ON COLORING

When my father died in April of 2014, leaving me an orphan for the first time in my life, my friend Bonnie gave me some advice. She was an art therapist and knew the power of creative endeavor to heal. When she lost both parents, she carried a sketch book around with her and drew every day.

“This kind of loss is huge,” she said. “You must find some kind of artistic outlet.”

I don’t draw, so I wasn’t sure what I would do. But one day I walked into a local arts and crafts store to kill some time before meeting a friend, and I ran smack into a display of coloring books. They weren’t crayon coloring books. The detail was much finer. I picked one up and leafed through. I like to say that my parents were arranging this from the other side because, as if on cue, a pleasant woman in a wheel chair rolled into my space and began chatting with me about them.

 “What do you use to color these with?” I asked. “Markers? Pencils?”

She recommended pencils and then showed me a wooden egg she had covered with pencil designs. It was beautiful! “I do these eggs for a hobby and sell them in my sister’s shop.”

We chatted a bit more while I picked out my first book ('Ocean Wonders: Color Art for Everyone' by Leisure Arts). I told her about my mom’s passing in 2011 and how my dad had just passed in April. I ventured to tell her I thought they had somehow conspired to send her along to help me get started with this healing project!

“Where do you find the pencils?” was my next question.

“Follow me!” and so I did… She wheeled and I walked past isles of paints and glitter and fabrics to the back corner of the store where the pencils were displayed. There were so many colors to choose from. Within a few seconds I realized that she was rummaging through her purse looking for pencils too! “You’ll need the colors of the sea!” She pulled out her own stash and began to select a few pencils for me. Now, she didn’t have to do that! But she did! And since receiving is as important a lesson to learn as giving, I took them and put them into my purse with great gratitude. When I made my choices, we exchanged last bits of pleasantries and said our good-byes. I cannot remember her name, but I refer to her as my Coloring Angel to this day.

Over time I have accumulated over a dozen coloring books and several packs of pencils. Some I have bought. Some I have received as gifts. I have finished two of the books. I am working in several others at the same time. I work from the first page to the last. I sign and date the back of every page as I finish it. Often I remark on where I was, what I was doing, or what I was feeling at the time.

I have colored in laundromats, airplanes, airports, and kayaks. I have learned that pencil sharpeners wear out, and not all colored pencils are the same. I have my preferences. Water color pencils are the best. Harder pencils work for the finer detail. I color inside the lines for the most part, but sometimes, if a page is too detailed, I color where I wish!

I have asked myself and my friend Bonnie if coloring really qualifies as art. I’m not really creating anything. The design is already there. I know I prefer it that way at the moment. I prefer the structure of lines already in place. A blank page is too daunting. The only decision I have to make is what color to use next. Simple. I am also learning how to shade. To me that is art… No one else in the whole world will color a page exactly as I do. I choose colors that reflect how I’m feeling and how I’m seeing things at that moment. I shade as space presents itself to be shaded. I color the backgrounds too, if there is a background. These pages wear my signature. That’s what artists do. And I am healing.

I began coloring to get me through the huge emptiness of no longer having parents on this earth. That was two and a half years ago. Coloring has carried me through other emotional storms and given me focus, calm and an outlet for grief. Emotions carry different color signatures. And they change as you grow through the experience. Did you know that? It has been an amazing thing to see!

I have shared some of my colorful experimentations on Flickr.com and here, just because… coloring should be displayed! And this is the best substitute I can find for the refrigerator door.

I hope you enjoy!

LINK: Coloring By Claire on FLICKR

THE DAY I SPENT WITH LEVON HELM

It was all Al Aronowitz’s doing. But that is a story all its own... meaning - me coming to know Al Aronowitz, the New York Post journalist who traveled to Liverpool with the Beatles in the 60s and rode in the car with them during their hometown triumph. But it was his doing.

He had it in his head to record one of our original songs with us, us being the Moses band he discovered in his later years. He wanted Levon to play the drums on the track. Those two, of course, knew each other forever from the glory days of the Woodstock, NY scene, also in the 60s. We had all planned to go together up to Levon’s rustic lake and pad [“house” in 60s lingo], but Al was sick. Not to be thwarted, he gave us Levon’s number and sent us on our way. “Just go and meet him. Talk to him.” SURE! We could do that!

So off we went to legendary Woodstock. Just a tad bit nervous. Once in town, we stopped at a little grocery store and bought some snacks and a package of organic blueberries. Regroup with food, I say. A phone booth leaned slightly into one corner of the parking lot. The nerves weren’t going anywhere, so we called.

“MOSES!" he said. He obviously knew we were coming. “Where ya been? Come on up!” It was very strange to hear such familiarity from one so famous. So we wound our way through the trees and up the mountain till we came to a very plain country mailbox sporting the correct number. There was no house to be seen. Just a dirt driveway zigzagging its way down through the brush. One must catch one’s breath before turning down a lane to such a meeting. So we did. We caught our breath, then headed down the lane.

We broke through the trees into a huge open area with a large non-descript post and beam house (or was it a barn) with attached garage sitting back to the right, a summer garden to the left, and a mountain lake beyond it all. We parked, got out of the car and looked around. This was Levon Helm’s place. How did I get here?

No one greeted us.

So we walked. We passed the house and made our way toward a bustle of activity on the nearest shore. And there he stood. Thin. Too thin. Tanned. And wearing nothing but a pair of gray shorts. A dozen or so young Levon devotees surrounded him. A dirt and gravel project was underway.   They were shoring up the beach. Some of them were. The rest were scattered about in the grass or at the picnic table. It needed painting. The table sat under the huge shade tree drooping over the shore.

“Hey there! Welcome. How are ya?” or something like that. I don’t even remember. What I remember is what I felt as I stood there, not three feet away from the The Band’s drumming legend. I tell people that my body went electric. Not with mere fan adoration. It was deep. Like I was in the presence of someone beyond this dimension. It surprised me. But the thought that came to me as we stood there was that, like Jesus, I could tell this man anything. I could confess to him any wrong I had ever done. I could try to invoke some judgment from him. But no. He would love me just the same – no matter what. Was this love I felt? Devotion? Not my love for him, but his love for me. He didn’t know me but it was there. It was real and spiritual and I will never forget it.

He pushed us out of our reverie and into the row boat. “Check out the pond,” he drawled. “We’ll talk business later.” He gave us a push and a nod. “Watch for the bears,” he called out. One of the young devotees later told us that “Levon knows all of the bears in the area. He has names for them. One of them has triplets!” Ok. We saw no bears. A family of turtles sunning themselves on a log jumped in as we passed. There were birds overhead. But no bears. Yet.

Back on the shore we joined the motley crew of young drummers, budding poets and philosophers who made up Levon’s tribe.   We listened to tales of gigs and venues and drumming lessons; looked at faces and at notebooks of prose and lyrics; listened to their thoughts on the ideals of Emerson. This was their school and Levon was their sage. We sat with them until the scooping and moving and dumping of gravel onto ‘the beach’ ended, then walked with him to the house.

The cavernous space between the living quarters and garage held the recording studio. Speakers hung from the ceiling. He told us about the Midnight Ramble sessions that took place in this space. People would come for an evening of music, food and fun. We talked business. That is the part I remember the least. I know he didn’t want to befuddle himself by listening to the track we were going to record before the actual session. Too much thinking messed him up. It was better to record fresh. I remember him not wanting to talk about The Last Waltz. Too many hurt feelings there. And I remember how he looked when we told him “you have such a great voice.”

At the time, his voice was in jeopardy. He had just finished several rounds of radiation treatments to relieve him of the ravages of throat cancer. Doctors had told him he would never sing again. The raspy quality of his speaking voice belied the ordeal he was in. With thoughtful and appreciative kindness in his eyes, he thanked us for the compliment. We had spoken in present tense.

As we stood by the car, solidifying our plans and saying our good-byes to our new friend, we pulled out the box of blueberries we had bought earlier. Levon leaned against the garden post and ate some of them with us. The sun had lowered to shine through the trees. Suddenly, he stood tall and smiled, his eyes lit up as he fixed his gaze on something beyond us. “Hey mama, where’s your baby?” We turned around. It was one of Levon’s bears. She stood looking curiously at us from the far side of the garden.

Now I’m thinking – bear, blueberries, bear cub somewhere but where? I would have panicked if not for Levon’s smile. No bear would hurt him. They knew what I had experienced earlier. This man would accept them just as they were. That gentle vibration was obvious to her too. She and her baby were safe. And loved.

The day was over and as we made our way back up the winding lane and then down the mountain, the thought hung in the air. How do you top this? How do you explain this? And who will ever believe?

Me with Levon on the day we met.

He was pure light!



Afterword: Our recording session with Levon Helm never happened. Al’s illness halted all progress. But we had planned it. We had talked with him about it. And we had had that one great afternoon with him and his followers,  his mountain lake… and his bears!