There’s a new word that has been popping up in my mind and on my lips since the Christmas holidays. The term shambolic was used by someone during a CNN discussion about Congress. Liking the sound of the word and curious about it’s full meaning, I consulted Webster.  It means “obviously disorganized or confused”. This is not a word that I would like as an adjective for Karen. Yet, you might think it appropriate if you saw my studio.

I think artists often work from a chaotic, but productive, state. The seeming disarray of materials and tools in a studio can lead to wonderful juxtaposition of colors and designs and result in art. What seems disorganized to a visitor may actually be exactly what the artist requires for productive creativity. Still, today I don’t want to be shambolic.

The old saying “too many irons in the fire” could easily fit my upcoming week; so I decided to get organized. In one corner of the studio I can find the materials needed for the three classes I’m teaching this week. The materials for these are also spread out (or organized?) on the dining room table.

Another corner houses the metal that I’m cutting for next week’s torch enamel class. When I announced to the class that I would bring the metal components I didn’t really think about the fact that we are making several sets of earrings. Let’s see, that’s ten people, 20 ears and two sets a piece = 40 discs.

It was a good holiday season for most of the boutiques I serve, but I’m wondering if they gave away the earrings. Where did they all go? I’m in high production on earrings at the bead table and wishing that I wasn’t so particular that I feel the need to make my own ear wires.

Finally, I have trays of partially completed jewelry sets to be offered at the Methodist’s Heart Warming Affair on February 9th. Let’s just hope the pieces all have hand made clasps by that time.

The moral of this tale is that I keep hearing “shambolic” in my mind dueted with my great grandmother saying “just do the next thing.” Today, I’m organizing, doing the next thing and hoping it pays off during the next two weeks. How about you . . . shambolic?

I’ve tried to avoid writing this entry and I do so now, not because I want to, but rather because I need to.

Home alone last weekend as the news of the school shooting rang out, I chose to ignore it. I didn’t turn on the television or radio and avoided the internet news and posts per the subject. Two days later, when my husband returned home and turned on the TV, I left the room each and every time reports of the shooting were aired. I simply ignored them, worked frantically on my business and avoided the inevitable. It was as though I put up a concrete wall to protect my emotions from the pain so many felt. Yet, that wall was a porous, constructed subconsciously as a useless shield.

I managed quite well until Monday when the funerals began and I finally cried. It was as though the faces of those young children shown on television were those in my own classrooms so many years ago. Those faces still reside in my memory box although the children are now grown or well on their way to adulthood. I remember all the angels and the rascals and would have protected them with all my might.

I cried not only for the parents and grandparents of the lost children and adults, but also for those at the school and what they now face. It is possible that some of those children will never resume the emotional stability that is their birthright. The spiral of evil, initiated by a single young man, will likely continue to effect many in ways we will never comprehend.

As I think about my own former students, I cannot help but recognize my own fear of and for a very few of them. As a teacher, I approached mental health carefully yet forthrightly, speaking with parents and counselors when I sensed deep seeded issues in a child. While parents usually listened to my concerns, I don’t know of any instance where they took action to seek professional help for their children. Now, I cannot help but wonder what type of people these youngsters became and whether I should have pushed harder to get help for them. Yet, it is a rough ride on the horse of guilt if you choose to consider the “what ifs”. What if I missed a child who called out for help? Was he or she the one capable of horrific deeds? What if I missed the actions of a parent toward a child that I might have saved? What if, I was just too wrapped up in my own life to recognize problems that grow until they become destructive?

It’s too late for me; my days in the classroom are past; yet I hope that teachers will always care enough to trust their instincts and that parents will care enough to listen and act if things do not seem quite right with their offspring. I believe we are all trying.

. . . and so I write because it helps me recognize what I’m feeling. I write because it guides me toward healing. I write because I care.