"This work is unlike any other, in its range of rich, conjuring imagery and its dexterity, its smart voice. Carroll-Hackett doesn’t spare us—but doesn’t save us—she draws a blueprint of power and class with her unflinching pivot: matter-of-fact and tender." —Jan Beatty

Posts tagged ‘Family’

Daily Prompt Love <3 Teacher

20 September 2017 

My son’s 29th birthday is today. He has, since we met, proven to be one of my best friends, a wise, funny, compassionate, loving child who grew into a wise, funny, compassionate, loving man. He has been and remains one of my greatest teachers.

Make art about your teachers.

 

Daily Prompt Love <3 Natural Elegance

1 August 2017

el·e·gance

  (ĕl′ĭ-gəns)

n.

Refinement, grace, and beauty in movement, appearance, or manners.

Tasteful opulence in form, decoration, or presentation.

Restraint and grace of style.

 

Make art about the elegance of the natural world.

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Daily Prompt Love <3 Teaching and Singing

30 July 2017

Was asked by another young person to teach him about cooking and food preservation. Blows up my heart to pass the old wisdom on ❤ 

Make art about preserving and teaching old wisdom.

goodall old wisdom

31 July 2017 

Woke up hearing music this morning, a tenor singing down the hall, song woven through the fabric of my waking air

Make art about who you hear singing in the distance. 

hearing music

 

Daily Prompt Love <3 Together We Can

9 June 2017

I’m so excited! Going to be entering into a new creative collaboration with a dear friend. 

Make art about working with others, about the benefits of collaboration. 

collaboration

Daily Prompt Love <3 Yes, Please

7 June 2017

Feeling my Southern mama at my shoulder. 

Make art about manners, having them, learning them, lacking them, using them in difficult situations. 

manners

Daily Prompt Love <3 When I Ask Why

6 June 2017

Make art inspired by this. 

poor

 

Daily Prompt Love <3 Another Chance: A Very Special Birthday Prompt

19 May 2017

Seven years ago today, my oldest son J was in a terrible car accident, his little plastic Saturn sedan t-boned by a brand new Dodge Charger with its all-steel construction.

J, my laughing, charismatic, kind, smart son, only 22 then, was critically injured, with a compression skull fracture, subdural hematoma, subarachnoid hemorrhaging, and four feather bleeds into his beautiful brain. They airlifted him by helicopter from our small town to the major medical facility, MCV, in Richmond, admitting him directly into the neurological ICU. He was conscious the whole time, talking, joking, charming the nurses, complaining that he couldn’t look out the window on his first-ever helicopter ride, even saying things meant to reassure me, his sister, his brother, the friends who stood by us at the hospital. We bedded down in the ICU waiting room, while behind those heavy doors, monitors clicked and hummed, documenting my son’s traumatic brain injury. That was Wednesday. 

Early Thursday afternoon, as I stood as J’s bedside, a doctor we hadn’t seen before strode in, his crisp white lab coat flowing behind him. He introduced himself as the head of neurological research, and after a moment, he asked us if we had seen J’s latest CT scan. We hadn’t, so he hurried from the room, telling us he’d be right back. J and I looked at each other, confused, and my son must have seen worry in my eyes, as he patted my hand. 

The doctor returned, wheeling in a large piece of equipment, a medical imaging viewer, and positioned it at the end of J’s ICU bed. He turned it on and the image of my son’s skull appeared,  stark in the black and whiteness of it all. For a second, we were completely silent. Then the doctor, smiling, began to explain what we were seeing.

What we were seeing was nothing: no bleeding, no bruising, no swelling. The only sign that remained of my son’s injury just 24 hours before was the spiderweb of fractures in the bone, as if a pencil eraser had been pushed into the fragile shell of an egg, a network of bone break just beneath the C-shaped wound on the side of his head.  J’s brain looked completely normal, showing not a single other sign of the blow he’d taken the day before in the wreck that had left his little car mangled, left nothing but the driver’s seat intact. 

The doctor grinned, saying, “We want to study you, study why and how you healed so quickly.”

That was Thursday. We brought J home midday on Friday. Six weeks later, he was back at work, then back to his last year of college that fall. We talked time and again about his miraculous healing, about why it might have happened. 

J, my wise son, said, “Mom, I don’t know why it happened. I just know I got another chance.” 

He now calls May 19 his birthday. His Facebook status this morning read, “Today, I am alive.” 

Make art about being given another chance. 

 

J and Max

 

 

 

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