Last night a friend and I went to see U2 at Seattle’s Key Arena. I’d been looking forward to this concert for a while. It was fun to get out and get together with a friend. A luxury, certainly.

This was the second night of the Vertigo tour in Seattle and the first time I had seen U2.

Here are some notes and bad illegal pictures (Ticketmaster declared no cameras):

Not only was it my first time at U2, but it was my first time at a rock concert of this caliber. I’ve been to concerts but never one in an arena, where the tickets cost three digits, and the T-shirts cost nearly the same (one shirt from the Boy album was priced at $90).

Sitting in Key Arena, surrounded by rows of cheering fans, a sea of undulating arms and adoration, was a new experience for me. It felt strange to see a large crowd of thousands of people craving and crazy for four human beings in a band. Perhaps I was having an introvert moment, as someone who likes quiet conversations over big parties. Perhaps smaller concerts in intimate venues spoiled me. Am I too much of an individualist? Or perhaps the awkwardness came from the fact that I’m used to entertaining myself rather than sitting in an arena and paying others to amuse me for an evening. But I wondered whether any human being could be worthy of the kind of reception U2 was receiving.

We had two tickets in separate sections. My seat was in section 228 row 11. The view was good. However, once I sat down in the seat, I realized why the elevated sections are called nosebleed. I could feel it in my nose. So I snuck a seat down by Beth in the first row of section 226 where no one had claimed it. We had to sit up and lean towards the concrete wall in order to see the entire stage, but it was a good view, from the stage right side of the concert, close to the keyboard.

The opening act was Kings of Leon. I confess though that I wasn’t interested in them. The fact that our seats were near the speakers and the band had amped the bass loudly meant that my visceral organs were vibrating along with the beat.

Instead I decided to go strolling and shopping. Here’s a peek at the schwag for sale.

With shirts at $30 or more and programs at $20, I chose a few buttons and bracelets from the One campaign as gifts for my girls. While in line, I missed Eddie Vedder coming on stage to jam with KOL.

The show started, as mentioned in the previous review, around 9 pm. U2 came on stage surrounded by glittery electronic curtains of colorful beads for City of Blinding Lights, one of my favorites from the new album.

Our set list was similiar to this one, since it was the second night of the tour in Key Arena. Beautiful Day emerged with a few new lyrics for Seattle. Of course, one of the intriguing parts for me of a concert is discovering what the band will do new to the songs so familiar from recordings.

One aspect of U2 that doesn’t come across on the CDs is Bono’s high level of energy. He rocked and rolled, jumped, danced, swayed. I hope he doesn’t have to see an orthopedic surgeon anytime soon. I only say that as someone feeling my own age in my knees yet younger than he is. I’m not easy on my knees is a true statement indeed. My two-year-old would have a hard time keeping up with Bono. His voice may not be what it once was, weak at times last night, but his body and soul are still strong.

It’s amazing too that the four have stayed together as long as they have. I can’t find it now but once I saw on the internet somewhere Jason Wade of Lifehouse revealing advice Bono had given him: take care of your band.

Here’s a picture I took during New Year’s Day.

Bono mentioned faith in God at least twice. Before the start of Miracle Drug he began talking about why the band likes Seattle. I’m remembering his words to the best of my ability. He said something to the effect that in Seattle [you get] the feeling that people have faith in the future. This is where people imagined the twentyfirst century, he said (or something similiar). Then he talked about the necessity of both faith in God and faith in science: faith in God inspiring faith in science. The song itself, I believe, was dedicated to Jennifer.

My favorite moment came when the arena sang along with the band to Pride (In the Name of Love). My favorite concert moment, prior to U2, happened at a show where the artist let the fans sing his songs. Of course that song has personal meaning for me, taking me back in time to younger days. But there was something amazing and powerful when thousands of people sang together about One man in the name of love. Bono urged the crowd, Sing it for Dr. King!

Bono talked about dreaming when he described One, the campaign to make poverty history. ( Seattle P-I essay on One) He talked about having a dream, larger than an American dream or European dream, an African dream. During One, colorful flags from African nations streamed down the electronic curtains. A video snippet of a young African woman reading a piece on human rights felt both incomplete and moving. History will ask many questions of this time, the singer warned. How is it that this powerful civilization could allow so many to live in such intense poverty? (not his exact words) Concert goers could participate with cell phones and show support, in return seeing their names on the screens. Bono thanked the Gates Foundation (he bunks with the Gs when in town), Pearl Jam and Peter Buck of REM for their support. He talked about Seattle being involved with music, but somehow that particular train of thought turned into making musicians more active as they were in the 60s and 70s and continuing what was started then.

The show was political but I imagine U2 shows have always had that flavor. I had heard that Bono wore a headband with the Star of David, but that was an incomplete description: this headband also has Islamic and Christian symbols on it. As he pointed to the three and called out co-exist asking the crowd to repeat, I felt the response was weaker than it could have been. I wonder whether Bono was aware that the Northwest is one of the most unchurched/unreligious regions in the US, perhaps in the world. People here, I think, probably are not supporters of organized religion in general. So I wonder whether many in the crowd were disagreeing with the co-exist idea, only because Northwesterners tend not to believe in religion at all. Also we know little of religion-versus-religion conflict, compared to other areas of the country and world.

Pieces of When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again and The Hands that Built America were merged into Bullet the Blue Sky and combined with the headband, the lyrics themselves and various other aspects added to the emotional intensity for me.

Our encore included Original of the Species, Mysterious Ways and All Because of You. However, the band chose to end with Vertigo again, instead of 40. Perhaps reading U2 blogs and reviews isn’t helpful: I felt disappointed when the concert ended differently than I had read it would. (Also, Bono didn’t take a woman from the audience to dance with him, only a boy during Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own) Plus, I’m not crazy about the dizzy song with concentric circles. The second version featured a strobe light that sped up the intensity. During the first version, earlier in the night, Bono changed the end of the bridge Give me what I want.. to something that sounded like Shut up and F*** off! I don’t know if he was elaborating on the original lyrics or responding to them.

According to @U2 blog, this is the first time the set has ended without 40 which U2 Log described as as if they were a young band on their first tour and ran out of songs to play. How. very. odd.

Bono declared he was going to give an English lesson….the word encore comes from Latin(or was it Italian?)…which means to play the same f***ing song again! before breaking into Vertigo…

Afterwards, I took the time on the way home to process the concert. My ears rang for the rest of the night. I tried to sort through what it was that made me feel uncomfortable in Key Arena.

It was the first time in my life I had seen a large crowd devoted to someone. It was the first time I had seen a crowd so huge, and one so passionate in its adulation, waiting hours and spending hundreds of dollars for a 90 minute (plus encore) set. If Bono said Jump! no one would even stop to ask How high?! or Why?.

I think I know now why I didn’t become a rock star. Yes, I’m sure it’s obvious for many reasons, including the fact that I can’t carry a tune well even though I love writing lyrics. But I don’t think I would be comfortable with the crowds. I don’t believe any human being deserves that intense adoration. Okay, maybe the person who found the cure for cancer. Maybe. Yes, my biochemistry bias is showing.

But I’ve got to give Bono and the band credit for trying to channel that energy into ways that could change the world forever, not just one night of entertainment in an arena. Bono has a way with words. That was clear through the night. He chooses them carefully. The name of One has multiple meanings, from the statistics of one billion people living off of one dollar a day, to the idea of coming together as a whole, every one (or is it everyone), which were the first words called across the stage to open the show.

I suspect others, like me, enjoy the concert experience of coming together and singing songs everyone knows. There’s a powerful sense of unity. We’re all together here. We were all crazy enough to buy tickets and T-shirts. We’ve loved this band for decades, as I heard one woman murmur behind me. In the worship, which may or may not be misplaced, there’s a sense of oneness between band and crowd of thousands. And I think that’s what everyone desires somewhere inside. That sense of belonging. The mutual love and devotion. We want to believe we can be one.

For other Seattle reviews, see Moody Babe blog (including a U2 sighting), notes from a truth seeker or use Technorati and Feedster searches.

Through the month, I’ve started to explore anger within my life, seeing the result of rage in new angles and aspects.

Coincidentally, a friend asked me if I’d like to go see The Upside of Anger with her on Saturday night [April 9]. For weeks we’d been trying to get out to the cinema one evening sans children. It was worth the effort. The acting was fabulous and intense. I especially liked the director, Mike Binder, as an actor. His monologue explaining his character’s lifestyle hit truth. Joan Allen, Kevin Costner and the rest of the cast are also strong. It’s a roller coaster ride, a bittersweet experience through outbursts of laughter and anger. But it was more than a movie to me.

The story of a woman whose husband disappeared, leaving her to raise four teenage daughters on her own, seemed familiar to me from my experiences both in childhood and motherhood. The film helped me examine my past and present. It illuminated my life and let me laugh.

I liked how the movie explored how people go forward – or don’t go forward – from the past. One line given by one character to another described life after pain as a limp. I believe in healing but I also don’t believe it is ever fully complete in this life. If we walk with a limp and with grace, we can have humility and empathy.

Anger does dominate the film. Where does anger come from? What is its source? These questions were not answered for me by the film and were only accentuated by the ending. I felt the end required another entire movie if it were realistic.

How should one handle anger? What do we do with emotions? How can families move through transition times? All questions raised by the film, and questions many people have experienced in life, especially in the past few decades as divorce has increased.

The relationship between parent and child, especially mothers and daughters is highlighted in its fragility and power. My friend Jenny has written about her feelings, the angry mother and The Angry Woman. I think The Angry Woman is something many women are afraid to be and yet hide her inside. Why?

In the movie it is easy to see how damaging and destructive parents can be. Yet there is also change and a reconciliation of sorts provided by the plot. It was refreshing to see a film that focussed on a middle-aged woman as the central character and on the emotions that come with abandonment. Anger can be expressed physically or verbally; Upside shows examples of both. Although Joan Allen’s character seems extreme, I suspect many families can relate to the story, more than they might want to admit.

I’ve read reviews of the movie that criticized its lack of action or plot. For me the film was a journey through a family, through characters as they changed in the shape of a situation. It also became a journey through myself and my experiences.

The movie contains statements what the upside of anger is, in a positive light, and I’ll save that for those who see the film. My first reaction to situations is often sorrow, sucked inward, but I am seeing anger in me as we have gone through the grief process recently. I don’t think anger is great in itself. But I think anger reveals how much love was in a relationship. If I am angry at someone it is because I had invested myself, had expectations and had poured pieces of my life into that person. Anger shows me I wanted something that didn’t happen. Anger reveals desire. It shows me what matters to me. It tells me I cared, even if I didn’t say or think I did. Anger demonstrates the power of emotion and the depth possible in the situation. Anger shows me what I want. Anger also shows me that in the midst of grief, I am still alive.

Two separate incidents today continued to convince me of the power of photo stories.

An article in Thursday’s Seattle Times Seattle students share sights, sounds with kids across globe highlighted Bridges to Understanding, a local nonprofit that provides mentors in communities around the world, helping adolescents document their lives and share movies with each other through the website.

BRIDGES to Understanding gives voice directly to children around the world.

Our interactive online program connects middle school students in the developed world with their contemporaries in indigenous communities. Central to the program is digital storytelling mentored by professionals and created by students. We provide the tools and training that enable them to tell stories from their own lives and communities.

The girls and I watched a few of the student documentaries, mostly still pictures with voice overs in Quick Time. Seeing Kenyan children using laptops in the midst of what appeared to be simple huts with mud floors amazed me. A movie made by a Navajo boy who visited Seattle described the Northwest in wonderful ways. He had never touched a sea star. He had never seen a body of water as large as Lake Washington. As a native of Seattle I found his observations valuable, spinning my mind with new appreciation for what I take for granted after growing up here. Connecting children across cultures and continents through digital photography and the Internet is an excellent idea, one that any communities could copy by using blogs.

Later tonight I noticed updates in John Porcaro’s blog feed. He doesn’t post every day but it had been a while, for a good reason. On March 5, he was burning a leaf pile when he added the wrong kind of fuel and caught himself on fire. After time spent in Harborview’s burn unit, he appears to be recovering quickly. His post is free of pity and instead filled with people who cared for him and the community rallying around his family at this time. I’ve never met John, although we’ve missed meeting each other (we were both at Scoble’s birthday party earlier this year). Yet looking at the pictures he posted and the PhotoStory he made leaves me speechless, tears in my eyes. It’s hard to see someone as wrapped in bandages as John was. I wish I could do something to make his situation improve. John’s written story had power but it was the pictures that hit home for me what had happened to him, in a way I couldn’t deny or disconnect. The images stay in my mind long after I’ve stopped looking at them.

Pictures leave me without words.

I did buy two boxes from girls I know in our neighborhood. I like to feel I am participating in the community and involved in others lives. I like to help my neighbors. It’s a good cause. Having to keep a box of Thin Mints company for a week or two in March is a small price to pay.

However I have doubts about allowing my own daughters to become Girl Scouts due to the required Do-Si-Dos dances and Tagalong gymnastics. I don’t disapprove of children trying to earn money or running a business in some form, but it is the apparent pressure as well as the product that concern me. I thought about listing all my reasons but Eve Winer already did.

Bonus link: Official Girl Scout Cookie FAQ where I learned that Girl Scout cookies are kosher and that the price of a box is dependent on location (we pay $4 here). Apparently the Girls Scouts have also written a research review on the obesity epidemic ( I didn’t download the pdf), perhaps in an attempt to answer the criticism of cookies?

I had heard beforehand that it might be crowded .

Malcolm Gladwell must have been mesmerizing. I’m amazed there were no tough questions.

There were no tough questions put by the audience who were clearly eating out of his hand.

However, Malcolm did say he’d been criticized for not going into greater depth on the workings of the sub-conscious. To this, his reply was that not even Freud could have come up with a comprehensive study on the subject.

[...]

Incidentally, one of Gladwell’s ace traits is his meticulous courtesy in summarising each question so the rest of the room can hear. In some of the cases, the summary was clearer and better phrased than the original.

He even answered the big question I would have tossed at him after seeing different headshots of him used in publicity.

Someone even raised the question of his hair which he explained thus

* He’d originally cut it short to please his mom. When he realised he was older and no longer needed to keep her happy in quite such detail, he let it grow out.
* The incident with the police involved being pulled in for his resemblance of a rapist.
* As Gladwell told us he pointed out, it was only the hair he had in common with the suspect: in all other respects, he was more slender, younger, and better looking.
* Gladwell also explained that, back in the days when his hair was short and mom-pleasing, he was called a dork. With his bushier frizz, he is regarded as ‘cool’, a heady experience MG is unwilling to bring to a premature end.

Hmmm…an interesting personal experience on market research…

The details Chris shared added flavor, helping me imagine how cool and relaxed Gladwell was in person.

MG looking particularly relaxed and cool in a track suit top with orange piping.

His public speaking voice has an abrasiveness which lends to audibility, and he’s enough of a showman to modulate tone, mood and changes of pace as well as spot when a joke is working and milking it to full effect.

I read the book but I somehow wasn’t aware that Gladwell saw intuition separate from rapid cognition. I agree with Gladwell’s opinion that polling is a waste of time and I think Chris did too.

As one who has worked in market research, I was struck by Gladwell’s pointing out that such polling is largely a waste of time since getting a “truthful” answer is a “cognitive impossibility”.

[...]

I’ve not finished the book, but I wonder if I’d have spotted that nowhere does the word “intuition” appear. Gladwell does not believe it has any connection with snap judgments or “rapid cognition”.

How well can we know ourselves? Can we tell the difference between our own intuition and cognition? I understand from Chris’ posts that the author wanted only to start a discussion and claimed that the observations in his book could not be explained, even by Freud. If we can’t understand it and it is unreliable at times, then how can we improve this blink?

Regarding Gladwell’s next project, Chris reported that it has something to do with ketchup…

Chris’ coverage was so thorough that I only found one sentence in the newspaper’s article that was new to me, the last sentence in this description of his hair.

It’s heady celebrity for a guy who said he only stopped being considered a dork when he let his afro-style hair grow longer. The attention hasn’t all been positive, he said. He was stopped by three police officers because they said he looked like a criminal they were seeking.

That experience, however, hasn’t diminished the shock of suddenly being considered “cool.”

“This kind of mid-life transformation is so intoxicating I just can’t give it up,” he said.

Mid-life transformation stories encourage and inspire others too. I do believe – or hope – that Mr. Gladwell is referring to more than the change of his hairstyle. Going from dork to cool is intoxicating at any age. Maybe he could write a book describing these powerful transformations. Or maybe he could describe the power of trying to please one’s parents and its impact of mother’s hairstyle opinions on society…

The author of Blink is now in Austin at SXSW. I won’t be seeing him there either but I can use Technorati to find a wacky picture of him at a party. Since he will be giving a keynote, I imagine he’ll be receiving more links this coming week.

This week I also discovered that Chris is an talented poet. I love his Waiting for the Ferry which begins:

Killing time waiting for a fog-bound early ferry
I saw a heron on the Eagle Harbour flats.

He also sings and performs with his guitar.

Perhaps Chris will be doing his own tour someday…or appearing at SXSW…

U2.com members have received an e-mail to inform them of Monday’s official announcement of U2’s Fall tour of North America.

So everyone who couldn’t get tickets for the spring dates…

(Speaking of Bono, interesting commentary on the star at Davos emerged earlier this week in this post, including Grant’s discovery: …we have uncovered a cultural principle: attack Bono and ye shall be attacked in turn. Bono is a sacred figure with special rights and privileges…)

Anyone else going to be there?

Very strange, how a song can do that. Send you tumbling backwards in time, back to a place that you didn’t know you even remembered.

I confess I don’t often listen to music. Perhaps I grew up with enough cacophony that I learned to like quiet when I could have it. Maybe it’s the way I’m wired.

But from time to time I try to listen to new albums. My strategy is to borrow them from the library first before purchasing. This fall I was curious to hear the new U2 CD so I checked the library catalog. I couldn’t find a listing for How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb but I did find one for U2′s Best of 1980 – 1990 album.

I like U2 but I hesitate to call myself a fan: I haven’t heard half of their albums. I liked them in high school, somehow stopped listening to them (and most music) in college and then discovered them again a lifetime later with All That You Can’t Leave Behind. Ted brought War and The Joshua Tree with him into our home together; I figured that was a good sign.

Listening to the 1980′s album took me on a trip.

When Pride (In the Name of Love) played, I felt myself riding on a metro bus on the way home from middle school. We sat solitaire, one per row, wasted seats, spread out across the bus, as if we were afraid to be close to each other, because we were. A kid sitting behind me was listening to U2, playing Pride loud on his Walkman, case in his hand. Someone else asked him, “So what’s that song about?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, empty expression on his face.
How could you not know what Pride was about?! Wasn’t there even a picture of Martin Luther King Jr. in the liner notes? I’m addicted to lyrics, always trying to decipher what is being said. This was my first realization that some people listen to music and don’t know what it means.

With or Without You transported me to high school and to that excruciating-yet-exhilarating feeling of unrequited crush. Twice that year I had intense feelings for a guy and as Bono sang of agony I too sang along inside, aching I can’t live with or without you. It turned out each time I ended up living life without rather than with the guy I wanted, but in retrospect it was better to go without. After all, had I become connected to one of these classmates, I might never have dated Ted. It’s been years since I even flirted in the world of infatuations, but as I listen to that song the emotions return and pictures with them, as if I had re-entered high school and the late ’80′s. Oh no!( Like Ross Rader , I felt old reading this)

Now the song I relate to from the 1980-1990 U2 album is I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. Hum the melody and I see images from MTV, excavated from the archives in my mind. I don’t remember when I last viewed the video. But how could a sixteen year old appreciate a song about searching? Since then I’ve lived another lifetime, in three separate regions, experienced a range of relationships, and explored different paths of work, family and faith. But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. In some sense I hope I never do. I hope I’m always searching for more. I hope I’m always hungry. Now I hope I always ache.

It’s amazing how a tune can turn into a veritable time machine. Where does the music end and the memory begin? Writing this piece I remembered Dave Winer’s audio blog post from last October: That memory does not belong to the RIAA ( my quote of him noted here).

Music is social, connecting us through time and people. Reading Suw Charman’s posts on Duran Duran culture reveals how these bonds endure through decades. We lack a common core of literature but it is our music that seems to make us a generation.

And it is also music that redeems us, saves us even, carrying us afloat through emotions on a life preserver. Music validates our invisible struggles. Music itself can be a support system.

So comes the power of mp3s burned into our memory, writing aural history. And I’m grateful for U2 and the connections they’ve given me, both solitary and social. ‘Cause sometimes you can’t make it on your own.

The article seemed to put the idea of hiding a birthday present in the same category as hiding a mistress. I think there is a difference between concocting a surprise to build a relationship and creating a duplicate identity that destroys a relationship. Not all secrets are evil.

Some secrets are good. There are aspects of my relationships with my husband and children that I don’t want to share with others. I want to keep them special, sacred in a sense, for us only to enjoy and remember. For example, I wouldn’t want to disclose details describing how my husband and I spent our honeymoon. Intimacy requires quiet. I think it is okay not to shout everything out loud to the rest of the world. Some secrets are intangible treasures or literal gifts.

Some secrets are bad. And their power is destroyed by disclosure. For years I walked around like a bomb about to explode with energy of suppressed secrets. I told only a handful of friends. I kept careful track of Who-Knew-What-About-Me. However emotions would manifest themselves in ways that seemed strange to others. The secret was my pet. I kept it well and served its needs. But it also was a monster that kept me in a dungeon, serving it.

A couple years ago, I went on a retreat with a group of good friends and suddenly, in a situation that arose, I found myself sharing my secrets with everyone present. It was frightening. But also freeing. Instead of me exploding like a bomb into pieces, the monster, like an inflated toy, burst into emptiness. I didn’t have to serve the secrets. Now everyone knew. At least everyone in the room. And it was okay.

However, I am reluctant to share these secrets explicitly on this blog. Even though I know now that it can be safe to share my stories, I wonder what will happen to the information once I release it to the Internet. I’m not sure whether it would be good for others in my life either. Or appropriate. Love and wisdom are my guides as I decide what to write.

I’ve thought about writing an anonymous blog – in part to discuss some of these secrets I am reluctant to reveal under my own name – but I don’t know if I could do it. As the article implies, secrets don’t like to keep quiet. Having a double identity, or even two blogs, could get complicated. One way or another secrets get revealed. Would I be willing to live with the consequences of the exposure?

Sharing life with people involves losing privacy. Ted and I have special names for each other. Years ago when we were first married, my husband had left some of my love notes to him out on his computer in his home office. When a friend came to stay with us however, this friend noticed the plethora of notes and remarked on our nicknames. We were a little upset – and now have hidden some of these tokens of affection – but at the same time, we realized that sharing our life and home means sharing who we are and losing some of our privacy.

Blogging is sharing life with people. I’m sitting here at my desk into the night, listening to other’s stories and posting some of my own. By writing a blog, I’m choosing to participate with others in community. If I only wanted to write, I could create files on my computer that never saw daylight or another pair of eyes. But I want to be here. I want to share what I can.

Some have said that there is no privacy any more. I agree that many details of life are available for all to see. But even if my physical description, home address and other information are accessible, even if videos of my life are posted on the web and you could see me sitting in my living room, what remains most private are my thoughts. No one can know those unless I reveal them. Here on this blog I choose to add more to the list of information already available. It is my choice.

Richard concluded: I do not have an obligation to anybody to write about my so-called personal life, and neither does anybody else. True. While I believe that blogs become richer through the disclosure of the personal, I also appreciate that we don’t have to give anyone a glimpse into ourselves. What we give are gifts to each other. When I write from my life, I take what is mine, my perspective, my stories, my information, and give it to you. What I release into the internet now belongs to many others as well as me. The posts we write from our private selves share secrets, pieces of each other – and ourselves – we hadn’t seen until they were revealed. Good secrets. Gifts.

On Friday I also read Joey deVilla’s blogpost where he linked to a story (link no longer works) reporting the outsourcing of scrapbooks. According to the article excerpt Joey quoted, I must not be a responsible mother since I’m not up at 1 to 3 am crafting my photographs into shapes. (I have beter things to do between 1 and 3 in the morning;-) ) I have tried my hand at the art and after analyzing my attempts, I have concluded I must have been given other talents in compensation.

The outsourcing of scrapbooking highlights our culture’s emphasis on consumption rather than creation. Joey linked to a Doc Searls Creative Commons interview:

The Net undermines the idea that customers are nothing more than consumers with names. Jerry Michalski (Julie’s note: link mine) calls consumers “gullets who live only to gulp products and crap cash.” They are the aphids of the industrial age.

Is it more important to create the scrapbook or to own one? Is it more valued to buy it or make it? And, as Joey pointed out, how can someone else – minus the memories! – know the significance and stories behind the items to preserve?

As adults, it is an acceptable recreational activity to spend money and leisure time on art made by others. Go to the movies. Get CDs. Purchase clothes. Buy cards. Our culture encourages us to consume while failing to encourage us to develop the talents and abilities we each have. A few opportunities in elementary school, perhaps a pinch pot or charcoal scribble, might be all the art someone experiences creating. Then it’s on to adulthood and aphidhood.

But creativity comes easily to children. Given a few moments of free time, my daughters will ask me if they can cut and color paper. Until we had kids, Ted and I had no idea what could be made from a few crayons and some scraps. They dress in costumes and make their own docu-dramas sans camera. They take photographs, with toy cameras and real ones. They sing songs no one else has ever heard, live music never the same way twice.

And one of the many best reasons for being a mother: all this art is free! I get to hear songs, see plays, view paintings and enjoy ballets in their opening debut. This weekend they made a museum for us to visit. Their creativity encourages me. If only we adults shared this vitality and vigor. If only we entertained each other more often with what we make rather than what we bought. If only money and marketing weren’t as much part of the picture. If only the grown-up world of art was as fun and free.

On Saturday the girls made a museum, putting their sculptures and drawings on display. This was their idea; I hadn’t suggested it. I was thrilled by their new thought. However I did get a bit concerned when soon after the museum opened, they began to discuss admission prices. Soon though they settled on the fare: Everyone under 100 got to go to the museum for free.