over the past week or so i've been sending out emails with the subject line, 'In the Market...' even as a marketing professional, it has struck me as odd every time i type it. but odd in a good way, i think.
it's made me hyper-aware that marketing,the word, is a derivative of market. and moreover, what i find so compelling about marketing, the business principle, is getting inside the market's collective mind.
so now that i'm quite literally marketing myself, seeking a new career opportunity, it's a high stakes proposition. while i am able to easily articulate my brand and value propositions, and have a clearly defined space in the mind of my established customer base; i'm hoping to reach a new audience. a new audience that i haven't put a name on yet.
and when the commodity you're selling is yourself, the transactional significance skyrockets. it's a vulnerable place to be, the market.
when i first entered the world of qsr marketing, we often joked, 'Right or wrong, it'll be gone in 30 days!' on a promotional calendar that cycled with haste and regularity, every month was an opportunity to experiment, learn, and improve. every promotional analysis incrementally exposing the market nuances.
thankfully my career hasn't changed at the same manic pace, but the principle of continual learning has still prevailed. and at this junction between known and unknown, i am confidently curious about what's next. so far, each potential buyer has been more compelling than the one before.
d: a successful campaign
b: a commodity with wide market appeal
g: continual expansion and growth
If a picture is worth a thousand words, a metaphor is worth a thousand pictures.
i recently fell in love with this slant on the oft used root expression. i think in metaphors. i really do. it exasperates some people in my life, those assuming i'm questioning their ability to follow a literal thought. others tolerate it, but immediately summarize my literary visual with their interpretation. so, you're pissed/sad/tired/hurt?
they remind me of my least favorite math course in college, number theory. it's unfair to term it math, because it was an exercise in mind-bending that required shifting the literal to the abstract in every way, abandoning the very thing i love about math: the finite absoluteness. but what's brought to mind is the last line of work that completed a number theory 'problem' (generally, a proof of some sort). at the end of a grueling iterative process, the proof would be concluded with three little dots in a triangle, representing the word therefore. and then some brilliant conclusion was made. nine times out of ten, the conclusion was exactly what you started with. (and that 10th time, i probably did it wrong.) all the work, all the effort, all the creative thinking reduced to a simple therefore...and suddenly you're right back where you started.
and in math, i'm ok with that. i say, skip the proof and accept the theorem. but in personal expression, i cannot abide the therefore. i would, if i could. truly, it would make communication so much simpler sometimes. but when my mind wanders to the abstract, to the emotive, to the philosophical, the words it chooses are all nouns and verbs and concepts are all expressed in scenes and stories.
it's a puzzle to me as to whether it's due to an abundance or a lack of verbal expression.
i can't find the words to describe the abstract feelings or thoughts, so i turn to literal objects or experiences in metaphor. that would be a lack.
my abstract thoughts and feelings generate elaborate stories and pictures though, which i share as metaphors. that would be abundance.
but i digress. i didn't intend to write four paragraphs on my metaphor factory. i have a running list on my phone of thoughts i want to blog on and when i opened it, i laughed at my cryptic metaphors and was struck by the realization it's my language.
yesterday, someone reminded me of the value in transparency. Transparency and honesty. Just aim for that. You've seen what havoc and hurt it creates when you don't. and so today, while i yearn to reenter my world of words through a metaphor, i am instead remaining literal.
although, or perhaps because, it comes most naturally in my personal expression, my writing here often leans on metaphor. instead of revelatory, though it feels that way at times, it appears more often as a shroud.. of secrecy, privacy, or even shame. i recognize that and while i won't even attempt to abandon my language, i will try to add a few more therefores. after all, that clarity is what i'm seeking in the first place.
d: clarifying metaphors easily therefore'd
b: a language to express myself with, rich in images and symbolism
g: a gentle reminder of the importance in setting it aside and simply being seen
so often when i listen to live music, i find myself fixated on who i wish were also there, hearing and seeing the performance. i can be obsessed with my certainty that this person or people would be transformed or should be exposed or inspired by what i am experiencing. i will torture myself with trying to record the most exemplary clips or trying to capture the tone and magic of a live performance with still photography. (from a phone, to make it all the more absurd.) and at the end of the show, i leave wistful.
it just occurred to me last night: what an idiotic waste of a concert that has been.
ironically, that clarity arrived at the end of a show in which a misguided, ungrateful thought of who could be enjoying it alongside me never once entered my mind. i can't claim that i realized the irony of hinging my enjoyment on that of another and hence consciously made this change though. it was more likely due to the fact that one of those who i often long to share things with was there with me: todd.
a first, of its sorts, really. though i've taken him to many concerts, we've never shared a table at a live music venue (i.e. a bar) and sat shoulder to shoulder as adults... perhaps it's semantics. perhaps it's maternal nostalgia. or maybe it was the glass of wine i enjoyed. whatever the cause, i contend it was a first.
my memory uses shorthand when it comes to media. i rarely remember what a book was about, what happened in a film, or even who sings a song or what a certain musician's style is. but in the scribbling notes of my mind, i can usually recall my opinion. often it's as rudimentary as a thumbs up or down; but occasionally there's an exclamation scrawled in the margin.
when todd asked me about the musician i invited him to see last night, i said, the most amazing f'ing guitarist i've ever seen. he asked what kind of music he played. shrug he asked me who his music resembled. shrug he was understandably skeptical of my high marks with little to substantiate and said, i guess i'll see..but he won't hold a candle to hendrix, i'm sure. silently i hoped to myself that my memory's headline wasn't skewed or exaggerated.
and when i looked over at todd's face, transfixed on the magic happening a mere seven or eight feet away, the only person brought to mind was myself at his age... there's nothing quite like being audience to a jam. a spontaneous merging of magnanimous talent and the acoustic art that it creates.
jam. yum.
my favorite way to spend a saturday night and put on a biscuit sunday morning.
eighteen and sixteen. the boys are officially on their way out.
friday night, todd's birthday request was attending the opening of Straight Outta Compton. so, we threw our fifty buck contribution into the $60 million box office debut and claimed seats at the theater that topped the country in opening weekend Compton ticket sales.
that's right. an atlanta theater holds the #1 position in box office sales for last weekend, leading a top ten with nine LA area theaters. (why do i feel a touch of pride about that?)
what a movie. tremendously moving. engrossing in the complexity. heart-breakingly enlightening. and in contrast to the aforementioned pride, utterly humbling.
one of the pivotal events in the film occurred in my eighteenth year and the entirety of the story spanned my adolescence. yet, here i am over twenty years later, sitting beside my eighteen year old son, and getting an education. although the music and names were familiar, the story was altogether foreign to me. and that was so very sobering.
it's boggling how much longer my own childhood felt to me than my boys' has. to me. although at times i've thought their "eighteen" would never arrive; overall, the paradox of time has compressed their youth into an instant.
however, when i left the theater friday night shoulder-to-shoulder with my peers and his, i realized how much broader his life experience has been, than mine was at the same age. so much content in so little time. how much bigger his world is. and in turn, how much bigger mine is.
ever-expanding.
ever-learning.
ever-grateful.
d: put it on the required viewing list. everyone. asap.
b: straight outta lake claire, my heart and mind were moved
g: shared experiences that continue to enlarge my world
there's a metaphor i've heard used to describe the world view i hold and it goes something like this... just as every drop of the ocean is wholly ocean, the ocean is wholly comprised of these drops. (substitute each of us for each drop and the ocean for a universal spirit and you get the idea.)
perhaps it's because i grew up at the ocean or perhaps it's my water sign dominance, but for whatever reason that depiction of spirit has always resonated with me strongly. and because of that, or maybe owing to this, i find great comfort and renewal in water. when things are uncertain or upended in my life, i am drawn to it and without exception it brings me back to clarity and alignment with my better side.
i spent saturday on the lake with friends and while i was there, something caught my attention...and has remained there nagging at me and asking to be incorporated to my world view metaphor. it was a water sport. one i've never seen before. granted, i've spent most of my water hours in the salted variety; but over the past (nearly) twenty years that i've lived in atlanta, i've gotten my lake water-wings too. and in neither setting have i seen this particular skill in this particular way.
the boat involved was moving quite slowly and, with an inboard motor, creating a deep wake behind it. the young guy performing was, at first, holding a ski rope with one hand and standing on a surf board, off to the side of the boat. the rope was loose, with plenty of slack and i was at first boggled by what was going on. within seconds, he had dropped the rope and repositioned himself on the board, maintaining an easy balance.
the boat was still moving peculiarly slowly, very close to the guy, but the casual body language of the board-rider made it clear that all was going according to plan. next thing you know (and though i'm drawing out the story, this was all within a matter of a few seconds..) he was surfing.
literally surfing the perpetual and steady wave created behind the boat. i laughed when i realized how obvious it all was and watched in awe. i'm not a surfer myself, so this is pure speculation, but i imagine the hardest part of surfing is waiting for the perfect wave. spotting it, timing it, wiping your brow at the wrong second and missing it, waiting for it again.
this guy, however, had found a way to capitalize on the inherent, perfect curl that follows a slow moving boat and ride it. quite simply, ride it. truly genius.
while so many lake sportsmen (and sportswomen) are trying to find the smooth, glassy place between the wake's wave and remain steadily within it; this guy was relishing the leading edge of forward motion and riding it. something i can easily bring into my ever-evolving metaphor of life.
what a heavy word that is. responsible. re·spon·si·ble
rəˈspänsəb(ə)l/ adjective
1. having an obligation to do something, or having control over or care for someone, as part of one's job or role.
2. being the primary cause of something and so able to be blamed or credited for it.
3. (of a job or position) involving important duties, independent decision-making, or control over others.
4. having to report to (a superior or someone in authority) and be answerable to them for one's actions.
5. capable of being trusted.
6. morally accountable for one's behavior.
as i suspected, the definitions are chock full of even heavier words: obligation, cause, blame, important, control, morally accountable, answerable. eek. my feet are sinking deeper into the ground, the more i type.
i've been thinking a lot about that word... i was forced to be responsible at a young age. i worked young. i moved out young. i made good grades. i knew the burden of college tuition was mine alone. i volunteered with my church youth group. i volunteered alone. i did all the things that we say young people should do in order to deem them responsible. and i felt the full weight of that word.
as an adult, at times i've found myself drawn to those who don't feel it. those who aren't particularly responsible. those who either intentionally or not have created lives with less of that burden. i've made valiant (read: extreme) efforts to shed my lead cloak but eventually reality jerked me back and only lately have i recognized that both are possible. in moderation.
but that's not the definition of responsible that i've been most fixated on lately. i've been listening to some audio books (an attempt to keep my eyes off my kindle and/or phone while driving) that have impressed me with their ability to articulate a very single-minded idea in so many different ways. a thesaurus of phrasing around one very simple concept. chapter after chapter around one single thought. example after example illustrating one principle.
i am responsible for my happiness. only i am responsible for my happiness.
upon first hearing this, i felt the full weight of that responsibility. smothering almost. unable to look to my surroundings or conditions left me with only myself to paint my emotional landscape. every color in the spectrum from the darkest grey to the brightest, happiest yellow, to the angriest crimson: the full palette placed solely in my hands.
and then, as i kept listening, and kept listening, and kept listening (i have a long commute, every single day, after all), i heard something else.
i am responsible for only my happiness.
d: may i keep my hands on my own brushes and paints
b: my palette is full of nuance and depth
g: only one, very manageable, canvas for which i am responsible
i got a new purse today and in the process of assigning things to pockets and compartments, i dumped three other purses out on the kitchen table. and as i sorted and purged, i made a huge pile of coins. i wish i'd weighed them. it's no wonder my shoulders hurt all the time and my number one criteria for the new purchase was: lightweight. (as if the weight of the purse itself was ever the problem.)
i couldn't help but notice the variety of quarters accumulating on the table and on a whim i started setting aside the state quarters. 45 minutes later, after three purses' worth of coins and two dresser-top piggy banks, i counted quarters from 39 different states! (and oddly enough, two states had two quarters each, with different designs. i don't know what that's all about.)
in my appreciation of the individuality of each coin and the creativity of some, i noticed something that stopped me in my tracks. yesterday i wrote about two very special states and their lack of respect for their citizens. i didn't reveal the states, (though there was a link if you made it to the end and bothered) but now i think i must. consider this a footnote to yesterday's editorial on the subject.
"The Equality State"
any idea which one that might be? you'll never guess.
wyoming.
you know, the land of cowboys and indians. there's even a cowboy riding a bucking mustang on the coin, to jog your memory. i couldn't for the life of me imagine what that motto was referring to. admittedly, i know nothing of wyoming; but when i think of cowboys and indians, equality is not a word that comes to mind. at all.
when we settled wyoming, there were five Native American tribes occupying the plains there: Arapaho, Shoshone, Ute, Crow and Cheyenne. only two remain, Shoshone and Arapaho, and they share a single reservation.
equality, indeed.
apparently the nickname was given to wyoming because they were the first to grant women the right to vote. yee haw. even as a voting american woman i am again disgusted by this state and find their use of the word equality an insult to the principle itself.
d: again...wyoming, show some respect!
b: 39 out of 50 is pretty damn good
g: learning a bit of our american history, no matter the disgust factor
whenever i put off a blog topic for 'tomorrow', without fail, i lose the creative inspiration on said topic. so this will be brief.
with todd's 'summer employment', so to speak, and all the discussion of minimum wage in the news, it's sparked some dialogue at our house. i won't carry on about how our federal minimum wage ($7.25/hr) isn't even a remotely reality-based, livable wage; because that's been discussed plenty elsewhere. i have another bone to pick today. (my passion on this is coming back...as i write!)
yesterday i read a headline regarding the city of new york and their wage board's approval of an increase from their current state minimum wage of $8.75 to $15.00 an hour, over the next few years. though it costs a small mint to live in new york and this probably still won't even begin to reach a livable-wage level, at least the city and state are willing to acknowledge the issue and take some steps.
and many states are taking these steps. twenty-nine states have a minimum wage that's higher than the national minimum. fifteen states index their wage to the rising cost of living and automatically adjust each year, with five more states adopting that protocol over the next four years.
then there are two states with very special minimum wages laws. and i mean very special. in these states they have maintained their wage at the level our federal government instated eighteen years ago. EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO! the federal government raised the national minimum wage over their 2015 level, eight years ago, by raising the 1997 $5.15/hour rate to $5.85/hour.
that's right. if you followed that convoluted paragraph, your head should be spinning. in these two states, the state mandated minimum wage is $5.15 an hour. but what about the federal rate? doesn't that apply? that's what you're thinking, right? well, yes, generally it does, with a few exceptions.
which is why i find this even more appalling. in these two states (and i won't spoil the surprise by telling you which ones they are), the legislators are telling their businesses and citizens that, despite the wage Washington is forcing us to dictate, in the state of _________, you are worth less. much less. and if we had our druthers, we'd pay you 30% less than what is already admittedly a pittance.
when i went to lunch today, i left my car parked in direct sunlight for an hour or so. when i returned, the outside thermometer on it read 101. the heat out there was pretty unbearable and i immediately thought how grateful i was to work inside on a day like today.
and then i thought of the people who don't. those who work in agriculture or fishing. those who work maintenance for landlords. those who do landscaping or work for a small business, as a laborer. those are arguably the most difficult jobs to perform in july here in georgia. and those, those are the people whose employers are not subject to the national wage law. those are the ones who are legally allowed (in two very special states) to deem their employees worth less.
in case you're curious, the other wage-earners that aren't worth the national inadequacy, are full-time students. because, in these two very special states, working your way through college is worth less. and even employers who may have to pay their other employees $7.25/hour, are legally allowed to give full-time students $5 dollars and fifteen cents an hour.
i was a kid that always had a job growing up. and i mean, always. when i was 14 i went to the mall mcdonald's and told the manager i was 15. he said, well, you really need to be 16 to work here, but we'll just change the year by one... the school was lax about handing out work permits, so i picked up a blank one and magically i entered the work force, one basket of french fries at a time.
that was my first job, and thankfully short-lived, but there was never a gap in my employment after that for more than a few weeks. (at least not that i can recall.) i won't do the math for you, but suffice it to say since i've been working for over a quarter of a century, i consider myself something of an authority on the matter.
having been a teenager that always was balancing academics, social, and a part time job myself, i've spent a good deal of time thinking about how i'd approach that matter with my own children. it definitely contributed to my responsibility and problem-solving skills and instilled a firm grasp on the value of a dollar, but these lessons came at a price. i rarely attended a football game. i couldn't travel to atlanta with my third year french class to see Les Mis. i was involved in very few academic extra-curriculars and none that met after school. and i believed myself an island, rather than a family member, in my household; prompting me to move out as soon as i got a car and turned 18...spring of my senior year.
i've told both my boys that i wouldn't allow them to work during the school year, (not that they are beating the door down to enter the work force, mind you); but after todd's sophomore year of high school i did tell him i wanted him to either work or volunteer over the summer. in other words, playing video games and sleeping the days away weren't going to cut it for his summer pastime. (at the heart of this was my grandmother's refrain, 'Idle hands are the devil's workshop'.)
when we first discussed it, todd was confused as to why he would volunteer if a paying job was the alternative. a reasonable question for a sixteen year old, right? i expected it and was prepared.
this time in your life is unique. there aren't many others like it. you don't have to make money to live right now. you have the ability to spend your time doing something that may make a difference to you and others, exploring things you are curious about or passionate about. learning and experiencing life in ways you haven't yet.
he countered that a paying job would be a new experience too. (did i mention he's a varsity debater?) but again, i was prepared. (apple...tree, yeah, you get it.)
i don't want you to make this decision based on something as trivial as minimum wage. if you would rather get a job in retail or fast food, by all means, go for it. but if you find a cause or organization you'd rather donate your time to, i will pay you the same wage you'd make elsewhere.
(mom 1, todd 0)
he took me up on that offer and volunteered last summer at a children's theater. not as many hours as i'd have liked, but it did have the intended impact. he felt great about his contribution there. he told me after two days that he would have done it even if i weren't paying him. (never mind that he wouldn't have known this fact...details) and as a bonus, the universe rewarded him for his generosity of time with someone special. (they just celebrated a first year anniversary.)
(mom 1, todd 1)
so this summer when we started talking about his plan, he mentioned getting a job. he wanted to earn money because now he has something to spend it on (see aforementioned someone special).. and had a few ideas of places to apply. but then one day, as we chatted about this, he said wistfully, i wish i could volunteer at the civil rights museum... and i said, well, why didn't you ask?
he enthused, really?? you'd do that again??
wave of gratitude rushed over me. it worked.
he is passionate about human and civil rights. he truly is moved to tears by the violations he reads of. and he initiated this giving of his time from the place i hoped it would come, his heart.
this exchange was an unexpected bonus for me. i realized that, in fact, he had learned something i thought unattainable from unpaid work: the value of a dollar. and an appreciation that this offer i made him is worth much more than he would be paid bagging groceries at kroger.
(mom 2, todd 1)
d: tomorrow i'll write the blog i had intended to write today
b: i win!
g: a payoff much bigger than the amount paid
i ran across this in the stairwell at my office many months ago and have since imagined its role in all sorts of fantastic scenarios. the general premise that underlay these fantasies was a half-baked amalgamation of technology headlines that i adopted. i assigned this poker-chip sized world tag to the geeky, recreational hobby of geocaching and deigned it a step in a cyber-scavenger hunt of some sort.
our office building houses a couple of technology companies and, though i'd be shocked to see any of their exceptionally elevator-reliant, millennial employees climb the stairs to our upper levels simply for a game; i did imagine that one of those hipsters was to blame for the placing of this mysterious device. i imagined that upon further scrutiny i would find a number or a QR code or some other identifier that a knowledgeable player of the game would then follow to their next tag, for another clue. and so on, until at some point, they discovered the treasure chest at the end of their quest.
every time i stepped into the stairwell to make a private phone call or visit another floor i checked to make sure the clue was still intact. i wondered if i was the only person in my company to notice it or if there were many poker-chip-scavenger-hunters all around me, and i was simply out of the loop. (sort of like the ping-pong table in our sixth floor break room that's literally in constant use, though i imagined it sitting idle day in and day out.) i have even shown it to a couple of my friends at work, look at this thing! as if i had personally unearthed the holy grail.
then today, for some reason, my curiosity got the best of me. i decided that it was time i step up to the inherent responsibility that comes with pioneering and answer the call of the tag. i deliberately entered the stairwell, confirmed it still in place, and dropped to my knees in order to transcribe the secret code and then join the ranks of those searching for these tiny disks of discovery.
but umm, i didn't find a code. instead it was just a plastic disk, presumably with a small bit of information encoded via RFID. i made note of all potentially identifiable markings and obviously photographed it, then returned to my desk, and consulted trusty google.
this is where i made my mistake though. for it turns out that the stories i created in my mind of treasure yet to be discovered and my critical role in said quest were simply myth. likely this mysterious world tag is placed in the stairwell on the 10th floor to ensure that the security guards make full circuits of the building on their patrols. or perhaps it's playing big brother to the housekeeping staff, verifying their passage every night after hours.
i had hoped to be the next IT in a secret game of World Tag.
i had hoped to have the honor of selecting another unlikely, but hidden in plain sight, placement for the tag.
i had hoped to be part of something entirely connected to a wholly invisible community, and have an impact.
and then i had an idea.
d: will you play tag with me?
b: this unlikely, hidden in plain sight, placement
g: dbg-tag: endless treasures waiting to be claimed
i've been listening to an audiobook in all my un-sewing time, of which there have been many hours, and uncovered a disconcerting chicken-egg misperception of mine. as i become reacquainted with the once-familiar law of attraction, i remember vividly a time when i was much aligned with the principle and my own power of manifesting.
and the contrast between then and the past few years is a sobering a-ha.
when i was aligned with the source within me, i was a manifesting maniac. i was writing constantly. i was soaring emotionally. i was my healthiest and fittest ever. i was irrepressibly happy. not surprisingly, that's when i met haley and our energies matched. resonated. we fell hard. more manifesting. etc, etc. it's all here, i won't belabor it.
but over time, life got harder. i quit writing here, or anywhere else. when my friends and family would ask why i'd stopped or speak wistfully of my blog, i shrugged it off. i couldn't write a dbg a day when things in my life were so volatile or, at the very least, too imperfect to expose to the world.
at least, that's what i thought then. i've written about it since, in fact.. my explanation that i stopped writing in an effort to protect myself, remain invulnerable.
i'm realizing now that perhaps i had that wrong though. backwards in fact. i am a writer. it's who i am. it's what i do. if i'm not doing it, i'm not aligned with myself or my source. and if i'm out of alignment with me, it's no wonder the rest of my life was crumbling around my feet.
for, though i believed that when the world fell apart around me, it was why i fell too; the truth is, when my focus fell from my own happiness, my world reciprocated in kind. the law of attraction giving me back exactly what i was offering up.
and to be clear, it wasn't just the exercise of writing here; it was the discipline and practice of celebrating gratitude and offering up desires unto the universe. the dbg may appear simply to be a fun literary device that i close my blogs with, to you; but it actually is much more powerful for me.
it's an intentional focusing of my energy on the good that i desire, the good that i create and the good that i have received.
intentional. focusing.
i won't ever again tell myself, or you, my readers, that this blog is merely a by-product of my alignment. instead, i will honor it as a tool with which i maintain it.
i've had a long standing metaphor in mind around quilting. for those of you who don't have first hand knowledge of the pastime, take my word for it, there's quite a lot of time for your mind to wander. hours, in fact. that's one of the things i love about it, the daydreaming time it affords me, disguised as productive creativity.
this week, however, i am being forced to take another look at my metaphor in light of my recent 'progress' on my quilt. i guess i have to explain where i'm starting before i dive into this monkey wrench. i'll try to make it quick.
in short, think of the entirety of the quilt as a relationship between two people. each stitch of the quilting itself as a moment shared between the two. some quilting is intricate and beautiful and some is routine and functional; but nonetheless all the stitches are needed to hold the two sides together and create dimension and beauty. there's lots more to it, related to the piecing and the blocks, and sashing... but for now, the quilting stitches are what matter.
when i first learned to sew with a machine, i was most curious about the function of the bobbin thread. having sewed many buttons and hems by hand, i understood the general in-the-top out-the-bottom mechanism of that. but the bobbin thread in my machine was foreign altogether.
it makes sense though, when you really think about it. the bobbin supplies a second thread that the top thread loops around. essentially, this looping is what holds the fabrics together...almost like a knot, but without the knot.
because the top thread is looping around the bobbin thread and this 'knot' is visible on the surface of the fabric, usually the two threads are the same color. this creates the most visual continuity and has the best chance of your stitches blending in.
but, that's not the path i have taken on this particular quilt. i am using a white top thread, because it is most attractive on the pieced blocks and white sashing. and i have been using a navy blue thread on my bobbin. the bottom fabric on this quilt is dark and the blue fades into it nicely.. even with some interspersed dots of white thread showing through.
this is the first quilt i've made for myself and my fifth quilt over all. i love the fabrics and had them picked out for six months before i finally chose a pattern and purchased them. since i moved into my new house a year ago, i've forbid myself from purchasing any new bedding with the hope that it would motivate my completion of this project.
so, while mom was in town over the weekend, i did in fact pick my unfinished project up, spread it out across my sewing table, and do a bit of work. i'm in the fun and loose stage of free motion quilting the squares and had established a design that i planned to carry throughout all the blocks. while we sat and talked monday, i knocked out a few blocks fairly easily following the pattern i'd established...i thought to myself, this isn't so bad, a couple blocks a night for a week or two and i'll be done.
then i spread the quilt out to admire my handiwork and realized i'd lost my mind temporarily, interchanging the patterns from the white blocks onto the solid blocks in half of the squares i quilted. not even all of them - then i could pretend it was intentional. but half of the squares - and not the same half on each one - were mixed up. sigh
yet, the quilt is still beautiful. perhaps even more so for the irregularities that only i, and those i choose to share with, will ever notice. after all, i will always be able to remember exactly when i sewed them and that my mother was a few feet away distracting me with laughter and conversation.
sometimes moments don't happen the way we expect. they go outside the lines and defy all reason. they follow no established protocol or pattern. and yet the bond is more beautiful because of these wild stitches.
then last night, i picked up my quilt again.. thought i'd put a few more squares to bed while todd was on the computer nearby, keeping me company. i rectified my pattern confusion and sewed a couple of perfect blocks before my bobbin thread ran out. when the bobbin is empty, all sewing ceases. the top thread just lays across the fabric loosely with no semblance of a seam. i quickly changed the bobbin and resumed my productive creativity, finishing up the square i was on and another one.. and part of another one -- oh fuck.
my head hit the sewing table, while i cursed into my hands. todd spun around from the computer, what's wrong, mom? i lifted my head and showed him the reason for my despair. the underside of my quilt showed every stitch of my recent bout of productivity: in white. on dark blue.
i spread the quilt out on the bed, with a pit in my stomach. todd tried to reassure me, it's not that bad, nobody will see the bottom side.. but i will.
i spent the next hour and a half removing every beautiful, errant stitch with a tiny seam ripper. well, i say, every stitch, but really i have three quarters of them left. it takes much longer to undo what is easily and carelessly done.
a lesson i'd much rather have learned else wise.
d: more careful attention to the stitches i place
b: slowly and gently, i am repairing the damage done
g: finding the beauty in the unplanned and unexpected creations
i read a news article today with a surprisingly astute admonishment and it got me thinking... the statement followed a woody allen quote as a total non-sequitur and i paused a solid thirty seconds trying to marry the two passages with the topic of the article. by the time i determined the allen quote was the one to be discarded, the other, somewhat obvious, reminder had resonated with me.
...In life, what matters most isn't how a decision compares to your ideal outcome. It's how it compares to the alternative at hand.
i think the reason it struck me is because i so often get stuck in that cycle. the one in which i'm contemplating my options versus an ideal that i have created entirely in fantasy, complete with bells and whistles and dancing monkeys too. as if my choice is this or that, with the that being something i had hoped for and fully believed possible, oftentimes despite reality. but perhaps what i should really be considering is this or not this.
and though i feel myself bristle at the idea of not this and observe the adrenaline of oh no! then what? rise within me, i am pushing back on that reaction. or perhaps, pushing through. i am choosing to honor then what? as an invitation to possibility. and in fact, it is the only position in which i could be open to possibility.
some spiritual teachers refer to the not this as contrast. i like that. contrast strikes a positive chord within me as it is defining, rather than limiting. it is clarity, rather than ambiguity. it reassures me rather than scaring the shit out of me.
contrast. not this. possibility.
yes.
d: possibilities beyond my wildest dreams
b: not this teeth and claws removed, welcome mat laid down instead
g: a poor editorial decision that stopped me in my tracks
my boys are about to have birthdays. one will be sixteen and the other eighteen. this summer i've ping-ponged between their two vastly divergent lives and interests, much like the last (nearly) two decades of my life. the dual extremism of their personalities and pursuits has stimulated me, as much as challenged; and i wonder and fear for the loss of that dynamic tension when todd leaves for college. though my nest won't be empty, it will be unbalanced and i anticipate that with curiosity.
i am beginning now to develop a vision for my new nest. imagining how i will feather it fully, bringing the laughter and energy from shared passions with todd to my home without him. one of my friends, also the parent of a rising high school senior, remarks that she had a life before kids and looks forward to revisiting many of those pursuits. that's not me though.
while clearly i lived before i had children, i had no adult life prior to their birth. i was in college, young, working part-time, broke, floundering. i had lost my sense of direction, and somewhat blindly wandered from one thing to another, hoping to gain clarity. i didn't plan to have a baby at twenty-three, but when i learned i was pregnant, i clung to the mission of motherhood as if a life-preserver. i took pregnancy very seriously, charting my daily servings of vegetables and dairy and tracking every developmental milestone; utterly mystified and obsessed with the miracle of life.
my interests have always ebbed and flowed, one into the next, meandering alongside and in tandem with the boys'. acquiring many skills and passions and leaving many along the path as well. so i have no clear picture of my empty-nest life, but my vision is full nonetheless, of curiosity and creativity..and more to come.
as my boys become young men, they are each quite spectacular in their own ways. each driven and motivated to their goals, respectful of adults, desiring to make a difference in the world, and both very loyal and loving to me. in their own unique ways, of course.
and i can't really emphasize the latter point strongly enough. where todd wants to serve in the peace corps after college, become a civil rights activist, and currently spends his free time in the summer volunteering at the civil rights museum and debate camp; luke is single-mindedly focused on admission to the air force academy and a career in special forces, serving in the most selective and respected SF unit, dedicated to rescue and evacuation of other special forces troops. his summer has consisted of multiple leadership camps through jrotc and rifle team practice, interspersed with circuit training. yes, indeed they are polar opposites one to the other.
but then, when i really take the time to observe, i recognize one common ground below the three of us. and it is solid. underneath our vastly different approaches to life and the paths before us, there is something strong supporting us. i contend it is love.
d: continued solid ground beneath our feet.
b: my boys are pretty amazing. it can't all be coincidence.
g: the privilege of loving them and being loved by them. it is my bedrock.
today on my way to work, i said to a friend, i really don't have time to work if i want to do all the things i love. for some reason, that was funny to the other person, though i meant it with sincerity and earnestness.
i think most of the time, i hear the reverse, there's no time for the things i love to do. and i've certainly misspoken and said that myself on occasion. but i am here today to say, emphatically, my heart aligns with the former declaration, rather than the latter.
one of my best friends and i have discussed this notion that 'working', as in having a job, is a criteria that she evaluates people on. the conversation started after she met someone who taken an early retirement and it made my friend suspicious. in contrast, i found it fascinating and admirable. when i said to her, if i didn't have to, i wouldn't work either; she was appalled. and i laughed.
there are so many things i love to do.. and i give the best and bulk of my day to my job. i find it ludicrous and incredibly disappointing that a certain presidential candidate publicly stated that americans need to work more hours.. history and an astute study of the rest of the developed nations would prove quite the opposite.
but i digress... my point was simply this: while i love my job (most days), i love many more things, much more. one day, my time allocation will reflect that. i am certain. meanwhile, i will dedicate quality time in the place of quantity time to the things that make me happiest.
not long ago i wrote here wishing i operated this blog anonymously. that i didn't have to be quite so vulnerable or specifically that my vulnerability didn't have to reach as far as my friends and family. (hence not very vulnerable at all. that point was lost on me.) but the reality is that my wish for anonymity was sort of tongue-in-cheek because if it weren't for my own sharing of my writings, via facebook or otherwise, nobody would ever know.
this week as i've written a few times and shared none of them with my social networks, i keep thinking of the age old philosophical question:
If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
i once was in a forest and heard a tree fall. it was terrifying. every time that question runs through my head, i remember the crack and crash as if it just happened. my immediate response when posed that question is 'of course.' but then when i really started to consider it (and research it, to be totally honest...because that's what i do) i've learned that's not the 'correct' answer.
according the 1883 magazine, The Chautauquan, and later supported by Scientific American, sound is technically vibration of air and only recognized as sound by our ears.. hence, no ears, no sound. i attest that's a semantic conclusion and i would make a case that if sound is vibration and vibration still occurs, the sound is there regardless of whether it's heard. but so be it. i won't be the one to solve that riddle. not today at least.
but when it comes to my writing.. i am happy to report that whether i'm read or not read, whether i'm known or anonymous, the words are still here; preserved, so to speak, in pixelated cyber-ink. and perhaps without the bugler's proclamation of a new posting, those who do find their way here will know the words they stumbled upon were meant for them.
d: stumblings-upon
b: writing for me instead of you
g: synchronistic logistics
maybe it's just me, but when i see the word Greetings! i expect something good to follow. perhaps a holiday message or an invitation or a notice that i've won an unexpected jackpot. i can think of a few other appropriate situations, but even when i stretch and reach for the third tier of most-likely-memos-to-follow, jury summons doesn't make the list.
sigh
i am tortured by this single piece of paper. it has evoked an emotional response that doesn't normally follow a cheerful greeting.
i have no qualms at all about my civic duty in principle and in fact, being a mystery-loving, puzzle-solving, obsessive-researcher i've always been innately curious about what transpires behind a jury's guarded door. so why, you may wonder, was i overcome with apprehension and dread when luke handed me the Greetings! last night...
almost two years ago exactly i received another jury summons. it was from fulton county, rather than dekalb, and decidedly less enthusiastic in the conveyance of my obligation. i made up for their lack of cheer with my excited anticipation.
it was early summer after todd's freshman year and he accompanied me to court, to observe our justice system in action. [note: i'm using the word 'action' loosely, as the jury selection process is about as action-packed as one of those algae eating snails on the side of an aquarium.]
i served on a criminal jury for a week that june, hearing a case against a young man charged with 11 felony counts, including murder, aggravated assault (ran over a person with a car, twice) and kidnapping. we sat through hours of expert witness testimony on blood spatter, saw an incarcerated witness flip sides mid-testimony, heard from prostitutes and drug dealers, and studied maps of streets and businesses that i'd driven by dozens of times... in short, it was everything my patricia cornwell and john grisham filled head could have imagined for a riveting juror experience.
except for one thing.. in the end, i had three pages of questions. unanswered questions. and the answers simply didn't exist in the cases we were presented. it also turned out that the attorneys didn't have scripts. they flubbed their lines and were at times inarticulate or ineffective in making their points clear. after all, a jury 'of your peers' may need it spelled out quite simply...(well, that's another story altogether.)
but i think it can be summed up in one tragic revelation: there are no tidy bows in real life criminal court. verdicts are messy. there are loose ends. there are unanswered questions. there is evidence untested or even uncollected. and every person in the courtroom, aside from the defendant and the jurors, are quite simply at work. and just like me, they have good days and bad days, they forget things and screw up. they are distracted by their personal lives at times and they are pushed and pulled by their bosses at others. just like at my office, there's a range of acceptable performance and people fall at both ends of the spectrum.
and the jury room is no better. there is no magic behind the heavy door. there are just people, also distracted by their kids and jobs and grocery list and that defense attorney looks like this guy i know and that prosecutor was too loud and the forensic analyst was boring me to tears so i drew a grid on my notepad. and..and...
i was wrecked by my jury experience.
i couldn't sleep.
i poured over my notes, well after the trial ended.
i saw the car from the crime everywhere (really, they were everywhere suddenly).
i drove the streets from the maps and then i avoided them too.
i was wracked with guilt for not standing my ground or being more clear.
it was like a song stuck in my head, but it felt more like morning sickness. continual nausea on the verge of much worse.
a week later, i called the judge's office and left a message. he called me back the same day. reassured me. gave me more background and context on the case. thanked me for my service and told me to put it behind me.
and i did, though i still have all my notes from the trial in my work bag. i see them daily and am momentarily reminded of our individual human-ness. inherently imperfect. and in those imperfect, human hands, we hold each other: lives and hearts.
so, back to the issue at hand.. my Greetings! from dekalb county courthouse. i called and rescheduled, first thing, as i have travel already booked for the following several days. the court clerk i spoke to advised me on tips to get out of serving altogether, but i simply thanked her and said i'd just like to reschedule instead.
i have a pit in my stomach about it. i am praying for a civil case or a corporate litigation or simply a day wasted in the jury pool holding room. but no matter, i'll be there, with much less curiosity and much lower expectations. and should i wind up on a jury that is sent to deliberation without a final chapter in the book, with great heaviness i will take what pieces i'm given and do my best.
i grew up at the beach.. playing in tidal pools and thrilled
with the discovery of a sandbar underfoot. but where i found my greatest
delight, in these jessica-sized oceans, i also had the saddest moments.
sometimes i found fish trapped in there... as a child, i imagined that they were relieved
to be protected from the predators and dangers of the tremendous sea, but soon it was
apparent to me (and them) that these perceived refuges were instead likely to
be their demise.
the fish trapped in these pools would sometimes fling
themselves up on the sand trying to get back to the ocean. there, they
would flail about, hoping to be overtaken by the fury and power of a wave that
would sweep them ironically to safety. but, generally, that didn't work.
they would thrash about on the sand and eventually fall back into the tidal
pool. their suffocation temporarily stayed.
as the tide recedes, tidal pools both warm and shrink.
these fish realize (or so i imagined) their slice of peaceful respite was not
all they hoped. the need for a larger body of water, the security and
stability of open sea, the refreshing temperature brought by ever flowing
currents - these once feared elements were desperately needed by the fish, in
order to merely survive.
over and over the fish fling themselves toward the sound of
the surf in hopes that this time the foamy waves would be within reach.
but time and again, the fish fall exhausted back into the once
refreshing, then tepid, and now dangerously toxic tidal puddle. the oxygen
depleted from the still water, the temperature hot to the touch, a stench would
rise off these pools as all life died there.
there's a place in my world too, in which i've dreamed of sanctuary and escape. a place i imagined myself enveloped in a depth unlike most others and seemingly idyllic. a place i could be submerged without drowning and yet held buoyant by the life swirling around me.
much like a tidal pool it has dwindled to a salty, scalding cesspool and i find myself flopping about on the sand, praying for a wave. but instead drowning on dry land.
