…and I began to think about how I was and wasn’t putting “open” into practice, and what I’ve come to see it has been teaching me to do:

Open my eyes. Actually see what’s around me. Notice the details of life. Taking the Artful Journaling class helps, because to draw or paint something, you have to learn to see it.

Open my ears. Hear the frogs in the pond behind our house (it’s hard not to when they really get going). Hear the birds singing. Hear what my husband and son are really saying. Even hear what my own heart and intuition have to say.

Open my mind. My default answer is no. I can tell you all the reasons why whatever you’re suggesting isn’t a good idea, or can’t be done, or why I don’t want to do it. “Open” makes me bite my tongue. I may be thinking no, but maybe if I don’t say it right away some new thought or idea will sneak in. If it takes up residence, well, maybe my mind will open up just a little more.

Open my heart. When I pay attention—see and hear—I am touched by others. I can give the kind word, the money, the time or the good thoughts. If I’m not open, I don’t even know those things are needed.

I’ve begun to see that even when I’m not thinking about it, “open” is working on me subconsciously. I recognize how tightly wound I’ve been, how rigid and closed my ideas of what I should do with my time, how I should run my household, how things “should be.” I think I’m afraid that if I let even an inch of control slip from my hands, my carefully constructed life will fall apart—I’ll fall apart.

“Open” is about much more than trying new things. It’s a philosophy of life. I have quite a ways to go before it’s my philosophy, but at least I’ve opened the door a crack.

If you’ve chosen a word of the year, how is it going for you? What have you learned? What has surprised you?

I’ve wanted to learn how to do illustrated journaling for several years, after seeing an acquaintance’s gorgeous journal while on a trip to Greece. I’ve drooled over books about creating illustrated journals by Hannah Hinchman and Clare Walker Leslie and started sketching off and on. Since I love the look of watercolor, I wanted to incorporate it into my journal, but the first time I tried it (with the help of a library book), I realized I needed a real class with a teacher I could ask questions of. Laure’s current class is the best so far for what I actually want to do: add sketching and painting to my journal when I travel, as well as work on a nature journal here at home. Each lesson helps us build what Laure calls a “visual vocabulary,” techniques and skills for creating different effects, page design and so on. Assignments have included making a color chart (surprisingly soothing and fun), creating a set of borders, using a “placement map,” and making word art (one of the assignments I haven’t done yet).

Here are three of my pages (the color isn't quite right because I have to take a photo of the art instead of scanning it):


Summer’s more relaxed schedule is a good time for exploring new hobbies and experiences. For me, illustrated journaling is both a simple pleasure and an everyday adventure. It’s fun—and it stretches me just a little outside my comfort zone while helping me move towards one of my goals.

What about you? What kind of simple pleasures and everyday adventures are you taking part in this summer? Do share!

And that concludes our trip through Missouri. Thanks for traveling with me—I’ve enjoyed reliving it all!

 
While we were in St. Joseph, MO, we toured the Pony Express Museum. (I’m sure you know why I was interested in it!)




“The mail must go. Hurled by flesh and blood across 2,000 miles of desolate space—Fort Kearney, Laramie, South Pass, Fort Bridger, Salt Lake City. Neither storms, fatigue, darkness, mountains and Indians, burning sands or snow must stop the precious bags. The mail must go.” –M. Jeff Thompson, Mayor of St. Joseph, Missouri, April 3 1860, before the inaugural ride of the Pony Express.

Pony Express service lasted only 19 months, until Oct. 24, 1861 when the Pacific Telegraph line was completed and the Express was no longer needed. The Pony Express eventually had more than 100 stations, 80 riders and between 400 and 500 horses. Despite the hazards of the route such as Indians, extreme weather conditions and wild animals, only one mail delivery was ever lost and one rider killed.

“It was not until December 1860, that I had an opportunity to ride. The boys were dropping out pretty fast. Some of them could not stand the strain of the constant riding. It was not so bad in summer, but when winter came on, the job was too much for them… My first ride was in a heavy snow storm, and it pretty nearly used me up.”—William Campbell, Pony Express rider.




Despite the romance of the idea of the Pony Express and its usefulness to those relying upon its news, it was not profitable and led its founders to bankruptcy.

On the way to our first genealogy destination, we stopped at the James Family Farm and Museum, childhood home of Jesse and Frank James, in Kearney, Missouri.

The cabin, built of log and clapboards, is quite small, and was originally built in 1822. The Reverend Robert James brought his wife Zerelda and son Frank there in 1845, and Jesse was born here in 1847. After the Reverend’s death (he had gone to California after gold was discovered and died there), Zerelda remarried (twice, ultimately). She began giving tours of the farm after 1882, a practice continued by Frank after her death, and later, Frank’s son and Jesse’s grandsons. The home contains many items belonging to the James family, including two beautifully made quilts crafted by Frank’s wife, Annie, who seems to have been a gifted seamstress. In the 1890s, Zerelda added two ready-made rooms to the original structure, purchased from the Sears catalogue.

In addition to the family’s home, there is a small museum which contains more James family items, including Jesse’s and Frank’s saddles, the family Bible with entries made by Zerelda, the boots Jesse was wearing when he died and the tombstone of Frank James’ treasured horse, Dan. It seems that when Dan died, Frank had him buried on the farm some distance from the house. Frank included Dan’s grave in the public tours he gave, but as he aged, he found it harder to make the walk to it, and the horse’s tombstone was moved closer and closer to the home. No one knows now where the horse is actually buried!

Later in the trip, we visited the house in which Jesse James was shot to death at age 34 in 1882. He was living with his wife and two children in St. Joseph, Missouri, under the name of Tom Howard. Jesse’s tiny white house still bears the scars of that shooting: a hole in the wall, subsequently enlarged by treasure hunters, and gouges in the wood floor where more treasure hunters carved pieces of blood-soaked wood out of the boards! The home also contains artifacts from Jesse’s coffin—his grave was exhumed in 1995 so that forensic scientists using DNA testing could determine if the body buried in his grave was really him. (It was.)