what do you want...

road to enchantment. sedona, arizona. february 2007.

I was emailing with a kindred spirit in blog world this week, and she asked me, “what do you want to do with your life?” And for the first time, maybe the first time ever in my 31 years, I had an immediate answer to that question. I have to be honest: The fact that my head and heart had this immediate answer somewhat astounded me.

A few years ago when we still lived in Indiana, my mom, Jon, and I were in Barnes and Noble and I found myself drawn to some books on one of those aisle tables. One title was Is It Too Late to Run Away and Join the Circus? An Updated Guide to Your Second Life by Marti Smye. I have to admit that I stood there thinking, “Do you think I could? Just run away and do that?” At that time, I felt like I was seeking, but I didn’t know what to look for. I didn’t know that I only had to look inward.

These last couple of years have become that journey – that journey inward. I have begun to be honest with myself about what I need and want to do with my life. And, how the doubts creep in and the questions jump out at me unexpectedly at times. Still, I know that if I just pause and listen, I will know what to do.

You have to be honest with yourself though. When you sit in the quiet, what does your heart tell you it needs or wants to do? That is the question. What does your soul need for nourishment? That is the question. Sitting with the questions and just breathing, noticing what comes up; I believe this is the way to find your answers. I used to be afraid to do this, to sit in the quiet and listen. There is an overwhelming power at times when you realize you have to know the answers to the questions of your life. There isn’t a true guidebook, just lots of people trying to tell you what they think is best. And, although their way might be one piece of your way, only you know the answers. Only you know.

In writing an answer to this question of “what do you want to do with your life?” I realized that I am doing it. I had a talk with my good friend Heather last weekend about this idea of “doing.” As Yoda talks about, this idea of “Do or do not. There is not try.” For me, the key has become to do. To stop creating my own hurdles and just do.

As I make a commitment to myself to live in my life and create and write and tell my story, I have to stop talking about doing these things – stop just talking about living and creating and writing – and find my way to action.

a new design (meet the anya totes)

Remember that scene in Roman Holiday when Princess Ann wants a day where she can just be an everyday girl named Anya, so she sets off for an adventure in Rome? She soaks in the sites, gets a gorgeous new haircut, is given a flower by the flower cart man when she can’t afford a bouquet, and then tops the day off with an ice cream cone.

As we watched this movie a few weeks ago, I started thinking about the joy of a day spent on an adventure just feeling free. Life can be full of all the musts and shoulds and responsibilities. Those of us who are the good girls, the serious girls, the girls who always do the right thing, we can easily get knee deep in all that stuff and forget about the joy of a day of freedom. Even in the midst of “all that we must do,” we have to give ourselves permission to have adventures, to decide to get a new haircut just because, to take off for the day with no plans or expectations.

As I watched the joy on her face as she wondered the streets, there was this one little moment where Audrey Hepburn puts her hands in her pockets. As she did that, I thought, “she doesn’t have a bag.” It was silly really, but I did have that thought. And, from that thought my mind jumped to an idea for a little bag. I love how ideas are born like this. You see something and your mind makes a connection and suddenly you are creating. I imagined her carrying a little linen tote to match her crisp white shirt and long dark skirt. When the movie finished, I picked up my “notes from the little room” moleskine and started writing down ideas.

This new tote design is inspired by Anya’s solo explorations. It’s just the right size for your sketchbook, pencil case, book of poetry, wallet, and iPod. Perfect for your own adventure out into the world. Available at The Little Room.

meet betty...and a couple of aprons

my new best girl betty arrived in the mail on thursday. she is a welcome addition to the little room. i knew i would name her when she got here, and as i took her out of the huge "i could make a fort out of this" box, she named herself as i heard "betty" whisper in the air.

i love her.

she is wearing an apron i found yesterday at a delightful antique mall in port townsend. it looks like someone took a tablecloth or table runner and created an apron from it. love how the person used the embroidery for a pocket.

in this next photo, she is wearing an apron my mother and i made together last summer. hard to believe that i was so overwhelmed by the thought of trying to understand how to use my sewing machine a year ago after a 20 year absence from sewing (yes, that means i was about 10 when i was sewing before this last year).

i love this apron for many reasons...the colors...the butterflies...but mostly i love it because my mom and i made it together.

senses. backyard roses.

{see}

{smell}

{taste}

{hear}

{touch}

{and know}

choosing the sun {self-portrait challenge}

on the banks of puget sound, june 19, 2007

on the days when misunderstandings threaten to roll in the clouds. on the days when the missing rocks my heart and her voice seems lost to me. on the days when the last thread of possibility begins to tear. on days when the aloneness feels like a friend. on the days when dreaming feels immature and silly. on days when the patterns long left behind suddenly appear as an option. on days when i feel forgotten and realize i have actually forgotten myself.

on these days, like a violet on a kitchen windowsill, i choose the sun.
i choose.
i choose.

(see more reactions to the challenge of environment at self-portrait challenge)

the florals and the solids

purses in progress, june 18, 2007

In my mind, I see them walking together, arms linked as they laugh. So much of their lives still ahead of them just waiting for their footprints. On the right is a woman with red, curly hair pulled back in a bright, floral-print scarf. Her laugh is loud and full and causes heads to turn and faces to smile along with her. On the left is a younger version of my grandmother; her face so relaxed and full of joy that her own children might not have recognized her.

She had begun the day less than relaxed. After sending the children off to various friends’ homes, she had begun to worry that her friendship with Maude might have changed too much with two decades and several states now between them. As she reached up to clip on her white five-and-dime round earring, she caught her own reflection. Smoothing her long light blue skirt, she wondered if her best friend from high school would even know this woman staring back at her. This woman who had five kids, a house, and dreams long forgotten in a box in the attic.

Hours later, time seeped away when she spotted her at the bus station. Maude took one look at my grandmother and squealed with delight as she stepped off the bus and ran toward her. Later, they walked arm and arm downtown, and they tried to soak up every minute of this time together. Two days was not long for a visit. But, just enough time for Maude to remind her that time could not change the girl inside. Just enough time for her to remember.

***

These little snippets for a story came to me last week as I was looking at different fabrics in my little room. Because I was looking at my small collection of vintage fabrics, I was thinking about the 1950s and 1960s and what the people I know would have been like back then. I started thinking about my grandmother. She was a woman who did not have many friends, at least not friends that those of us left behind are aware of. But, we do know that she had two close friends, one from high school and one in South Carolina where she moved with my grandfather in the late 1960s. I started wondering about these women, especially Maude, her best friend in high school.

I know nothing about Maude. Not one thing. All I know is that she moved to Texas at some point. But, I don’t know when; I don’t even know if she is still alive. It seems she and my grandmother did keep in touch through letters that my aunt may have. Anyway, as I started wondering about her, about who would have been friends with my private, sometimes short-tempered grandmother, I suddenly thought, “I bet she was a lot like me.” I started to imagine the two of them visiting one another, and the possibility that maybe Maude had taken the bus across several states to see her family and had been able to spend time with my grandmother during her visit. I imagined that Maude had tried to remind my grandmother that even though dreams might have shifted, she still could remember who she was and who she wanted to become. I imagined Maude as the bright floral print to my grandmother’s light blue solid. I imagined her reminding my grandmother of the laughter and the brightness and how she too had a bit of polka dots and paisley and bright flowers inside her.

I imagined that I was able to do that for her too…

this morning

portland street altar, april 2007

I sought a cocoon of solace as I slid the rings across the bar and felt the warm water touch my skin.

The words rang out with a crackle.

Your problem is, you always want to talk about things and other people don't want to.

Words from long ago, but words that stay with a person.

For almost thirty years, I tried to package it all up in nice pretty bows so they didn't have to hear it. But, when people opened the packages, out would jump confusion, empty space, disconnection, trying to please, untruths, hurt, fakeness, and other images that were often not what I meant at all. And, I talked and talked and talked about the confusion with a few trusted souls, but I never really gave myself the space to change.

It was my body that finally got me to shut up and listen as it gave me a package full of my unsaid words in the form of a ping-pong ball size round cyst in my throat that lived in my body during the months of November and December last year.

The space it used to take up has become a barometer of sorts now that alerts me to a sudden tiptoeing back to past ways. And as those words rang out today, that space gave a little ba-boom, ba-boom and began to ache.

I reached up for my throat and sank to my knees as fine, whatever you want rang out in my head. In child's pose with the hot water beating on my back, I didn't sob but opened my eyes and watched the water dropping from my forehead. I heard Deb Talan's words and began to sing along with her in my mind…

Tell your story
Tell it, tell it
Tell your story
To anyone who'll listen
Tell your story
Don't stop talking
Just
Tell your story walking

I sang these words on repeat until my older-than-my-years knees reminded me to move. I stood and pressed my head against the cool wall and took several deep breaths. I called on my teachers, one by one, seeking.

Then, I heard their whispered chorus,

You are on your path.

My voice mingled with theirs as we said it again and again.

Until the water heater needed a break.

Until it was time for me to emerge.

i come from {poetry thursday}

i want to share another poem i wrote at artfest in susan wooldridge's poemcrazy class...when i read this poem tonight, i was reminded of possibility once again.

*****

I come from
a land where Cinderella eats a
black apple and dances in
both her shoes.

I come from
a tree house city where I watch
forest elephants search for their souls
inside a purple sky.

I come from
a field of gold and pink dotted petals
nestled in the breast of the milky way.

I come from
a heron’s wing, a wooly fleshed
warbler, a chickadees spell.

I come from
a tiptoeing, still, winter home
where I wrap myself in
a blanket of stories.