Starting the studio was a little bit of a crap shoot. I did my homework investigating school hours and meal time customs
The hours for the studio were set according to the school schedule; some kids go to school in the mornings from 7-12, others go in the afternoon from 1-6.
(A need due to overcrowded schools).
So I opened for 3 hours in the morning, and 3 hours in the evening thinking kids would come according to the school schedule. This was perfect in the summer when I first opened but after school started no one showed up for morning sessions. The kids are probably doing the same thing as they would be doing in the USA; SLEEPING!
I adjusted my hours to be open 4 hours in the evening.

The studio began with a “come make art and stay as long as you are engaged” policy. This is my preference.
There are a few that come in, with an idea or not, make their art and leave....within an hour’s time. They get down to business and go.
But I found that most of the the kids are so hungry for creative outlet, many would stay the entire 4 hours I was open.

​I fought and fought and fought to not have distinct session times and specific beginnings and endings.

​Some of the kids could turn into production machines; hopping from one media center to another faster than some kids could wash their hands and sign in.
I put limits on the number of activities they could work on. Painting is one activity, sculpture is one activity. You can do 1 or 2 paintings and that is still 1 activity. Get it?
But what about someone who made a sculpture, then wanted to paint it, then glue decorations on it? Well, that’s 1 activity because it is one piece of art. Get it?

It’s not black and white. What in art (and life) ever is?

The allowed time was shortened to 2 hours as the number of children waiting out side the doors increased.
Then in order to preserve my sanity when I work without a volunteer (usually on Friday nights- more about this in another post) and let more kids into the studio in a manageable way, I started to limit the time to 1.5 hours. While the studio was full and the energy relatively calm with productive artists, the lines grow outside. I have counted up to 12 kids waiting outside, for as long as 45 minutes in the heat and humidity. I feel sad when the 2 girls who have waited patiently for 35 minutes finally get frustrated and leave just 4 minutes before I peek my head out to let them in. I need to refine the waiting process; maybe a sign up area on the chalkboard I painted outside to entertain the kids while they waited? A lottery? I am not sure.

The kids learned to arrive early to ensure they got in the studio. I arrive at 15 minutes early to open at 4 o’clock to see 8 kids waiting at the door. Some kids think they have figured out that it’s a number limit for occupancy. A few do a head count when we are washing hands and signing the register. They haven’t quite realized that it’s a combination of personality styles AND number of kids. All girls 9-14 years old? I can handle 15 of those. All girls plus that one girl? Push it back to 10. All boys? I can probably do 10 at a time. Girls and boys? Definitely no more than 12.

So here we are at just over a year of operation. I returned to the island after a month long break that included work in the States, and attending a meeting in South Carolina.
I decided not to fight the lack of volunteers on Friday nights and Saturdays and changed the open days to Monday through Thursday. The kids moved seamlessly into the new schedule. I asked the kids to tell the others about the change and the news spreads quickly through the neighborhood.
Everybody’s (adults) response was positive; especially acknowledging that “now you can enjoy the weekends”. I find that funny since most of the volunteers are ex-Pats (ex-Patriots-people who live in another country other than their original) and don’t work. I guess after a lifetime of a weekday grind, people still have a TGIF mindset.

The studio is like a living being; constantly growing and changing. The flow ebbs and tides like the sea that surrounds us.

Cuando deseas also, todo el universo conspira para que realices tus sueños. (a Mexican saying)
​When you want something, the whole universe conspires to make your wish come true.

This is a story about how everything went right. And this is part of the story I feel I have to tell in the right order .
I promise I have a lot of stories where everything has gone wrong.

I have never done this before, yet often I feel like I’ve done this many times.
As a decorative painter of 25+ years, we often joked (but not really) that when a client would ask us “have you ever done this before?” We enthusiastically say yes and forge ahead, fake it til we make it, until we get it just perfect.

I had my paper work complete and I had a plan, sort of.
In 2017, the big move to Mexico was a 5 year plan. We had lots of time. Time to make a plan for the newborn charity, raise money, create a budget, plan our location, plan how we were going to operate, and plan how it was going to go so smoothly. I’m a planner. I love to plan and have time to make it happen on my terms.
We made a short trip to Cozumel sometime that summer and I started to really pay attention to real estate and neighborhoods. I checked out rent prices for locations. I visualized our space and “tried on” lots of ideas. I was in no hurry, we had lots of time.

In November of that year, back in Colorado, David got a call. “We want to meet you, come visit the blacksmith shop”, they said. “We live in Colorado, and have a place in Cozumel too”, they explained. In the middle of his meeting with them, David calls me and tells me I should come right away. J and T have a house in Cozumel and they just brought another property. They asked David if he want to move his shop to Cozumel, but this is not in HIS plan; a 2000 degree forge mixed with the heat and humidity of Cozumel? No Thank You. From their description of their place my mind forms an image of war torn property all ramshackeled and beat up. Forgive my hesitation, forgive my lack of excitement. We agree to rendezvous in early January in Cozumel.

Under the shade of the concrete canopy at the Mercado Municipal in Cozumel, we share a meal of Halabós na Hipon and Nasi Goreng (Garlic Butter Shrimp and Fried Rice) at our favorite Filipino cookery on the island. T and J are excited as they talk about their all ideas for their space; a gallery, a coffee shop, maybe a cooking school? They want to do something for the community but they don’t know what. I start to get quietly excited because I had a “what”, but I had no “where”. It is David who jumps on the opportunity—Let’s go look, today. We scrape the last grains of rice from our plates and lick our buttery, shrimp-y fingers clean, and head to the property. (Actually I washed my hands with soap and water, but that’s not quite as fun of an image to share).

The space was 3 attached rooms on 3 properties on a corner of the south-most residential neighborhood of town. Blue collar, working class neighborhood. Peptol Bismol pink rooms. Dark. Dank. Old. Ironically, this place was 2 blocks from a location my Mexican landlord (of our apartment) offered me the use of but I rejected gently— solely by not taking action. (I wasn’t ungrateful, I was just not certain that a carport that I could only use during the week would serve the purposes of Art Power). It was not in the central area I had planned. It was not on a major street that I was sure we needed to be on. But I paid attention to the fact that this was the second time I was led to this neighborhood. Sometimes you stop planning and you go with the flow.

Hours later we had an agreement: We could use the space for Art Power! for 2 years with a trade for some work that David would do for the property.
T and J would do the major renovations and clock will start ticking for us in June.

The excitement came as they asked us what we wanted in the space.... a sink, a counter, a bigger door? Lights, windows?
Another bathroom? Was this really happening? Can I really choose? This was an unforeseen opportunity to create the best possible space for Art Power.
This was the universe conspiring for me.

The panic came as I realized we had 5 months to figure everything out.
We were given a beautiful blessing for 2 years, and I wasn’t going to let the space sit empty while I planned.
​Five months to increase Art Power’s bank account past 3 digits.
​Five months to neatly pack away our life in Colorado.
Five months to do everything I thought I had 5 years to do.

What happened to my plan?
Was it excitement I was feeling or panic?
It was hard to tell the difference.

Forever ago I spent a year as an art therapist at Jose de Diego Elementary School in Chicago, in a Spanish speaking neighborhood with Spanish speaking kids. This was a neighborhood that was colorful and lively, with people from all over Central America and Mexico; their language bonded them. Most of the kids spoke English, but it was their second language; Accents were strong, Spanish was frequently sprinkled into the mix, and some kids, recent immigrants, spoke no English at all. I spoke no Spanish, and I learned only 2 words that year: cacahuates (peanuts) and tijeras (scissors). I was grateful the process of art didn’t need a lot of words, and I wasn’t convinced I needed to learn Spanish.

My mentor and advisor, also an art therapist, was fluent in Spanish as her second language. She had been at the school for a long time, she knew the culture well, and was respected by staff, teachers, and students. She taught me to slow down and do my work without words; how to look and observe. The kids will tell you all kinds of things with their bodies she said. They will tell you all you need to know through their posture, their breathing, their glance and gaze. She made the quiet time meaningful.

I remember the hours spent with all the dark haired, brown skinned kids in that tiny art therapy room. Sometimes they worked in silence, absorbed in their projects. Sometimes there was laughter and chatter.
I remember teachers being doubtful of the time I spent with the kids, with found objects, glue, crayons, and tijeras.
How could art possibly “fix” the problems the teachers encountered in classes—behavior problems, attention deficits, poor grades and social anxieties.

I remember one tiny young boy who didn’t speak English at all, he was in kinder or primaria at most. Each week he worked in silence and communicated what he wanted with actions and meaningful looks. One day he guided me out into the hall where I kept random supplies they could select from in lockers. He picked a towering roll of paper and some markers and crayons. He chose to work in the hall, the only space that would accommodate that enormous roll of white that swallowed him when he sat in the middle of it and began to draw. I quietly sat and watched with anticipation as he scratched out a building, then a car with more people drawn in it than I knew would be legal. The empty space he filled with a single line that zigged, and zagged and rolled this way and swerved that way. The formerly blank white surface was now a maze of pathways and tangles in all the colors of the rainbow. He declared it complete by rolling up the drawing and stuffing it into one of the empty lockers. He grabbed me by hand and indicated it was time to head back to class. That was the last time I saw him.

His absence was later explained a couple of weeks later by my mentor; the entire family had abruptly moved back to Mexico. The image finally made sense and story became clear as I realized so much was expressed in that silent hour. Chaos, distance, time, apprehension and anxiety. I often thought of that young boy and his journey back to Mexico.

If I drew a picture of my journey to Mexico, I might draw it just like he did— Big. Colorful. A little chaotic, and a little confusing... I would top it all off with all the colors of an arcoíris With roads and paths that are at times totally uncertain, but amidst it all there are parts that emerge from the confusion with clarity and directness, and there the path is completely defined.

​Where did all of this begin? Beginnings can be hard to discern; where does a beach begin, where does the ocean begin? It feels like an ocean. It feels THAT BIG. I just dove right in.
One clear beginning was in February 2017. After a meeting with the orphanage where we had been volunteering for the past 5 years for gave us some news that created uncertainty about our future there, I woke up one day and declared to David that we should take what we were doing at the orphanage out into the community where we were staying. We had noticed actually that the kids at the orphanage were well taken care of—sponsor families from the US financially support the kids, lots of donations, structure and care... It was the kids in the neighborhoods who were without resources, without shoes, without screens on their ever-open windows.

How does one start a non-profit? Could I do it myself, or did I need to hire a lawyer? Back in the USA my lawyer friend and mentor through this process assured me I could do it myself. But it could take 9, 12, or even 18 months she warned me. “Don’t get frustrated. Be patient” (these words will come back again and again-spoken to me, spoken by me.)

Frustration, exasperation, tense moments as I clicked away on my keyboard, navigating websites, filling out forms....by March I had a Colorado corporation formed, a tax number, and access to a lot more websites and passwords than I ever wanted.
Multiple checklists later, paper work and a big check sent off, fingers crossed, and I resolved to wait for however long it would take. And I could breathe.

We went back to Cozumel at the end of April to celebrate our anniversary.
We returned 10 days later to find a letter from the IRS. I opened the intimidatingly thin envelope expecting a request or a demand, but instead found an approval.
March 18, April 20, May 6.
Numbers and letters, letters and numbers.
It had only been 3 weeks since I mailed my application.
We celebrated our 8th anniversary, and recieved a letter with a 501c3.
When did it all begin? Probably a long time ago.

Did I ever expect this path? Not in a million years.