As I wrote in my one of my 50th Anniversary posts, I went back to school in my mid 30s to get my teaching degree. One of the required courses was an art class.
I am not an artist. I draw horses and mermaids the same way I drew them in 6th grade. My NaMoPaiMo horse will never win any prizes although I am beyond proud of it and plan to participate in NaMoPaiMo 2021. But that art class changed me in an unexpected way.
At the time I was going to school full time with six kids all still at home. While Craig and I shared the parenting/home responsibilities, it was probably the busiest time in my life. I knew how to multitask, how to streamline, and how to get things done quickly and efficiently.
The art class was the polar opposite of that. Twice a week we had two hours to create. I found it difficult to not go-go-go through my projects - and as a result, I always finished early and there was no joy in the journey. But as the class progressed, I began to understand the value in slowing down and taking my time.
And then something magical happened - I created a piece of art. And I had to slow down to do so.We'd been given a piece of clay and told to create whatever we wanted and then given two hours to work. The professor fired our projects and then the next couple of classes were spent painting and glazing.
The rationale behind that college class for teachers was that incorporating art into lessons is a wonderful way to educate kiddos. I discovered that I loved art and vowed to incorporate it as much as I could into my teaching.
Fast forward two years and into my very first classroom. It was there that I found that teaching science through art was an excellent way to engage students and enrich and broaden their learning.
One way I did that was through Gyotaku, a Japanese art form that originated as a way to study fish after they died. When my students studied oceans and marine biology, I'd go to one of the Asian fish markets near Purdue and buy frozen whole octopus.
We would lay them out on paper and ink their bodies, carefully place rice paper over them, and then lift up that paper and set it aside to dry. 
We would also carve our own chop marks and add that to the octopus print.
I'd rinse all the octopus off in my classroom sink and put them into the refrigerator for the next day's science lesson - dissecting those octopus!
Believe it or not, even though a few kids were hesitant or even squeamish at first, I never had a kid not jump into the activity. I didn't force those who were unsure about dissection - I told them that they could just watch - and every time, those who hung back eventually could not resist the lure of seeing what was inside an octopus. (Try nine brains and three hearts for starters!)
I also learned (the hard way) to NEVER EVER EVER let the body parts go down the sink during post-dissection clean up. The year I learned that lesson, my classroom smelled like octopus for days and we had the windows open even though it was cold outside!
I no longer have my blue pottery horse. When my dear friend and penpal Sue Seese's husband died of a brain tumor, I sent it to her as a gift. But the lesson I learned when making that horse - to slow down, to enjoy the process of creating - is still with me.
