Those who are bold enough to ask questions here at the @ are rewarded with my attempt at an answer, most of the time. If said commenter is a family member then their inquiries take top priority to me. It’s just the way I roll. Yesterday on the “Who and Whose” post, my sister, a fellow mother on this rocky path of parenthood, asked a question:

As you can see I replied with a quip and a promise. Standing by my avoidance of the idea of the possibility of attaining the elusive balance I will speak of the instilling of character in our kids.

A familiar list proclaims the traits that we are encouraged to let grow in our lives: love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.

Let’s look at that meekness bit. A good definition I have heard is: strength under control. That is fine and well. Adding on to that thought I might add that meekness is humble confidence. A meek person knows where and from whom the strength in their life emanates. They are confident in the identity that God has placed in them as a unique being. They add to that confidence and strength the beautiful humility drawn out of a life placed in the hands of the God of love, grace, acceptance and hope.

That answers what we are working into our existence. The question is how do we do it.You know I love lists! Take what you want, leave the rest and add on some practical ideas in the comment section if you wish. I welcome the creative collaboration in the parenting of our children.

1. Model it.
2. Speak of it.
3. Praise it in others.
4. Praise it in the child.
5. Read of it.
6. Show it in picture books.
7. Know what your child does well.
8. Provide outlets for them to do what they do well.
9. Praise what they do well.
10. Know what your child does not do well.
11. Speak with them about what they do not do well.
12. Help them find ways to overcome deficiencies by trusting other people.
13. Help them to see the strengths in other people.
14. Help them to praise the strengths in other people.
15. Let them express creatively their appreciation for others: drawings, writing, phone calls, sharing gifts, genuine smiles and thanks.
16. Introduce please and thank you into your daily vocabulary.
17. Thank the child, sincerely.
18. Let them see you making other people important.
19. Hang their art in your home.
20. Pray together with them confident and humble prayers.

Those are the first few that came to mind. Please do not take this as gospel. Each parent has their own journey to walk. Trust that the Lord is alongside you as you love your kids. May the God of peace be with you all.

Conversations with familiar friends is one of the ways that God gets through to me. Heart to heart and face to face sharing is unmatched heavenly glory here on earth.

One such conversation has been on repeat in my soul for a few days now. Point blank I revealed to my friend a startling fear that had come upon me. She understood. She did not condemn nor belittle the reality of my worry. She did not validate it either. She simply spoke truth to it, to me. I am so grateful for her. I am so grateful for the truth that God has placed in her which she was able to minister to me.

The fear? Irrelevant.

The truth? Timeless.

This is the gist:

“I want my children to know: who they are and Whose they are.”

Yes! That is exactly what I needed to hear!

Who…

This calls to the verse about train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it. “In the way he should go” refers to “the natural bend”. As I see my children lean towards their specific talents, gifts, abilities, passions and the like I can enable them to explore these aspects of their personalities, thereby helping them to find out who they are. We can foster an environment of confidence and freedom thus boosting self-esteem and celebrating diversity in the uniqueness of all humanity.

Whose…

A high self-esteem bolstered and flourishing can quickly rot to high-minded, slippery-slope pride when not treated with humility under the hand of our Maker. Humble humans who know Whose they are will not seek to separate themselves, rather they will find refuge in the One who can help. They also choose to see others through the eyes of Whose they are, which can only lead to a better society when we know that those are eyes of love, acceptance and hope.

Who and Whose. This is one of those non-negotiables that I am going to instill in my kids’ lives:

1. Learn to love.

2. Love to learn.

3. As parents we will make mistakes. You are welcome.

and now 4. Know who you are and Whose you are.

“Fernando, you said we would get to see the Pegasus today,” I said.

“Ah, yes. You still want to see it?” was his coy response.

“Yes. Tell me how to get there”

“I will show you.”

Once we were back in town the drive to the park where his art is on display took all of a few minutes, not far from my house. I had never been there before. For those familiar with the area we came up Simon Lopez from the Plazuela de Calal Cala and entered to the North after passing Beijin, the park is next to a canal on Awki Tupaji (I am pretty sure) about five blocks up from Simon Lopez. To think that it was so close, yet unknown to me, was like a juicy secret had been kept for just this special moment now whispered in my ear.

The story goes that the piece was done in dedication to a dear friend of Fernando Crespo named Ulises Hermosa when he passed away after a battle with cancer. He was a member of a famous Bolivian folkloric group called Los Kjarkas (clicking that link allows you to hear their music and read some about them). Actually, the whole park where the sculpture stands is dedicated to the memory of this man.

Pegasus being riden by Ulises Hermosa, sculpture of metal by Fernando Crespo 2009, Cochabamba, Bolivia

A view of part of the park that covers about three square blocks of land

The artist Fernando Crespo, Clara and Timothy standing in front of the piece

a view from the front

a view from the back

The signature in the top: "F.C.", as well as the name he is known by: "Tiburon" which means Shark

Plaque with the name of the park: Parque Ulises Hermosa

The inscription on the base of the sculpture are lyrics by Ulises Hermosa (translation follows)

Lyrics by Ulysis Hermosa (hermosa means beautiful)
on Pegasus piece by Fernando Crespo

(Ayer planté un arbolito)

Yesterday I planted a little tree

(Al borde de mi destino)

On the edge of my destiny

(Con el tiempo luminoso)

With the passage of the season of brilliance

(Era feliz y crecía…)

I [or it] was happy and grew…

(…ese arbolito querido)

…this dear little tree

(el que guardaba mis sueños)

That held my dreams

(Ahora refleja mi vida)

Now reflects my life

(Son extraños los misterios)

Strange are the mysteries

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Yes, mysteries are strange. They are also awe inspiring, wonderful and call for reflection.

The End.

Here are the links to the whole story:

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to get Pizza Cones

A Familiar Perfect Stranger

Meandering Adventures

Huayculi or Bust

A Study in Livelihoods

And finally this post: Fernando Crespo’s Pegasus at Parque Ulises Hermosa

The dirt we came from drew us together.

Potting in a pueblo in Bolivia is slightly different than potting in a studio in the States. My mother and father run a successful clay studio called Wichita Pottery from the downstairs of their home. Álvaro, our clay man, alongside his family runs a potting business out of the dirt in the yard of his home.

Almost all Bolivian homes of any economic standing are surrounded by walls. Most of the more humble dwellings are built progressively. A plot of land may start with nothing more than the wall and a room. The family lives in the room and builds as they can adding rooms that all have their own door to what may be called the courtyard. All these rooms with doors to the outside are lined up on the perimeter of the plot. Essentially the growth of the family necessitates the adding of new rooms, each room occupied by a unit within the whole. The grown brother and his wife have a room. The sister, her husband and their small child have another. The grandparents are in one room. The main owning couple in another, and so on and so forth. They most likely share a bathroom. The washing area is in a corner of the property. The kitchen may be in a room, or as is the case with Álvaro’s family, a corner of the courtyard with an open fire.

We were invited over to a covered pit. Álvaro began right away to explain how they treated the dirt in this section of the dusty yard to prepare clay. With a few fell swoops of his pick ax he broke off a chunk of the moist earth and threw it over to the side on a large, plastic, burlap-type bag. Stepping out of the shallow pit he began to stomp the clay. The technical term escapes me. I translated back and forth. My mother explained that in her shop they have an electric machine that does this step of the preparation. After many stomps and turns and flips of the clay Álvaro then moved the large lump to a stone where he began to massage and kneed the clay with his arms. Under the heat of the full morning sun the perspiration and shortness of breath were understood as he tried to speak while working. Now the clay was carried to the wheel. He asked if the wheels my mother uses are electric as well. She told him they are.

He leaned the back of his body against the adobe wall and situated his legs, one braced on a metal bar cemented in place and the other positioned to create torque for the spinning of the wheel by way of rhythmic kicking. The wheel seemed to spin effortlessly as he wet his hands and subsequently the clay from the bucket of muddy silt in front of him. The awning held up by rough poles gave him shade and kept the lump of clay from drying too quickly. Applying the full force of his body the clay began to yield to his movements. Magically concave shapes began to emerge. In minutes he had thrown, spun and cut from the lump with a wire four of his most common pieces. It was simply fascinating. He was delighted at our amusement and gladly offered answers to our many questions.

Then he asked if my mother would like to give it a try. Oh, she was so excited! This is one of the things she wanted to do most in Bolivia. She climbed up and situated herself. She got the wheel going enough to throw a pot. The juxtaposition was intriguing. She invited her grandkids to give it a try. She kicked and they moved their hands over the clay. I even got to give the kicking a go to relieve my mom. It was truly an amazing experience.

We paid him thanks and the fee he asked for. My mom also gave him a clay piece she had made in the States. They brought out little pots to sell, as well. We were all very satisfied with the demonstration and the opportunity to try throwing a pot manually.

On our way out of town the guide suggested we stop at Huayculi’s town square for a snack. He had brought a pork meat called enrollado, hot peppers called locoto and some bread to share with everyone. Then we were on the road again. A bit sad to be leaving the adventure a thought occurred to me.

“Fernando, you said we would get to see the Pegasus today,” I said.

“Ah, yes. You still want to see it?” was his coy response.

“Yes. Tell me how to get there”

“I will show you.”

To be continued…

Click thumbnails to enlarge.

…to ready ourselves for Tuesday.

Truck gassed up. Friend to watch the littles. Big kids prepped with pep talks about what to expect and what I expect from them. Camera with extra batteries packed. We’re all set to get this adventure going.

The morning called for hoodies to nip the chill, unless you were a Bolivian, in which case you would be dressed in three woolly layers, a scarf wrapped half a dozen times around your neck and a hat and gloves to ward off the cold and the colds. Our guide showed up on time in his own car. He also had a girl of 11 with him. We made room for Fernando and Clara in the truck and we drove.

Cochabamba’s hustle and smog were left quickly behind. The pavement eventually took a leave of absence as well. Hillside farms with adobe dwellings dotted the dusty landscape. Shepherdesses with knitted legwarmers under their knee-length, layered and pleated velvet skirts tended the flocks of goats and sheep. Alongside the roads stood college students talking on their cells waiting for a ride into the big city. We rounded the lake called La Angostura and I knew we were close to Tarata on our way to Huyaculi.

A narrow cobblestone street with ancient buildings growing old and tall from the curbs led us to the historical plaza. We pulled up to a little store so that I could buy a phone card and the guide could ask directions for finding the town of Huayculi. Another time we can take the time to tour this little city of good tales.

Back on the trail we rumbled the couple blocks out of town and the across the dry river bed to the twisty dirt paths leading us to the clay workers. A man was walking so we stopped to ask him if we were headed in the right direction in this place unburdened by silly street signs. Yes, we were, keep going passed the pine trees, three more kilometers. Our guide and I were satisfied by the indications. We continued.

A building had the name Huayculi painted on the side. We were close. Working with picks and digging what seemed to be a ditch alongside the road were men, women, youth and children all lined and bent over their task. Fernando suggested we pull over to talk to them. Not two minutes later he returned and let one of the workers get into the already packed full truck. No matter that he had the scent of sun and musk and only one of my windows could open. He was our man. We rolled down the hill about a block and he told me to stop at the open door. This is where we all got out, finally.

It was nice to stretch our legs after the bumpy hour finding our place. The fresh village air had traces of lunch being cooked over an open fire and the evident presence of animals living about the simple human homes. We unloaded ourselves by the pile of abode bricks.

“Pase,” [pah say] said the man to let us know we could come into his place.

“Permiso,” [pear mee soh] we said as we stepped across the threshold.

Chance, divinity, coincidence… name it what you will; the clay worker had been found. Paths converged, crossing hemispheres, mixing languages, blending cultures, putting us all in the same tiny little plot of land. The dirt we came from drew us together.

To be continued…

Click to enlarge. Photos taken by my dad: Ronn Houtz

The earthy simplicity of a familiar perfect stranger told me I would soon find myself having a similar talk with this kind, round man.

Who knew a blacksmith shop would hold such wonders? Therein we found art, amiability and promised adventure. Stepping out the door was like the tumble out of the wardrobe. Unless otherwise opposed I knew we would be back.

Lunch was got. A return visit was planned. Amongst all the other goings on we wanted to accomplish it seemed that Tuesday morning would be the best day to go find the clay people. Saturday morning, before market shopping, found us walking the few blocks uphill from our house to speak with the artist.

World cup fever had a few dozen guys glued to the tiny T.V. set on the porch next to the dusty yard when we again poked our heads through the open gate door. This time accompanied by my oldest daughter we looked even more conspicuous. A grinning man came out from the group and greeted. It was Fernando, genuinely happy to see us again. Arrangements were made. Tuesday was fine. Eight AM we would come and get him. We would go and find the clay workers. According to Fernando we needed to make it out there early when they were still occupied in trade before lunch commenced followed by a few drinks and the siesta. I agreed.

Then he asked if we wanted to see his other sculptures. This proposition was met with ready intrigue. He asked permission to go get the photos. Scurrying happily away to the burrow of a workshop he rummaged around a bit then produced the prized albums. Blowing and brushing the soot and dust away he handed us the yellowed pages.

Franziskus by Fernando Crespo

Image after image showed us a lifetime of metal work all over the world. More than once he had been to Europe, commissioned to do pieces. From small creations to immense structures, from women on motorbikes to saints with boars, we saw the log of his work. He proudly told the stories of where the pieces were and how they came about.

Then I saw it. The Pegasus! Where is this one? I asked imagining far away places. About 5 minutes from here. Really?! I can take you to see it on Tuesday. Really?! He laughed a bit as I had a hard time concealing my excitement.

Thus far Fernando Crespo seemed to be a trustworthy man. We left his shop once again with heightened expectation of what was to come: clay work for my mom and a Pegasus for me. I just hoped he would follow through and not let us down next week in the breaking of the day the Tuesday next.

The walk down the hill was met with other fun things: a garage sale (rare in these parts), interesting graffiti, and birds to buy. All through the market shopping I thought of what needed to be done to ready ourselves for Tuesday.

To be continued…

The next week the sculpture was gone; never to be seen again. Or so I thought.

The rumbling tummy told me we needed to cross back over and get food for lunch. Destiny had another idea. Brushing by us a man of the working class with heavy rumpled winter clothes and hands stained from his trade gave a sidelong smirk and a less than sincere greeting. Then he invited us to come in.

Surprised by the gentile gesture I motioned that we should step inside. One of us had the idea to ask if the man who made this large form happened to be around. Almost laughing, the butler in the rough told us he would call him. Now I was getting excited. I had admired the work of this artist for over a year. He is here? This is much more than a coincidence.

Tucked and strewn behind the massive structure lay a blacksmith shop. Furnace and metal hid a simple man who now emerged. Wiping the grease he extended his hand to say hello. Unassuming he listened as I explained our intrusion. His smiles under the bushy brows encouraged me to continue with praise of his work and inquiries thereof. His answers were simple with a hint of wit. Familiarity made me think I had known him for longer than just a few moments.

My manners not lost in the whim I introduced my parents as well. Translating a conversation is a test in tongue twisters and presence of mind. Who said what? Am I conveying the attitude as well as the thought? Did I use the right language with the right person? Surprisingly it seemed that there was a general understanding.

Knowing he is an artist gave my mom an idea. She is a potter. She works with clay. When in France last year she was able to throw a pot on a wheel. She wanted to do the same in Bolivia. She thought this man might know something about the elusive potting community in Cochabamba. We had been hunting and asking around to no avail. So I asked. Then he asked if we had been to Huayculi. No, what’s that? It is a pueblo where the people make pots of clay.

What happened next shouldn’t have surprised me because it is just the way Bolivians are; nevertheless I was pleasantly surprised.

“How long are your parents in town? I can take you next week if you like,” he said as though he was speaking to an old friend. I translated his offer to my parents. I gave them the look to feel them out if this was something they would like to do. We ended the conversation finding out how we could reach the artist to make plans if it would work out to go.

“I am here every morning. Just stop by anytime,” he said. Of course, why didn’t I think of that. The earthy simplicity of a familiar perfect stranger told me I would soon find myself having a similar talk with this kind, round man.

Fernando Crespo and the Condor - July 2010

To be continued…

I imagine that the family and close friends will be the only ones that will want to invest the two minutes to watch some everyday antics at the Washington house. That is cool with me. The camera was just there on my desk as I worked so I pushed play without them knowing. Here they are in all their hilarity.

Yep, she’s fitting right in. My kids are wondrous!

See related vlog post:

Vlog Two Minutes with my Two Year Old Tyler

There is this food here in Bolivia called the Pizza Cone. Thinking this is an imported concept I was surprised to find that my parents hadn’t heard of them and found them to be a novel as well as delicious food. On the busy day that we went to grab this fast food (which ended up not being that speedy) we found ourselves, unknowingly, on a serendipitous path. Thus it began.

A funny thing happened on the way to get pizza cones. As we stepped out of the truck I pointed over the zooming cars to a bit of bronze peeking out over one of the many walls guarding the row of many little houses.

“See that bit? That is a sculpture,” I said in passing hoping to rush by the blurb and have a story to tell as we waited for our food. Alas, interest was peaked, there was no rushing this moment. The artist ears pulled my mom closer to said zooming cars in hopes for a better look.

“This will never do,” I said to myself as I watched the wandering soul crane to see more. We decided to cross for a better look. Peeking in through the door I wove my treasured background story to the tune of the oohs and aahs of my dear old mom and dad.

“You might remember some time back I posted a picture of a similar bronze sculpture. That picture was taken through this very door where we are standing. Do you remember the Pegasus?” Apologetically they told me that they did not. I explained that I had seen the wing tips over the edge of the wall and my curiosity got the better of me. Much like they were drawn to the art that was now in the workshop; I too, couldn’t help myself. I stole a few shots of the wonderful piece and posted it up on my blog.

The next week the sculpture was gone; never to be seen again. Or so I thought.

To be continued…

It’s easy to let the bedheads run free when they look so cute. Don’t you agree?

“Mama, can you take a picture of us?” Tyler asks as he helps his sister climb into the comfy chair near my desk. Undeniably one of the cutest little 10 seconds of their whole lives. Then they were off with bitty baby doll in tow to play to their heart’s content.

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My parents were here for two weeks. Though I was virtually silent in virtual land we were loud and rambunctious and all over the place when they were here. There are some pics on facebook if you want to check them out. There will be a few posts here about the marvelous visit.

For these few moments I have between morning errands and getting lunch ready I wanted to get down a few of the first things impressed upon me most during our vacation.

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My dad…

I love my dad. I know that. That is the That in the title. I know that I love my my dad. Having him here in flesh and blood, in hugs and smiles, in talks and tickles, and in play and work I was reminded that I love him. I was also reminded (and rehearted too) why I love him. The Why was refreshed. The way he talks, the way he is with my kids, the twinkle in his eye, the stuff he knows how to do, his power naps, his long strides, his sense of humor, his easy going nature are all wonderful things that I had forgotten I missed.

It’s great to know that you love someone, and what’s more, that they love you too. It is a treasure to remember and let your heart delight in why you love this person and let them express to you why they love you too.

My mom…

She is Oma. All my kids love their Oma, even the youngest who met her for the first time. Seeing the connections take place with Oma and the Grands was miraculous to say the least.

On one of the first days my mom said something that matched my thoughts at that very moment. She said, “I am so glad we still have stuff we can teach them.” It was in that moment that I was thinking how great it was that my kids were just soaking up everything that Oma and Opa were showing them. There were knitting lessons, new card games learned, scrabble tips instilled, and fun little songs, just to name a few. I had never realized how the high esteem my kids have for their Oma and Opa could create such a great desire to learn. From the moment they stepped foot in the door to when we loaded the truck for them to leave there was a constant flow and exchange of learning and rich new experiences. It has always been the philosophy of my mom that learning should be fun. I am so glad she is passing that along to my young, impressionable ones like she did for my when I was a kid.

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So much more to process and tell. Soon… For now I gotta get cooking.

Until then, remember why you love the ones you do and have fun learning something today.