as she could and said, “Look! My name!” In green letters, someone who knows their way with an embroidery needle had beautifully stitched on her name. That kind of personalized attention put into a gift truly is exciting, especially these days.

I had to reflect on an article my husband told me about in last week’s paper, talking about people who re-finance their homes so they can pay for Christmas gifts. I know credit debt in this country is astounding on any given day, but astronomical during the holidays. I know there are people in my life who sigh about not having the money to give gifts. I know that it is easy to fall prey to the temptation of wanting to show the people we love how much we love them with monetary gifts. Frankly, this is a pretty lazy way to approach gift giving and not very imaginative. Your pocket book may be poor, but your imagination is rich. If a class of preschoolers can get excited about a little stitchery from an acquaintance, then think how your loved ones would feel with a little handmade something from you. You were born with the gift of imagination. Now, use it!

The following list is far from imaginative, but it might get our brains re-programmed to the significance of small, personal gifts. This is not Martha Stewart stuff, folks. This is basic, pure, from-my-heart-to-yours stuff that anyone can do.

Pick a flower, a sprig of holly, or an evergreen branch, tie a ribbon on it and attached a homemade card. Not a fancy, specialty scissors and doodads card but a piece of paper, folded in half with your handwriting on it.

Make a plain-old handmade card with some special words about the person and a holiday greeting.

Bake cookies. Maybe attach the recipe. Draw squiggles around the recipe card or computer printout to put your personal stamp on the gift.

For the more skilled person, stitch someone’s name on a store-bought holiday trinket, like a red satin stocking. For the less skilled, write the name in colorful sharpie in your best cursive handwriting. Stick a candy inside.

Take a photo of something beautiful or a photo of your loved one. Make a paper frame, decorated however you want, and give it to them.

Think about the kids of gifts you used to make in school for your parents and grandparents. If you have children now, think about the kinds of gifts you encourage them to make for relatives. If you do these same projects as an adult and give them to your friends and family, I guarantee they will be appreciated. I also guarantee that they will be remembered long beyond the memory of the monetary gift item.

Open your eyes to the little things around you that could become inspired gift ideas and let the brainstorming begin. Instead of budgeting money, budget time. And it doesn’t even have to be that much time. Don’t we all like to hear when someone says they’ve been thinking of us? We don’t ask, “How long were you thinking of me? A minute? An hour? A day?” It really is the thought that counts.

I wish you all a thoughtful holiday season!

Simple Gifts
by Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett, Jr. (1848)

‘Tis the gift to be simple,
‘Tis the gift to be free,
‘Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
It will be in the valley of love and delight.

Refrain:

When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight,
‘Til by turning, turning we come round right

‘Tis the gift to be loved and that love to return,
‘Tis the gift to be taught and a richer gift to learn,
And when we expect of others what we try to live each day,
Then we’ll all live together and we’ll all learn to say,

Refrain:

‘Tis the gift to have friends and a true friend to be,
‘Tis the gift to think of others not to only think of “me”,
And when we hear what others really think and really feel,
Then we’ll all live together with a love that is real.

Refrain: