If you've never had the pleasure of spending time in the American Southeast during the summer, you've never seen the world slow down right before your eyes. Drink water with ice that melts in what seems like seconds, put on flip-flops, slather on sunscreen, close the door don't let the air conditioned air out, squint your eyes to meet the hothot sun.
Feeding the geese in Greenville, South Carolina near my grandparents house in 1979.
Over the years, he's worn the hat of coach, teacher, boss, chauffeur, traveling buddy, accountant, protector and "official peptalk giver." And that's just the short list.
Among other things, he's taught me how to shoot a lay-up, change a tire, find laughter on the crappy days, never give up, and how it's always okay to make breakfast for dinner.
**A quote from the first link: "The sickening truth is that knitting is hip - and Western youth culture is knitting its own death shroud." The even sicker truth is that when people don't realize that the punk ethos is about living your life they way you want to, not the way you think Johnny Rotten wants you, they look completely clueless.
June 11, 2008
muted.
Some days photographs are easier to manufacture than words.
Some nights down here in the American southeast it's too hot to sleep, even though you can practically taste your dreams you're so tired.
So we toss and tumble at night trying to think of snow and cool breezes as the temperature creeps up so much that time seems to stop.
All the while knowing that the next day will be just as hot and sticky, leaving you searching for tiny respites in glasses of iced tea and the freedom of flip flops.
But luckily, as if to spite the consistency of the heat and tendency to wall up inside with the air conditioning on, each day still brings the smallest of surprises.
June 10, 2008
Bookworm Series #1: I Will Not Be Broken
This post may not seem very crafty, and, it's not. It is my belief that craft and creativity can help us work through hard times in our lives. Sometimes, however, we might need a little helping hand in order to get to where we feel like creating. Over the years I've worked with survivors of myriad causes in different capacities, and their fighting spirits never cease to amaze me. The most memorable individuals I've worked with have been refugees from countries at war, and it is with their resilience and fire that I wanted to mention this book. There are have also been times when I could have benefitted from this book, too, as my acts of creativity are often acts of strength and fighting back.
Along with living with an open heart, I think that another thing people must strive for is refusing to be broken. But then again, I guess you don't need to refuse anything if you've never needed to be fixed. But, if you have found yourself muddled and angry and frightened and screaming and running and alone and tired and hurting and lost all at the same time, you might know what I'm talking about.
Sometimes I get sent things in the post to have a look at, and when the book I Will Not Be Broken: 5 Steps to Overcoming a Life Crisis appeared on my doorstep, I wasn't sure what was in store for me. It's a new book written by Jerry White, co-founder of the Landmine Survivors Network, which is now known as Survivor Corps. Over the next few nights, I read the book before going to sleep, finishing it in just a few days.
According to White, the 5 steps towards healing after disaster are: face facts, choose life, reach out, get moving and give back. The 5 points work from inside out, from facing yourself to giving back to others. As he does a much better job than I would at explaining them, the chapters are online in PDF version here.
As White elucidates on these 5 steps via personal stories, almost each page was met with someone else's story of genocide, war, illness, abuse and so forth. The first few chapters were sometimes hard, but as the book continued on, I started to remember all the fighters I know who've wrestled their demons and won. Some of them took years before they took the steps needed, while others started fighting from the start. All of them won, not because they were extraordinary, but because we're stronger than we think.
I Will Not Be Broken, may not be for everyone, but for those who might need a little forward momentum in tough times, it may help generate some steps in the right direction. In refusing to be broken, we recognize that small voice of hope and love and kindness that still exists despite where misfortune or horror may have taken us. Sometimes that voice seems impossible to find and laughable to think of, but it's there. Some of us take longer to find that voice than others. But it will be found, cared for, loved and nurtured. It just may take a little time, a little patience, and a lot of love.
* * * * *
In case you're wondering why I titled this post "Bookworm Series #1" it's because since people send me things to read, it's high time I tell you about them, too, for better or worse. Sometimes I get craft books, sometimes I get books that deal with live and how to live it. They're all about taking your interests and passions and using them to better the lives of yourself and others, which at the end of the day, is what the term craftivism embodies completely.
Thanks to Kate (who did the illustration) and Faythe (who's the director of the documentary) for calling my attention to it, and to Amy and Cinnamon for writing such a wonderfully powerful reminder of why craft is important! You ladies inspire me in so many ways!
May 18, 2008
a book is a book is a book. or is it?
Ever since I can remember, books have always been my frequent companions. As a kid, books would tuck me in bed late at night as I would devour their pages until I couldn't hold my eyes open...many times I would wake up in the middle of the night with a book on my chest having fallen asleep while trying to finish a chapter. As a matter of fact, this is one ritual I've never ceased, even when camping and I have to share the light with any and every moth in a three-mile radius.
Even now, I always have a book on hand in case I have a few spare minutes and my hands are tired from needlework. Some people escape in books and forget about the rest of the beat of the world, but I always have seen books as a way to obtain closer intimacy with others. By understanding the words of someone else you're subtly asked to think as someone else, and it forever allows for new points of understanding and questioning and deepens our compassion for when we close the book and come back to the so-called "real world."
When I was little I figured I would either work with animals or write, falling in love early with the life of James Herriot. As I got older and the sciences turned out to be my academic nemesis, I wondered what I was to do.
Decades later, I'm still not entirely sure...having at one time or another called myself a sign painter, barista, consultant, secretary, knitter for hire, feeder of sheep, housesitter, bookseller, cake deliverer....and that's just the highly abridged list. I guess I never really stopped asking questions once I picked my nose out of a book after all.
As I look at turning 33 in two months, I wonder what's to become of us seekers and searchers and travelers in this world of taxes and health insurance and mortgages. Maybe we're a dying breed, maybe we just need to unionize, maybe we're meant to ask and seek and create each day anew looking for others who see the world the same. I'm sure you know the type, or maybe you even are the type....if you are, do
let me know what you think the best course of action for us searchers is...
Above is the cover of my first book, Knitting for Good!, to be out later on this year. Many thanks to the good people at Shambhala, who helped edit and tease out the words when I was too close to them. Using knitting as both an example and as a metaphor, the book was written to help people engage with their creativity in different and new ways by using their creative interests to better themselves, their community and this world.
It is my greatest hope that some night, maybe some night soon, someone reads my own words and uses them to help better figure out how to navigate their days or rethink their own sense of compassion or just read them and understand. Whether at bedtime, or by flashlight in the wilderness, or for a few minutes on the bus, or sitting with a cup of tea, it is my greatest hope that you, too, will find wisdom in books... and then use them as a guide instead of escape.
Here's to happy reading, and hoping my cat doesn't decide to knock my tower of books over on me as I sleep.
April 29, 2008
spring break.
Okay, so it wasn't really a spring break in the traditionally heathen definition... but it was a break in the spring.
Under the excuse of attending CraftCon in San Francisco, I went to California for the first time in 17 years. I remember that trip down Highway 1 vividly, it was like nothing else I had ever seen. The steep drop-offs, the waves crashing, miles of sand. It was all that Hollywood promised me it was. And then more.
Growing up in North Carolina, California seemed (almost literally) like another country. I spent many years of my youth really really wishing I lived in that country instead of the southeast United States where you can practically swim through the effects of the humidity for months on end. Tonight was one of the first nights that hinted at the heat that is to come. The heat that keeps you awake at night because it's just too damn hot. I put my hair up in lame determination and even donned shorts, but still, the heat won. And, of course, we will meet again. And again. Soon.
To say that I fell in love with California would be an understatement. I spent entire afternoons getting lost in San Francisco, watched sea lions inexplicably hold one flipper up while they napped, traveled with friends, met new amazingly inspiring people and took time to just breathe and soak in the Pacific. The 17-year stint of absence was near inexcusable, and I am still ruing the fact that my grocery store doesn't have 15 different kinds of oranges grown locally.
Above are four photos from my trip, there are dozens more here. Clockwise from the top left: closeup of a Swoon mural, my new friends Rachel and Katy on the bus Rachel is converting for a sustainable home, vineyards in Napa and sea lions taking a nap near the pier in Santa Cruz.
Ten lovely days filled with curiosity, crafty goodness, road trips and love...truly, the sublime. Thank you, California.
One of the things I find both incredibly amusing and amazing is that we live in our lives in cycles.
Sometimes we'll feel like eating cheese and pickle sandwiches for lunch everyday, when normally we just want soup. Sometimes we'll have one favorite route home, only to inexplicably decide to create a new one out of the blue.
Lately, this writing less on a computer screen and more on scraps of paper? A similar cycle.
I took my camera out of my bag the other day and forced myself to take photos even though my heart really wasn't in it. I still carry it with me everywhere because I know that soon enough I'll start wanting to capture life through a lens.
But the important part of it all is that I take note and honor these cyclical changes...and not think of them as the result of a changed mind, but instead an effect of a changing mind.
One of the downfalls of the internet is that it makes us hunger for more, more often. A site that updates itself 5 times a day is eclipsed by a site that updates 10 times a day. We want it all, and we want it now. But what happens when you take a timeout? Are you forgotten? No longer bookmarked? Your 15 seconds (surely it's no longer minutes) is up?
I started to find myself overwhelmed with blogs and magazines and podcasts and zines and flyers and forums...all of it constantly promising something newer and bigger and better. How much is too much?
It is just this oversaturation that at times causes me to scribble on the backs of receipts and have real-time conversations with friends about things I would normally mull over on screen or in my head. And it feels good to change the pace, take a detour and switch things up.
When you have so many projects written about online or photographed or quoted or whathaveyou there becomes a point where it's all so meta that the focus of the project itself gets distorted in lieu of the happenstance around it.
Lately, I've been revelling in the silence and letting my own projects reverberate in my head instead of opening up for the world to see. One day soon, I'll have enough of the quiet.
But, for now, just for a bit, I'm taking the time to truly listen to the silence. I wonder what this part of the cycle will lead me next?
It was for a graduate English Literature class on Postmodernism I took in the fall of 2001. Looking back at it now, I have no idea why so much text is highlighted and underlined, with occasional notes scrawled in the margin like: "theory of absence so presence of meaning is valued" and "what is the sum of a narrative?"
The only thing that seems to make sense is if I apply it to the above photograph that I found on the main drag of my tiny little town. Words highlighted and words written years apart, but just perfect when put together.
The facility of the entrance into another world is an illusion: you start writing in a rush, anticipating the happiness of a future reading, and the void yawns on the white page. (Page 172)
I wonder if when writing the words scrawled on a random mailing label above, the author started out with grand intentions, ready to state her mind and then decided to connect the words into loops deciding they looked prettier swirled and illegible. Or maybe she started out strong and just couldn't find the right words to say.
Maybe all the white space, the unknown, just seemed too open and vague that it became necessary to fill, sacrificing clarity for safety. I wonder if she'll know what she meant if she happens to come across it years later.
Or if she'll stare at it and wonder what the hell she was trying to express all those years ago, try to give it some meaning when her perspective has shifted in time and her frame of reference broadened.
Or maybe she'll wonder if it was her hand that wrote those words at all. Because as I sit with an old book on my lap full of my handwriting, it all seems alien and vague albeit distantly familiar. Who knows if I was actually trying to make a point or just trying to fill 'the white page?'
January 30, 2008
other people's lists can be just as nice.
....As your own lists, that is.
While today has been really awesome, sometimes it helps to keep this little list handy. Sometimes it really helps, despite the whole art vs craft debacle. (Thank you, Keri Smith!)
I'm the most susceptible to #1, #8, and #10. What about you?
And when I need amusement, there's always the presidential election to keep me entertained, although seeing how the most amusing people dropped out recently, I'm getting a little bit less bemused by the whole production...
January 4, 2008
hello, new year.
This holiday season I relied more on face-to-face time than technology, and while it was a nice respite, here's back to the so-called "real world."
A few days ago, I celebrated my one-year anniversary with one certain fluffy ex-feral-now-quite-spoiled cat. While a continuous year of owning/being with someone/some animal may seem to go by in the blink of an eye, this was the first anniversary I've had with something breathing whose care I was responsible for.
When she arrived at my teeny tiny house in a teeny tiny box (a temporary kennel as she moved from a friend's house to my own) and promptly hid under the sofa for almost two solid weeks, I was sure we were off to a bad start. I was also sure that I had made a terrible mistake even though I never really admitted it. How could I, lover of suitcases and packing and moving on a whim, possibly be held in charge of something so tiny and scared and furry?
After she decided that sleeping on the couch was much more comfortable than sleeping under the couch, I found myself beginning to count on her greeting me at the door when I came home, trying to growl viciously when there was a knock at the door (no, really), sticking her paw under the bathroom door when it was closed, and nestling in for the night on the bed within arm's reach. In other words, I began to get attached.
During one my of trips earlier this year, I began to miss her presence while I was away. At first I didn't know what the feeling was, this "missing" of something, as I always prescribed to the train of thought that if you're meant to see someone/thing in your life again, the universe will make it happen one way or another. I was always the weird non-homesick kid at camp who consoled all the other crying kids.
Back from my trip, I opened the door, to find a fluffball to greet me and subsequently nap on my suitcase. Grateful to discover that she didn't pee on my bed in anger while I was gone, I was even more grateful to discover that having her wind her way around my feet gave me a sense of groundedness and joy that had always seemed to evade me.
Now, a year later, I can't even fathom the thought of not having Bobbin padding around my house, doing as she pleases, as cats are known to do. I just wish I had discovered much sooner in life that sometimes, in order to find a sense of place, you just have to let the good things that come to you and unfold as they will... as I did to the offer of a small scared tiny homeless kitten twelve months ago.
In other words, I opened up my heart to staying put with something/somewhere and was gifted more than I expected in return. I finally learned what had escaped me for so long, that traveling is so much sweeter when you have something to greet you at trip's end. And that the rewards of staying put in one place instead of picking up and moving mean so much more to the heart than the rush of never having a place to hang your hat.
December 11, 2007
kerouac cadillac dreams.
My first two years of college were spent having classes like "Eastern Religion and its Influence on the Beat Poets" instead of "English Lit 101," as I was in a program that took a more multidisciplinary approach to learning. While it may have seemed to some like a program in a dorm basement run by hippies, (which in some ways it was)
it was also the first chance I really had to explore writing that really pushed you and stuck around long after the book was finished.
It was here that I fell in love with Kerouac and Ginsberg and started to learn that there were others who were questioning the way the world works, and who wanted to see everything it had to offer. In short, I learned that it was perfectly okay to be curious.
The other week in Maine, as we drove down quiet roads and ate in roadside diners and explored empty national parks and jumped for joy at the sight of a porcupine, I was reminded of those years and those new discoveries. I was reminded that exploring and not knowing and wandering and listening and laughing all converge at a type of calm instead chaos.
And I was reminded of the hippies in the basement who opened my eyes over a decade ago, and how sometimes going 'on the road' is just what you need to soothe your soul.
P.S. Getting gifty this year? Why not buy handmade?
November 22, 2007
thanks.
Happy Thanksgiving!
I'm not really a fan of the history of Thanksgiving, but I adore the day and what it means.
One of my closest friends came over from London this Thanksgiving and we decided to go to Boston and Maine, even though the entire state of Maine closes in November. We're here right at the tailend of the season, where it's not too cold and hotels are cheap and the locals are hanging around at the bar down the street.
On Monday, I turned in the final draft of the book I've been working on for the past several months, so this vacation is just what I needed. It's quiet, beautiful and with a good friend, which is pretty much perfect after the recent chaos trying to get everything done that needed to be. I'm so thankful for having amazing friends and family and for the opportunity to have the chance to work on a book this year. This year has been a testament to just how lucky I am to have such supportive people in my life. Thank you!
I hope you have lots to be thankful for, too. Don't forget to take a minute to give thanks to the goodness in your life. If you're lucky, they're all also be hugs. Extra credit: the seaside, coffee, laughter.
*One week until I turn in my manuscript! Hooray!
**Olive, the awesome chihuahua who is not mine, and I hung out the other day as her mom shopped at the farmer's market. Dogs are awesome.
November 3, 2007
every city has its stories...
...you just have to know where to look.
1. on a wall in the bathroom of a local bar, halloween night
2. on a metal pole in carrboro...
3. my favorite word: below the metal pole, on the ground
October 24, 2007
rain.
I've always adored the rain. The simple pitter patter on a rooftop, drama of flashes of light and booms of thunder, the occasional rainbow, the damp sweet smell of the earth once it stops.
When I was little I used to get in trouble for running into the rain instead of out of it. It's rained several times today here in North Carolina, which was highly welcome, due to the current drought in the American Southeast.
I stood in the rain before coming inside and let it really soak in my skin like I imagined it was also soaking into the ground I was standing on.
I felt like I was in grade school again, dancing and jumping in puddles around my neighbor's frontyard with the lightning and the thunder and the rain with my arms outstretched, amazed at how quickly the weather could change and how the pressure drops and it gets quiet right before the sky bursts open...Usually my mother was yelling at me to get inside while also trying to stay dry.
Drought is everywhere or so it seems, but here in several parts of America, we are finally paying attention to our consumption of something we take for granted. Finally getting a slight taste of what it may be like to have none available at the twist of a faucet, as projects like Knit a River have been trying to tell us for awhile now.
And I hope that soon people in southern California find themselves stuck in a moment in the rain and just stand there and soak it all in.
October 20, 2007
fall.
Nothing quite says autumn in North Carolina like the State Fair.
I took part of the day off from work. When I finally got to work and relayed the morning, my boss told me, "only you would end up at the State Fair and get rained on during the middle of a drought."
Despite getting soaked, farm animals were met, giant vegetables viewed and obligatory fried foods eaten.
Today is Blog Action Day, a day that really some really nice people have asked people to write about the environment. The idea is that if everyone writes about the environment and ways we can make this world a better/greener/prettier/nicer place, then maybe people will stop and have a think about our impact on the earth.
The environment is everywhere right now, what with Al Gore winning prizes for his dedication and all, it's like people never stop talking about the environment! Well, that's because it's not just everywhere figuratively, it's everywhere literally. I understand why you should be worried about the habitats of hungry polar bears and pondering the current size of the ozone layer, as they're important. But sometimes those problems seem too many miles away or too gigantic or too far gone that it's easier to lay them aside. Because along with the environment to worry about, there's also genocide, war and attacks in Myanmar.
But what about bringing it down to a more local level? I firmly believe that once you start taking notice of the choices you can make on a daily personal level, it will then spiral outward towards the greater good. Because once you start caring about what you put in your body, what you put on your body and what you do with your body, you start noticing other things you can do, too.
Because sometimes it all gets too overwhelming and intimidating to think that you, a single person, can make a difference. But when you start small, you start to realize that even the little things really do cause change, as by example, you effect others.
And just because we can't always make the big gestures, that doesn't mean that helping out the world means a giant sacrifice... unless you choose to make one.
Take the grocery store aisles above and below, for example. Just in one trip to the store you can help the environment by buying local and bringing your own shopping bag. You can take note of what you're eating and where you're eating and where you're shopping. This helps local farmers stay in business and reduces the amount of plastic bags we use each day, which aids both your community and the environment farther afield than your backyard.
All it takes is starting to pay a little attention to the small things you can do in your daily life. And then commit to doing them. Maybe those choices will lead to bigger choices, or maybe not. But the point is that even the Tiny Choices count. Because you never know where they'll lead you or who'll you inspire to make their own changes along the way.
October 11, 2007
reality check in aisle 9.
Sometimes I hear that the reason so many people in my (Gen X) generation err towards not knowing what to do with their lives is due to the fact that we simply have too many options. While I become the most aware of this in the grocery store aisles, it seems like we're never far away from a situation with endless choices.
No matter what it is, from music to dating to grocery shopping, there is always the possibility of something better and more perfect coming down the pipeline. And suddenly, supposedly simple things like just choosing which toilet paper becomes overwhelming, between recycled and ethically-produced and non-bleached and more value and if you want kittens on the roll or flowers... in blue or white or pink.
Would it be easier if there were fewer choices? Would we then (finally!) know what we want, what's the best choice? Or would we continually look for something that might be there and might be better suited? Would we hope for more if we had less or is ignorance really bliss?
As every trip to the store or every dinner date becomes part real-time experience, part wish list it's as if you begin to catalogue what the quintessential experience would be so later back at home you can create it. If we wait longer a better model will come along that will be more attuned to our needs and desires and thoughts. And so we wait and wait and wait, and tell ourselves that we're pretty sure we'll know the right model/product/person when we see it. If we think we find it? We hold it up to scrutiny and compare it to all the others (real and imaginary), have our friends tell us what's wrong- all so we have the excuse to put it back on the shelf and go look some more. Suddenly the quest has become more satiating than everything and we forget what it was we were looking for to begin with.
Never sated, never okay to just be where we are, who we are, we continue looking telling ourselves that one day we'll walk down these aisles/through this town/in this bar and find just the right thing we're looking for, as long as we keep holding on tight and smiling. Instead of realizing how lucky we are to have so many choices and then picking the one object that best fits a particular need by listening to our hearts, we get excited by the sheer number of possibilities that appear before us and by all the things that could be.
But how many rolls of toilet paper do we need to look over before nothing ever seems good enough?
So I keep pushing my cart down a ridiculously long aisle filled with nothing but paper products, and wonder why we no longer think anything is good enough. And then I take a good look around and see that everything single thing in sight is disposable.
October 8, 2007
wordy.
Why is it that once September is over, things start picking up speed immediately! Lately I've been on the road every weekend with little end in sight, along with writing and working and making! I've also been lost in the woods around here numerous times lately in the name of fresh air and exercise, it's so lovely to be outside this time of year! (Even though getting lost in the woods in the dark is no fun, it has allowed me to have fallen in love again with whitetail deer and owls. Though, they will never take place of the seal, thanks to the magic of folktales!)
And then as a sign of the chaos to come, I get an email from the amazing Diane Gilleland about getting online advertising for only $20 for the Handmade Holiday Alert! Got a crafty business? Buy an ad! Need presents? Start thinking about getting (or making) those gifts! The holidays?! Already?! Crazy!
As you may or may not, my friend Faythe is working on a documentary called Handmade Nation. She is also working on a companion book that will be out in November 2008!*
I've been asked to be one of the essayists, and am so happy and flattered to be included in this group of writers and artists...including Deb Dormody, Ileana Rodriguez, Melissa Detloff, Susan Beal and over 20 others!
*And... how surprised was I that this book comes out around the time when my own will and that Kate's test fonts in my name to boot! Exciting!
October 3, 2007
(re)listening.
Every so often an album comes into your life that fills a certain void in your soul so perfectly and snug that you wonder what what drew you to it at that precise moment.
Some albums make you want to wander around the city with your headphones on and watch the world unfold, some ask you to put on that record, lie on the floor and turn out the lights, while others are just right for lazy Sunday morning breakfast making.
Recently, I gave in to the hype and bought the album "Fur and Gold" from Bat for Lashes. Natasha Khan (pictured above) has found a way to take me back to days long ago of playing hide and seek in my friend's yard that sprawled into a forest. Back then when we believed in magic and castles and woodland creatures and climbed trees and hid under shrubs and explored fiercely and fully.
After spending hours working with the album on repeat, I delved into some of my older CDs and found past albums that also came into my life just when I needed them. I pulled them out and put them on and just listened to the words and the music.
It was like revisiting old pieces of me that got lost in the shuffle as I sang all the words on cue and conducted the music without forethought. Unlike other favorite albums that brought pure joy or solace, these were all albums that inspired me to create and experiment and push myself.
I'm sure you have similar albums in your closets or attics or drawers. Go find them. And don't forget to sing all the words and let your hands conduct.
October 2, 2007
1, 2 buckle my shoe.
There is much to be said about being away that is great, like seeing beautiful sights and climbing rickety ladders to look at ancient cave dwellings, for a start.
It's a whole new landscape and the faces are different and the new town makes you grab a map as you fall wide open to all the possibilities before you. It's magical and exciting as you take in new customs and see new signs and check out the ways the varying "locals" dress. Soon it becomes like a well-worn pair of jeans as you step into the guise of a traveler and remember what it's like to be given license to explore.
This weekend I'm off again, this time to the seaside instead of the desert. The Outer Banks, in fact, and I am already crossing my fingers for good weather so I can walk barefoot in the sand and scan the sea for dolphins. Then I'm off for an infant's christening and then off again for the even deeper South. Somehow my fall became peppered with flights and highways, so much being busy that I've almost forgotten to take notice of the changing of the leaves.
But despite all the new adventures, there is something undeniably wonderful and perfect about coming home and getting a little TLC from those whom have missed you. So you come home and you throw down your bags and fully embrace the familiar and the comforting. And for those first few minutes, as you sink into the sofa, for a moment you are aware of where you are and who you are. For one small moment sprung from familiarity, you're living in the present, ecstatic just to be where you are.
And then you stand up, go on autopilot as you hunt for your toothbrush and find your pyjamas and hope you didn't forget your shampoo. You unpack your bags and leave your suitcase out for the next trip as your mind floats to plans both past and future. And as you go to sleep in your very own bed, you try to remember that home is much more than a set of keys or your favorite chair. But just for a second, it's both feeling and foundation.
Soon enough, you'll be repacking and hitting the road, hoping to remember to stay warm in the notion that home is more than bricks and stones alone.
1. Got a crafty tattoo? Check out the September 6th post here and help the lovely ladies of Handmade Nation!
2. Have a look at the new relaunch of American Craft Magazine online...Beautiful!
3. Read about knitting in the picket line. Thanks Heather!
4. Buy some pretty prints at 20x200. For either $20, $200 or $2000, your choice.
5. And if you're working at home and feeling blue, you could be Karl Pilkington.
6. Go read the blog over at Obsessive Consumption and wonder why you aren't making cool art about our consumerist culture.
7. See what kids want to be in 20 years. (I wanted to be either an oceangrapher or a foreign news correspondent. What about you?)
8. Get creative with your activism, as these clowns fought racism last May. This may be the most awesome protest ever. Clowns! Against! Racism!
9. For a bit of music with your modernity, check out The Culture Warrior.
10. Learn how to make farfalle. (I had farfalle for dinner and spent too much time trying to suss it out.)
September 27, 2007
prickly like a pear.
How crazy is it that when you're having a really bad overwhelming couple of days when there are too many people to call back and too many things to do and your calendar is so full you feel like you can barely breathe anymore and then seemingly at random, someone you haven't seen for years sends you something so magical and beautiful that the breath is almost literally knocked out of you due to the sheer perfection of it?
That's what happened when I opened my email and found this earlier today. I can't think of anything more perfect for right now this second- maybe it's just what you need, too.
Now that I'm back from the American southwest, I'm feeling a bit prickly and cactus-like, walling myself off so I can get down to business, so I can concentrate, so I can clear my head of the little daily distractions that like to appear. So it's just me and my laptop and my coffee and my headphones and my cat, making lists and then crossing things off. Then a little more coffee, a few more futile attempts at getting the cat to fetch, and hitting repeat.
Yesterday I asked for a week in late November off, which means I'm lucky enough to have 8 days to go anywhere, solo, without any agenda or itinerary. Currently on my list: coastal Maine (simply gorgeous), San Francisco (where I have a standing invitation), the Great Lakes (the quiet, the water, the deer, the loons) or just grabbing a map and seeing where I end up. For someone going on two years in the same place, it's all too tempting, getting away for a few days with no deadlines or places to be.
But for the time being, I'm staying hermitized and head down, sorting out promises and to dos and assorted deadlines for a host of things. Prickly and somewhat cautious, determined to finish it all wholeheartedly, (solitary like I know best) I'll be working with a reminder to keep hope and trust and love on the horizon, even if it seems somewhat out of reach for my prickly points, my confusing ideosyncracies and my constantly curious mind.
Maybe, you too, will find solace and a smile in something perfectly well-timed today, and then take a moment to appreciate the infinite joy that the tiniest of things can bring.
September 21, 2007
the scenic route.
My father is the son of an Army Colonel, meaning that growing up, his family moved every few years.
As a direct result of all this moving, once my parents married they stayed put in one city, and since 1977, one house. But there was one exception to all this staying put, summer vacation. Every year for almost a decade my father would plan a trip to a different part of the country right before the beginning of the school.
We traveled to Alaska to see the base he grew up on (and my uncle was posted on at the time), drove from North Carolina to Maine, we sped through deserts in dodgy rental cars and got lost in the big sky of Montana.
Not fully appreciating the experience and generally protesting the loss of spending time at home with my friends doing nothing, I would turn up my Walkman and scowl as my father would try and make my brother and I interested in another lookout point on the Grand Canyon after having previously stopped at 15 similar points.
Sometimes on these trips I would read, but most of the time I would listen to music and look at the window. I'm half-convinced that the reason I became interested in cultural theory and sociology was due to these long hours of looking at the window and being in my own world of music taking in every barn, every buffalo, every struggling person on a bike on the highway in the middle of nowhere.
After spending around a decade doing all my traveling with my family, I spent the following ten years traveling by myself where I could retreat even more into my world of watching the landscape and what it had to offer.
Today marks the return of cross-country familial travel as we're all in New Mexico for a wedding. And once again, we're all crammed in a car (although there's also my brother's wife added to the mix) on the open road poring over a map trying to figure out where we're going. I haven't been allowed to hold a map since I accidentally took us to the Mexican border when trying to go to the San Diego zoo sometime around 1991.
Although times have definitely changed, last night on the drive to Santa Fe I sat in the way back of a giant SUV wedged in between suitcases making mobility almost impossible editing a few chapters on my laptop in the dark. My family is telling my brother's wife bits and bobs about our former familial trips, and she notes what we never really could see at the time, that we were so incredibly lucky to have had the opportunity to see so much.
On the flight in, I took photos of the view entranced by the ways that all the colors looked like a painting instead of a landscape. The color combinations made my mind jump with shades to mix together on projects for the future as they conveyed drama in layers that I haven't seen since I was a child. This time, I decided to turn my music off and listen to the idle chatter of my brother and his wife as they oohed and aahed at the view beneath us, sounds I had never heard previously because the volume was always turned up too high.
And for one of the first times in my life, while traveling, I bothered to listen to what others around me had to say instead of retreating inwards. And it was nice.
September 18, 2007
weekend.
Things I learned this weekend:
1. There are few things more amazing than having a dog happy to see you (even if it isn't your dog).
2. Turtles move faster than you think, have little tiny tails and will ignore you if you try to get a closer look.
3. You can play "Heart and Soul" as a duet over the phone, but that doesn't mean you'll ever be able to hear the other part.
4. Fiber never ceases to amaze me, with its wide range, delicate detail and constant surprise.
5. Sometimes you have to finally let go of the ways you've coped/reacted/handled life/people/situations because they served their purpose in the past, but just won't do for the present version of you, or for where you want and need to go.
September 6, 2007
jigsaw.
When I was young, my grandmother used to point out the four constellations she knew in the sky for me. The Big Dipper. The Little Dipper. Orion's Belt. The Seven Sisters. To this day, when I'm lucky to catch a clear enough sky, I scour it until I find these same four constellations.
Somehow, finding their familiar presence still helps reorient myself with the infinite space overhead- it's like the beginning of a jigsaw puzzle. I just wish that sometimes I had the same trusty guides while trying to successfully navigate the daylight, too. That's the tricky part, following your own internal compass instead of the one set by the universe, hoping and wishing you make the right and kind decisions.
...Our lives spill messily across the lines of simple narrative...we consistently hold inconsistent views, disregard well-founded expectations, and confound those who know us best as we adapt to and evolve with experiences that come our way. The women in this book remind us that life is not a jigsaw puzzle. The pieces don't fit.
If only life was as predictable as the constellations, then maybe we wouldn't constantly be left holding its disparate pieces in our hands, trying to figure out where they all need to click and connect. Standing there with our hands full and wishing for a map, we continue to look for safety and comfort with every step.
Lately I have come across a near arsenal (no pun intended) of knitting songs from the World War II era.
Somewhere between propaganda and activism, lies perhaps the beginnings of craftivism, creating for good?
Lyrics to Knitting, by Muriel Bruce:
Verse 1:
Marchin' marchin' thru' the misty night,
Peering thro' the dark, longing for a fight,
Tramping, stumbling, on the broken ground,
With the tang of battle all around.
While at home the busy needles fly,
Knitting with a smile, knitting with a sigh,
For their sons, and brothers, fathers, lovers, too;
They're knitting for the soldiers brave and true.
Chorus:
Knitting, knitting, knitting, with the khaki and grey,
Mufflers, socks and balaclava caps, they are knitting day by day.
Knitting, knitting, knitting, with a pray'r in every row,
That the ones they hold in their hearts so dear,
May be guarded as they go.
Verse 2:
Clang and clamor, thro' the misty night,
Blindly fighting on, catching ev'ry breath.
Comrades dropping down on ev'ry side,
Holding back the seething hostile tide.
But at home the loving hands are still,
Knitting with their hearts, knitting with a will,
Knitting for their Country, Flag, and soldiers too;
They're knitting for the ones so brave and true.
August 27, 2007
in keeping with last week's theme...
More (somewhat blurry) local graffiti.
I found the one from last week on a trash can at Duke University when I was there doing research in the library, and discovered this little gem when I used the unisex restroom at my favorite local coffeeshop.
To be honest I'm not really that down with graffiti that doesn't challenge you, but given the unique placement of this, I thought it was worth capturing. Having a camera in your handbag at all times is a good thing.
I'm constantly in awe of how graffiti fits into the various cultures of this world. From the graffiti on subway cars in New York in the 80s to literally watching the work of both Banksy and Shepard Fairey go from the streets to the galleries in England and the southern United States to the random and badly done quick graffiti on walls everywhere, it exists in a space between public and private. Done under the cover of night, using the city as canvas, graffiti marks spaces at worst as random and ill-planned vandalism, and at best as a barometer for someone's inner thoughts.
I'm not saying that this scribble on a toilet is something to be necessarily honored, as I doubt it's going to change anyone's mind. But in its truest form graffiti can make us stop and think about what we're really doing here on this planet, and question if we're actively creating and shaping our life instead of just settling, going through the motions and letting it slip on by.
August 20, 2007
the grind, abbreviated.
commute.
work.
commute.
sleep.
August 15, 2007
giving people something sensible to stare at.
Recently, I was informed about a competition that is currently looking for submissions. It's a competition for a walking stick cosy* to let individuals who blatently stare at those who are differently abled know that just because they may not walk like you doesn't mean they deserve your constant gaze.
The Knitted Walking Stick Cosy Competition 2007
Inspired by the dignifying powers of health-related knitting projects everywhere, The Missability Radio Show is organising a walking stick cosy knitting competition. With your great ideas, knitting skills and visionary powers, you can transform even an ordinary grey walking stick into a fantastical design!
The competition is open NOW and all entries must be received by 7th September 2007.
There are two categories for this competition; the winner in each category will be awarded 40GBP in yarn vouchers. There is no limit on submissions.
The first category is Fantastical Designs and the second is Real Life. Entries will be judged by walking stick users and The Oxford Bluestockings, an incredibly talented and accomplished bunch of knitters based here in Oxford.
The cosies will be featured on The Missability Radio Show. Notable submissions will be described by our knitting correspondents on the programmes due for podcast release 9th September!) Photographs and cosies will be publicly exhibited from 12th - 16th September in The Drama Studio at Oxford Brookes University and from 12th - 19th September in The Oxford Centre for Enablement, Nuffield Orthopaedic Centre, Oxford.
Finally for more information about The Missability Radio Show go to missability.com. Specific instructions for the competition are here.
*or cozy if you prefer...
August 7, 2007
the tiny things.
Every so often I dig into my crates of old CDs and see if anything suits my fancy. I'm one of those people that circulates through genres often, and needs to listen to trip-hop one day and folk the next.
Last night I was feeling restless and unearthed my copy of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's, "The Final Moment." I sat in my room with my headphones on, and a light on just far enough away that the keyboard wasn't really visible and pressed Play. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan was an extremely well-known qawwali singer from Pakistan who died in 1997 after releasing more albums than seemed possible for one person.
I wrote and read and until somewhere in the middle of the 21-minute long second song. Generally there's nothing I hate more than long songs, but I found myself clear-headed and inspired by these people playing out of love and devotion, a somewhat different approach than most of the music I generally listen to. I stopped writing and turned the volume up and before too long had tears in my eyes at the simple richness of it all.
Somewhere along the way I started remembering the morning I spent at the Sufi gurudwara not too far from here, as part of some university field trip that I had tagged along with a friend. Interestingly enough, the origins of the word Sufi come from the Arabic word for wool! (I guess some things you can never escape from). The women sat separately from the men, and once we got settled, I started watching the musicians performing up front. It was the first time I had seen anyone play the tabla in person and couldn't take my eyes off his playing.
I went to punk shows almost continually from the time I was 15 until I was about 27, and had somewhere along the line started tuning out what the musicians were actually doing and just listening to the music and generally (and embarassingly) noting what they were wearing and/or who else was in attendance.
But watching these men (both young and old) play music with such inspiration and abandon was truly incredible. When I pried my eyes away from the tabla guy, they went straight to the next musician, then the next, then the next and suddenly I realized what it was to watch musicians really play without playing for the crowd before them in the name of entertainment.
Sometimes I feel (somewhat nerdily) something similar in regard to knitting, while not a religious experience, it's taking something ancient and respecting it... Instead of plugging something into an outlet and letting it entertain you, it's playing the tabla or working the needles and taking a minute to block out modernity and its frequent habit of placing the importance of the non-important in the name of progress.
And the next time I find someone playing the tabla with their eyes closed and a gentle smile on their face, perhaps I'll close my eyes, too, and remember that (outside of the company of others) many of the greatest things in the world happen when you just stop and breathe. And then do it again.
August 3, 2007
where the cool kids are.
Just yesterday I was introduced to the amazing band that is ShiSho. Comprised of two sisters, Viv and Midge, who started singing a really awesome cover of The Dead Milkmen's "Punk Rock Girl" a few years ago, this band is awesome. . After first getting sad I'm only hearing about them now, I danced around with my headphones on in my room as they sang one of the only songs that I know all the words to. There was even lip-syncing as well as arm-moving to the beat.
Keeping up with the tradition of kids rocking, ala Eyeball Skeleton, Old Skull, and Smoosh, they are definitely having a cooler childhood than me. Instead of learning to play guitar and rocking out, I was forced to play classical piano forever even though I was really, really terrible. I bet practicing songs you wrote is more fun than practicing songs that were written well before the invention of electricity.
Also a recent discovery, a photo gallery from the BBC, about a couple who lives in a roundhouse in Pembrokeshire. While I'm not so sure about building my own roundhouse, I do know that the coast of Pembrokeshire is one of the most gorgeous places I've ever been to.
And since I'm all about the celebrity gossip, but not about the really trashy bits, I was really happy to discover Ecorazzi. Yes, a blog all about celebrities who are eco-minded. Now I can finally sate my gossip needs with some information that does not involve underage people getting wasted and then driving and then getting caught and then going to rehab and then leaving early and the starting the cycle over again. It's like watching one of those toy trains going around on a track, and really wishing it doesn't derail before someone builds a new track to somewhere more interesting.
August 2, 2007
neck. lace.
One of the biggest joys of living somewhere long enough to have a mailbox is getting post addressed to you. By hand. It's like it's own little holiday, when you sift through the ads and the bills and then come across something with your name on it that isn't typed.
Therefore, I was thrilled to bits to receive a custom-made necklace made by friend Naomi, with my name on it. Literally.
Naomi works at Tatty Devine (where this necklace was made) and has the best taste a girl could imagine, even if I did frown when she came home one day with a mullet- but only because this was right before it became trendy in London in 2004. Always ahead of the curve and superkind, I miss our frequent late-night cups of tea and reruns of Murder, She Wrote on BBC 1!
Custom-made things tend to be such a rarity these days that I tend to tear up when presented with them. Seriously. Don't get me wrong, I'm an equal opportunity present-receiver, but when someone gives me something that they customized specifically with me in mind, it nevers fails to make me smile, never fails for me to think of nothing else to say but "thank you" (which always sounds lame) and never fails to get me misty-eyed.
That's why the handmade is so incredibly genius. It's thoughtful, it's personal, and it's (very often) made just for you. When was the last time you made someone something? Or better yet, posted a handwritten letter?
Growing up, I had dozens of penpals over the years, which made getting the mail everyday something I truly looked forward to. When I was in junior high, I awaited letters from friends I had met at summer camp. When I was in high school and college, I was busy penning letters to people I got to know from travelling or from zines or from those people who never tend to say put for long.
After college, I turned into one of those people who hardly ever had the same mailing address for more than 6 months, so all correspondence was done either via phone or email, lest something go to an address I had 5 moves ago.
And because of all those moves and living out of suitcases and sleeping on couches, these days I get a little rush when I hear the postman at the door, even if he just is delivering bills. Even though I'm not so sure about how long I'll want to stick around, it's my mailbox, and (like it or not) I'm finally somewhere where I've lived long enough to get mail through the post. Handwritten. And it's awesome.
As yesterday's post might have hinted, sometimes I get dreadfully homesick for England, which sounds ridiculous seeing that I'm, well, American. But, then again, this is a familiar pattern.
I honestly can't tell you when it started, this urge to run far and fast. Probably around the time I started crisscrossing the Atlantic Ocean on a frequent basis. Last night, that urge hit me once again and I dreamt of rural England, dreamt of scones and tea and misty mornings and woke up a bit disappointed to be here...but nevertheless happy to find my kitten asleep and curled up at my feet.
I don't know where it came from, or when it will crop up, but for over the past decade my wanderlust has been my only constant companion, always there, ready for action and up for adventure. It's been about the only steady thing in my life and it unnerves me when I start having strange dreams of faraway lands and remembering all the places I could be other than here. Sometimes I even wonder if I could still fit all that I need in my one small suitcase that hasn't gotten ruined due to frequent use and overstuffing.
It's not about not liking "here" or about wanting to necessarily run away from my actual life, surprisingly. Nor does it have anything to do with wanting to find myself or likewise find the meaning of life. It's about the bits of kindness and beauty that you tend to collect when you've stopped worrying about email or phone calls or meetings.
It's about that cessation of fake urgency that life in this country continually tries to bring, because it's possible to still do mighty fine without all the technology. Sometimes I get so worried about losing files or missing a deadline that I feel chained to my laptop, and then look around the coffeeshop and see everyone else similarly chained to their laptops and their cell phones and their PDAs.
Earlier this afternoon, I turned off my phone and my laptop and pulled out a book, instead. After sitting there in my apartment with this laptop in my lap, in my grandparents' chair, drinking tea, with the kitten again at my feet, looking at the art on the wall from both strangers and friends, I wondered what it's like to not always have half a bag packed in the closet or to be completely content standing still. And I turned to my bookshelf and selected a book about the reign of Pinochet in Chile and the arpillerista movement* and curled up in this old familiar chair (a recent acquisition, it was the one piece of furniture I wanted from my grandparents old house). And I remembered that it was books (good conversation works, too) that never fails to quell my urge to bolt. As the minutes and pages passed and I started feeling more grounded, my mind stopped thinking of running and began wondering what would happen if finally totally unpacked that suitcase in the closet.
And I wondered how lovely it must feel to wake up in my bed every morning and feel like I'm already home. It may take awhile, but one day it'll happen, hopefully, with my kitten asleep at my feet and perhaps a good book halfway finished on the bedside table.
Tea: PG Tips
Book: Scraps of Life, Marjorie Agosin
Cupcake: Cakewalk (The cupcake was a surprise, living next door to a friend who is a baker has its advantages!)
*Sadly, there is little online to link to regarding the arpillerista movement in Chile, which began during the reign of Pinochet as a form of protest. Women whose family members were among The Disappeared started to make tapestries from bits of clothes and fabric explaining what was happening to their loved ones. As they couldn't be shown in Chile, they were sent illegally out of the country to spread the word about the injustices being perpetrated by Pinochet. Arpilleras (tapestries) have been made by other women throughout South America, but only the ones from Chile were political. After reading about them all afternoon and seeing how little there actually is out there in English about them, I'm thinking it may be smarter to learn Spanish now instead of French? (There go my dreams of travelling through France alone...for now!) Besides un poco Espanol, all I retained from Spanish class in 1987 was the alphabet, which I can still recite 20 years later.
So it's 2007, and I'm amazed that it still happens in coffeeshops (as it seems to happen to me all the time- perhaps I look trustworthy?) that when someone needs to go outside to make a phone call, go to the restroom, or otherwise leave their stuff (as I write this, I'm currently overseeing a laptop and digital camera) they turn to a complete a total stranger and ask, "hey, could you watch my stuff for a minute?"
Seeing that I'm sitting here attempting to work, I say 'yes,' although somewhat unsuredly for three main reasons:
1. What if this person is gone for longer than "a minute?" What am I supposed to do? Sit here until the place closes? Is there a time limit to these kinds of things? For example, I made sure no one stole a neurosciences textbook (although I'm not sure why anyone would steal one in the first place) yesterday and ended up overseeing it for more than 20 minutes. Towards the end of my "coffeeshop duty," I myself had to go to the restroom, and was thankful she eventually returned before I asked the stranger next to me if he could watch the 1st stranger's stuff...and quite possible my own. But is that somehow breaking coffeeshop etiquette rules? Can there be transference of such an time-honored duty as watching over some complete stranger's prized possessions in a public place?
2. What am I actually supposed to do if someone approaches the things I'm watching? Tackle them? Yell something? Try to be menacing? (The latter while I may try and give it a go, is most likely going to do little in the name of good, as I am not only the least intimidating person ever, I am also prone to giggling at weird moments, such moments as this one might provide.) What exactly is the accepted protocol here? How much intervention should I provide? And if I do tackle them and manage to injure myself, who pays the bill?
3. How responsible am I really for this person's stuff? With my luck someone would walk by spill coffee on this stranger's pricy equipment while I was "on watch" leaving me clueless as to explain to the coffee spiller why I was jumping up and yelling something off the top of my head, like "Oh no!" or something else brilliant and show-stopping and then unsure of how to explain to the initial stranger how I failed my mission?
...Waiting...
Ten minutes later, the camera and laptop owner is come back, and someone how, it's all good, she nods 'thanks,' sits down and continues on with her work. It's like we've just performed some public rite of trust based on little else other than we both have caffeine addictions.
Which makes me think... I do need to run down quick to the corner shop... Perhaps she'll return the favor...and thus, the vicious cycle of public niceties continues.
And now for something completely unrelated to the above, yet spot on with my normal topic.
Betsan Corkhill of Stitchlinks is currently seeking knitters to fill out a questionnaire dealing with needlework and pain management:
"Normally they wouldn't take any notice of anecdotal evidence, but I've been advised that, if I collect a very large volume (thousands, preferably tens of thousands of stories) and document this properly, it will be difficult to ignore. So I need the help of as many knitters and stitchers as I can muster to make the most of this unique opportunity to get our voices heard by some of the leading people in a number of medical fields. Please help if you can. Thank you."
Last week I finished the first thing I've knitted for myself in over a year...my first pair of socks!
Under the guidance of my grandmother the other week, I learned how to turn a heel and with a little practice ended up with a new pair of socks! Excuse the random bits of yarn that I haven't dealt with yet...for some reason, the weaving in of the ends of projects is always the most tedious part.
Now that I'm currently dealing with insomnia, I need to figure out what to knit next...
Lately...
*Enjoying the writing gem that is Scrivener (I think it's the corkboard that took my heart)
*As well as the amazingly wonderful Peel, which allows you to sign up with various music blogs and download the new MP3s they post
*Discovering new music thanks to this giant list. (My current favorites are Aurgasm, Benn loxo du taccu and Fluxblog...)
*Learning more about culinary activism (which I'm thinking would require me to actually cook instead of either boil or steam)
*Slowly making my way through this list of anti-war sites via the The Guardian
July 21, 2007
words and guitar.
Over the past few days I have received several emails about an event called "Craftivism" to be held August 12 in Los Angeles.
Although my initial thought was why would you name a single event with an -ism at the end, I'm glad to see an organization running an event around the idea of craftivism. Because helping others is always a step in the right direction, no?
I always delight in seeing where I word I fostered from its beginnings ends up. As I wrote in one response to an email about this event, "Go little word go!"
To think that when this all started there were 2 Google hits, and now there are over 53,000. Krikey! That's what's so incredible about creating a concept and then setting it free- because who knows where it will go? It's somewhat like those balloons many of us set loose in elementary school with a note of peace or something else similarly hopeful attached to it, forever wondering where it would land. Now, with the internet, I get the same childish sense of glee to see "craftivism" show up in myriad different places and take on various meanings based on one central tenet!
But with its creation, there also comes the letting go- the hard part for someone like me who wants to take care and cherish something I put so much time into. I am somewhat notorious for refusing to let go, whether it's trying to help someone or something, the ever hopeful part of me has a hard time with this particular step in the process. It breaks my heart every single time, as I let go, knock wood and hope for nothing but the very best.
Because as we all know, part of setting something free is taking comfort in the notion that if it is truly honestly yours (whether it's a word or person or concept), it will find its way back to you.
Very often (too often in my view) I was aware of being photographed. So, from the moment I feel I am in the camera's eye, everything changes: I begin to pose, I immediately create a different body, I change even before the image., Roland Barthes
It's a familiar moment, the one before you or someone else snaps a photograph with you in the frame. You tense up, try not to blink, wonder if your hair's okay, attempt to smile and hope for the best.
With digital cameras and social networking sites and the internet pervading into our daily life, we focus and click trying to capture poignant moments in time that will never fully be recovered, save for the imagea and maybe a vague memory. Within a fraction of a second, we stop time in an effort of document what we saw, how we were really there, some sort of proof that that one particular moment really truly existed.
Lately I find myself taking photographs of the bizarrely beautiful and odd moments that happen with such frequency and so quietly that we tend to barely notice them. As I read the paper, watch the news, listen to the radio and hear about the infinite sadness and at times feel breathless from the sheer immensity, I have to go back to those ordinary moments of surprising joy
and forget about whether or not my skin is shiny or have bad hair.
I just point and click and exhale, holding close and safe those moments that remind me that hope is resurrected in the quiet, the normal, the seemingly boring everydayness of it all.
July 15, 2007
oh, sunday.
Even though Saturdays are amazing, I like Sundays better. Sundays are for carving out some free time, reading the paper, drinking coffee and maybe even doing the crossword. Sundays are for taking the time to exhale before the week begins again.
Today was one of those days where you know you should be doing other things, but just can't stop yourself from enjoying seeing where it takes you.
Despite the heat, I walked to town with Kelly for brunch, which included nice strong coffee and lots of local tomatoes. We had the Sunday New York Times, but somehow just sitting with our cups of coffee seemed more fitting.
Then we wandered around downtown Carrboro, which has its own secret magic on the weekends. Despite sometimes feeling like we live in a fishbowl, there is a joy in ambling around the teeny tiny downtown and saying hello to the random friends and acquaintances you happen to meet.
I spent the better part of the afternoon catching up on reading, which I was glad to have the opportunity (not to mention luxury) to do.
For the past few days I've been with my father's family at the beach in South Carolina. This year it's a small group, with only 30-odd in attendance.
We've been doing this every year since, 1979, I believe. And sometimes I'm amazed at how close you can get to people by just spending one week (sometimes less depending on schedules) out of 52 with the same people once a year for almost 30 years. It seems somewhat insignificant at first, but when aggregated that one week gains more strength as the years pass.
Over the past few days I've had conversations about summers past, Maori culture, how to make biscuits, going to Vietnam as a tourist, going to Vietnam as a soldier, quetzal birds, Harry Potter, about the significance of the star on the 82nd Airborne wings, how to make a diagonal potholder, what all the 4th graders are listening to on their iPods and that's not even starting on the various political conversations that have reared their heads.
And it's magic.
It's like traveling through time via memory and it's reassurance that while everything may have seemed to change, nothing has really changed at all.
Because every year for almost 30 years, people in this family have made the effort to mix generations for one week in the hothotheat of coastal South Carolina. And after this week, each year we return to our respective homes across the continent filled with old stories and new recipes and the laughter of small children and the wisdom of the (still vibrant and quite peppy) elderly.
And it's in moments and times just like these where the real legacy of family and lore is kept and honored. And while keeping the familial ties close, we also keep traditions and skills alive as we take the time to talk and laugh and share our various experiences- both those that happened over the past year as well as those from years or decades before.
Craft has survived by the passing of skills in the familiar space of loved ones for centuries. So as I watch my 85-year-old great aunt teach my 6-year-old cousin to knit, I stop for a second and just watch, as right before eyes, love and knowledge is expressed at once.
And it's these tiny details and seemingly unimportant moments where life unfolds and then wraps itself around you.
July 11, 2007
2 x 16.
32.
I can't think of a year where I've cried more, laughed more, smiled more and loved more. The tears were both from sadness and happiness, the laughter from all the weird trips and moves and frequent odd dilemmas I seem to get myself stuck in, the smiles from random acts of kindness and familiar faces, and the love from those both new and old in my life along with those quiet moments of the sublime.
My 16th birthday was a turning point in many not-so-good ways, but also was the beginning of realizing that from the dark can come more beauty than you could possibly imagine. it's just sometimes a little harder to find.
And here at the start of the next 16 years?
As the clock struck midnight last night, I made a list of 4 wishes for 32:
*to trust my gut more and (over)rationalize less.
*to remember to lower my expectations, not my self-worth.
*to take a deep breath before saying or writing something rash.
*to wake up each day with an open heart.
Although they're all things I need to work on, they seem all too grown-up and practical instead of frivolous and birthday-like. Maybe wishing for a new bike or puppy would be easier?
As for what's next?
Several new (and one rather large...) writing projects, finally stopping taking entries to the Crafter Documentary Project after two years (!!) of awesome entries- now to begin bookmarking where people have gone with their art in that time, more travel, more coffee and more adventures.
I'm hopeful, grateful, nervous, and most of all, thankful. As always, thanks for your emails, stories, links, ideas and continued support, it means more than you could ever know.
photo 1: from my trip to upstate NY, new friends at the Old Chatham Sheepherding Company, photo 2: what happens to a cupcake after it's been sitting in my car through most of my trip through Pennsylvania (cupcake thanks to Erin!), photo 3: trying to learn more about alpacas and not get licked by them simultaneously at Spruce Ridge Farm, also in upstate NY.
This post may not seem very crafty, and, it's not. It is my belief that craft and creativity can help us work through hard times in our lives. Sometimes, however, we might need a little helping hand in order to get to where we feel like creating. Over the years I've worked with survivors of myriad causes in different capacities, and their fighting spirits never cease to amaze me. The most memorable individuals I've worked with have been refugees from countries at war, and it is with their resilience and fire that I wanted to mention this book. There are have also been times when I could have benefitted from this book, too, as my acts of creativity are often acts of strength and fighting back.
