GLENWOOD SPRINGS — “Oh, this is just fabulous,” exclaimed Terry Muldoon.

The teacher seemed delighted, looking over a table, papered with art pieces, in the Glenwood Springs Center for the Arts. She was sifting through the bright, almost abstract paintings, and, every once and a while, smiling over at her student. Each time she did, Chelsea Jarosz beamed right back. As Terry chatted with Chelsea’s mother, Cheryl, the women kept returning to the same thought.

Being successful at something is wonderful.

For Chelsea, it’s also rare. Born with cerebral palsy, she is stuck in a body that limits her. She’s half-paralyzed, which makes every step a struggle. She can’t talk, communicating instead with motions, noises and an augmentative communication device, much like the one used by Stephen Hawking.

With her lap-top sized contraption, she can type words and press picture-covered buttons, each representing a different topic or idea. The thing can emit an automated, masculine voice, too, though she doesn’t seem to care for it.

“23,” she typed, when asked her age. Next, her screen read “3” — the number of years she’s been attending classes at the art center. She was tall and skinny, with bangs and a brown ponytail. The awkward way she held a paintbrush, the bit of drool that sometimes ran from her mouth, all showed how much less physical control she has over herself than most. But there, in her weekly art class, she seemed in her element. Actually, she was a ham.

Kelley Cox snapped her picture, and Chelsea’s smile went enormous. She looked straight into the lens and laughed, powerfully.

“She’s so bright. She observes everything,” said Cheryl.

Though Chelsea can’t comprehend all that’s around her, the amount of information she does take in constantly surprises her mom. What people don’t understand about Chelsea, said Cheryl, is that she’s so much more like them than she is different.

“She’s got the emotions and feelings and the same human DNA,” Cheryl said.

As she continued on about her daughter, she was gentle and patient. She was also real; she didn’t discount how difficult raising her child had been. At times, Terry would also chime in about her Chelsea experiences. As the two spoke, Chelsea smiled and typed out her own thoughts. The room felt warm and inviting, like a protected space.

“It’s (art is) the one place where Chelsea has the most even playing field in her life,” said Cheryl. “With art, she doesn’t have to pretend one bit of it.”

What a gift. Back in high school, Chelsea would come home from class and pretend to read for hours. The truth is, while she can read and write minimally, complete sentences are mostly beyond her. All of her life, it has been a challenge to do what most people take for granted, explained Cheryl. Even as a baby, she was never up to speed developmentally. Though something was obviously wrong after a few months of life, the doctors wouldn’t confirm it until Chelsea was 6 months old, and they had a practice of not diagnosing the condition until a year.

Cheryl lightly touched on more of her daughter’s childhood but didn’t feel a need to go into it too deeply. Of course it was hard, she said, especially when she and her husband, Pat, both worked and cared for their daughter. Every day was a new challenge for them, and it still is. Having stopped working, Cheryl has Chelsea full-time these days, and she’s left without the energy for reflection. As she put it, she lives in the “here and now.”

Cheryl did go back in time, however, when she spoke about one very special subject. Though she was an artist herself, Cheryl didn’t want to press that on her daughter, and instead let Chelsea find her own way to it. Then, in high school, she did. With the support of three different teachers, including Silt artist Dean Bowlby, she started to paint and get a foundation in the process. A few years later, when she discovered what the art center had to offer, she was presented with a teaching style that had no rules. Her work didn’t just mature then — it became one of the biggest things in her life.

“When you love something, it comes straight from your heart,” said Terry. “Chelsea’s work comes straight from her heart.”

Terry mentioned the “vibrancy” and “excitement” Chelsea lends each class. Every week, Chelsea is prepared, bringing magazines or pictures to paint from. Everything seems to be an inspiration for her, Terry said. Chelsea’s loose, colorful depictions of trees and flowers and dogs have an expressive freedom that Terry seemed to totally understand. Though there is that language barrier between them, she said, Chelsea never has trouble asking for more paint, water or materials. As artists, it seems, they click.

When asked if she had been nervous about having such a special needs student, Terry didn’t hesitate.

“No,” she said. “I just have a really big, open heart.”

Meanwhile, Chelsea kept looking up and smiling. She continued writing, naming the places she hopes to visit (“london china japan”), her favorite movie stars (“william mosely skandar keynes”) and members of her family (“uncles mike dan jarosz”). She was absolutely present and open. No wonder — she was in one of her favorite places.

“She loves it,” explained Cheryl. “She looks forward to this class the minute she walks out of it.”

Cheryl sounded so very appreciative of her daughter’s enthusiasm. When asked about Chelsea’s future, however, Cheryl’s tone shifted. She paused for a long while, and admitted she didn’t know how to answer. Finally, she mentioned how she’d love Chelsea to be able to have a job. More importantly, she wants Chelsea to expand her life through her painting. It’s easy for her daughter be invisible to the world, she explained. Art is something that could actually change that. A few minutes later, she’d talk about trying to imagine Chelsea being content in a reality without parents.

“Art school,” “middle school help,” typed Chelsea. Cheryl interpreted the words. It meant she wants to go to art school. She wants to teach art to middle school students.

In that moment, Cheryl had all this love and empathy in her eyes. She had never heard that wish before.

“That would be a wonderful goal,” she said, surprised, looking at Chelsea.

The mother’s hopes seemed so simple and obvious then. Like any parent, she just wants her child to be happy.

Contact Stina Sieg: 384-9111
ssieg@postindependent.com






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