Casie was seven years old, just starting the second grade. Now I know you're not familiar with Lakeview Crest Elementary School, but you must understand: second grade is a BIG deal. Second grade was for the big kids; and you can bet Casie ran with the big dogs. Her second grade teacher, Miss Jenn, had organized a field trip to the art museum to kick off September. Casie was of course overjoyed; the first graders didn’t get to go on field trips, you know.

The bus was scheduled to leave the parking lot at 8:15 am sharp, most of the children were still groggy, but Casie was bright-eyed and bushy tailed, unable to contain her excitement. Her golden curly pigtails bounced on her shoulders as she climbed the bus and raced to a seat in the back. Correction: HER seat in the back. All the cool kids sat in the back.

Casie’s bestest friend ever in the whole entire world, Camden, slid lethargically into the seat beside her, her dark bob still ruffled and tangled, proof of a deep sleep. She blinked once, then twice, as if in slow motion. Casie bounced up and down on the sticky, pine green leather, jouncing Camden every other second. Fortunately for Casie, Camden was much too tired to protest.

“Aren’t you excited??” Casie squealed. “I’m excited! This is going to be amazing! I really like painting!” Whether or not Casie was aware she wouldn’t actually be painting that day we can’t be sure, but knowing our vivacious Casie, you can rest assured that nothing would stop her from enjoying this day, no matter what came of it. And so, for every minute of the 27 it took to navigate traffic between Lakeview Crest Elementary and the Julian Museum of Art (which felt like many more than 27 minutes to Camden), Casie chattered on, barely pausing for a breath. Some might call it irritating, but I’d call it endearing. However annoying she may have been, by the end of the bus ride, Casie’s infectious energy had every tot, teacher, driver, and chaperone smiling in spite of themselves. The effervescence that powered Casie through every day carried the group through the doors and into the lobby like a wave. And this was not a little frothy wave, mind you, but a gentle tsunami. 

But here, on the cold tile floor of the lobby, encased by a dome that harnessed and amplified even a whisper, began the tricky part for Casie. Miss Jenn reminded her that as much as her joy was appreciated, she might have to stifle it just a little. Some of the people in those paintings were sleeping and we surely wouldn’t want to make them. This made sense to Casie, so she pressed three tiny fingers against her peach pink lips in an effort to keep anything from escaping and nodded to communicate her understanding.

The class wandered the endless halls lined with masterpieces, each more breathtaking than the last. Many of the children lost interest quickly due to their brief attention span and although Casie’s was typically shorter than anyone’s, her eyes were glued to the artwork. The day had been everything she was hoping for.

The line of children -it was really more of a blob, if we’re being honest- neared the final exhibit they were to see that day, this one in a spherical room with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Each child, teacher, and chaperone alike was instantly enamored with an enormous painted glass mobile that dangled from the ceiling in the center of the room. The sunshine hugged every edge, corner, and plane of the work, reflecting multicolored rays that scintillated outwards in turn, composing a mosaic onto the rounded walls that shifted slightly and slowly as the structure rotated in turn. Casie, for one, was awestruck, as was the rest of the group. It takes something quite beautiful to bring a class of second graders to absolute, tranquil silence.

Though not fault of their own, all eyes glossed over a small bench that nestled itself into a corner where a woman sat. All eyes but Casie’s.

The woman clutched a pencil and sketchbook; up until this point she had been engulfed in her work. She glanced up and for a precious moment she took it all in, seeming to relish in the children’s fascination. There was a glimmer in her eye unlike any Casie had ever seen; it was only slight, but undeniably there. A smile tugged at the woman’s lips and each intricate wrinkle comprising her face became just more pronounced as her cheeks curved. A slight glare bounced off of the silvery accents of her shoulder length hair, half of which was twisted up behind her head, framing her face. There was a certain softness to the woman that contributed to Casie’s intrigue. She locked eyes with Casie, almost as if sending an invitation, and our ever-curious girl bounded over to the woman.

Casie peered over her shoulder at the silky smooth cream-colored paper and her big, blue eyes widened slightly more. It was a sketch of the room and everything in it, not missing even the slightest detail, a perfect replica. The illustration was only pencil and therefore colorless, but it somehow captured each of the wondrous emanations of the room, every flicker of light. Casie gasped softly and a musical chuckle took flight from the woman’s lips, its echo spiraling to the ceiling.

“Did you draw that???” Casie inquired, maybe a little louder than she should have.

“Yes,” the woman disclosed, pleased that Casie took joy in that which she had made.

“Wow,” Casie mused. “I wish I could draw like that…”

“Of course you can,” the woman answered, eyes sparkling once again. “All you have to do is try.” She slid over on the bench and patted the empty space for Casie to sit. She reached into her pocket, revealing a second pencil, which she offered to Casie. Casie grasped the tiny mustard-yellow tool as if it was all she had and squeezed it tighter still in her miniscule fingers (though she was careful not to break it) as the woman tore free a blank piece of paper for Casie. As Casie rolled the pencil back and forth in her hands, she noticed a tiny scrape bordering the eraser where the inner beige wood of the instrument was exposed. A pencil scar, Casie decided she’d call it.

So there sat the unlikely pair, and for as long as they could, they sketched. The woman aided Casie in creating her first pencil strokes but wouldn’t do it for her, sure not to overstep. The woman offered whispered advice and kindness, and with each line Casie etched into the paper she grew wiser.

Although time seemed to halt when Casie sat with the woman, reality soon did have to begin again. It was time for Casie to go. The woman smiled and pressed Casie’s art and a slip of paper into Casie’s hands as she rose to leave. Casie’s watering eyes connected with hers for the final time. Determined to prevent the woman from seeing her cry, Casie treaded reluctantly towards the doorway where she took just one more look back at what she would leave behind. Camden’s rougher hands jerked Casie back into the gargantuan blob that was the second grade class and in a blink they were whisked back into the prism of unforgiving metal. Tires squealed on pavement and the driver peeled out of the parking lot, returning the young visitors to the now seemingly provincial brick building from which they had come. At least that’s how it seemed to Casie.

She clasped imperfectly perfect pencil complete with its pencil scar against the papers and tears rolled down her face, first a gentle drizzle and then an insatiable howling hurricane. Our girl Casie was tough, but unafraid of showing her emotions. I mean, it was the second grade, so I guess everyone felt free to be vulnerable back then, although most have forgotten how by now. “If it hurts you, it hurts you,” Casie’s mom would always say.

The raging storm began to subside, and it was just then that Casie noticed letters scrawled across the back of her paper. A note. She hurriedly unfolded the paper, turning it towards her. She was in the second grade, and obviously smart enough to read, but you can’t expect even Casie to read upside down.

You’ve done beautifully, it read. Keep creating and remember to let the art tell you where to go. -Jane

Casie held the note to her heart and swore to remember Jane forever and always. She didn’t mean it in a ‘best friends forever’-on-a-cheap-neon-plastic-necklace-that-was-made-in-China kind of way. When Casie said forever she meant forever, always true to her word. I can vouch, as I stare at the scarred pencil in my hand,  that I cherished the note and those precious minutes more than anything.