One Last Project

Sep 25, 2008 | This Life

I’ve known about our trip home for ages. So, leave it to me to decide last minute that IZ and I could use travel pillows.  I managed to get my studio area clean (you can see the floor in the photo… Hello! No strings on me.) enough to be inspiring again.  To compound my fate, Joann’s had fabric I’d been eyeing for ages on sale. SALE! It’s a rare moment when you see a Japanese print at our store, so I snatched up what little they had left and got to work.

I didn’t mean for our pillows to be so matchy-matchy. I swear. That was an accident. But the browns in those prints looked so beautiful against this amazing Egyptian cotton I’ve been hoarding, I couldn’t resist. It’s probably a good thing this was so last minute; as I was handing IZ his, a stray thought crept into the corner of my studio and shouted, “HEY! YOU! MONOGRAM THAT PILLOW.”  Apparently, Martha Stewart has taken up residence in the north corner of my space. She should really tidy up that spot.

Monogram? What a fabulous idea!

Then I looked at the laundry and my empty suitcase and thought better of it.

Next time.

Here

Sep 18, 2008 | This Life

We are shifting into fall and  our school routine. I have to admit, I like the pattern. Which is odd.  I expected to really mourn my loss of free time. The last part of summer was completely my own which afforded tons of time in my studio.  However, I’m finding our routine to be a bit of a comfort. It makes for a cleaner house, at least. Because IZ and I share the teaching load and alternate days, my teaching days create a perfect opportunity for getting those pesky loads of laundry done. Which, is a good thing. Right?

Lately, though, what free time I’ve had has gone to creating. While the rest of the house is starting to look livable again, my studio is an absolute disaster. I have piles of projects waiting, mounds of fabric, and sewing debris an inch thick on the floor. I don’t dare walk in there barefoot for fear of a brash encounter with straight pins. Ouch. I’d like to think of it as creative chaos. It’s probably just messy.

My goal is to have it cleaned by next week when we leave for our annual trek home. A trip home that is about survival for me. We didn’t go in May, due to the wedding. So this is a necessary a sanity break, if nothing else. A planned “summer”. The weather here for the past few weeks has been glorious, but it’s not enough. So, we schedule a pilgrimage to all spaces holy at least one a year. In this case, Anaheim, Santa Barbara, and Marin make up the trifecta necessary for me to endure another winter here. It’s been too long since I’ve been home.

This trip promises to be interesting, but I’ll blog more on that later. In the meantime, we’ve been busy entertaining. Typically, I like to spread these things out–I’m so intensly private, to have three social encounters in my space in one week is usually overwhelming. But with the trip, we’re trying to touch bases before we go. You know how it goes. What’s that old cliche? Strike while the iron’s hot?? Anyhow, it’s made for clean spaces and that makes for a peaceful space I really crave.

This post has been a bit random. Right? I really thought I’d be blogging more in September, but I’ve been so busy with Mireio that I’ve barely brought my head up. It’s a good kind of busy, but I’m going to try to rectify this bad habit. There has to be space in this new pattern for finding my way here.

Before I go, though… I have to show you these:

I’m absolutely giddy about them! They’re so beautiful and I can hardly wait to send them out. If you want a little love coming your direction—you know, not a BILL, let me know. I’ll pop a note off to you.

And this is for Cap. I’m thinking about you. BELIEVE

I’ve Lost My Edge

Sep 4, 2008 | This Life

Laura said, last month, that I did a pitiful job of announcing my new store, Mireio. She’s right. But, people, I’m clown and balloon adverse. Anyhow, August was a soft opening and I been cramming hours in my personal sweat shop erm, studio to be ready for September. “Studio” sounds so pretentious coming from me. I bristle at it like I bristle at the label “writer”. But, that’s another neurotic blog post, for another angst driven day.

Worked up? WHO ME? Never. I’m Southern, we don’t let people know they’ve gotten to us. Unless they commit tremendous acts of hubris, and then we swear like drunken sailors on shore leave (or we get stupid and blog about it. Ok, that’s just me.).  Let’s laugh for a few moments over that bit of sarcasm, shall we? I’m a riot.

September has dawned bright and cheerful and sunny and I’m wondering, maybe the Universe is confused about what hemisphere we live in! It’s so summery here this week, I pity all those kids going back to school.  My child is plotting his eventual overthrow of world governments. Don’t ask. Something about recruiting “agents” and things I shouldn’t know.

Me, I’m just having mild panic attacks over the fact that I’m officially open. Not soft, not tentative, not kidding! My ad on Modish is running, my spotlight was today. She called me romantic. That’s not my name. And now the Ting Ting reference is making sense! (Cap, I know you were with me the whole way.)

I’d like to think I have an edge.  But if Mireio is any indication, there is an inner girly girl somewhere beneath all my self delusion. IZ is fond of saying, “How Anthropologie of you”.  I can’t help it. I like pretty. Dang it. Maybe I should throw in a few expletives in my descriptions to throw people off.

It shouldn’t bug me.  But you know, it does. It’s funny how we have visions of ourselves that we really don’t live into. Beyond our fantasies of being supermodels, fantastic drummers in a rock band, celebrity wives of celebrity men; beyond Nobel prize winner, beyond chosen book of month writer on Oprah, beyond The Next President of These United States of America.

No, deeper delusion. Subtle; our fingers fanned wide, sticky, thrust out before us into a web of labels, we attach all those words we find appealing. Gluing them to our psyches just as securely as the labels on our jeans. Smart. Funny. Cool. Brilliant. Innovative. Social. Thin. Attractive. Compassionate. Wise.

It’s not that we aren’t those things in degrees. It’s that we have an investment in being so.  There’s currency, social currency in being whatever it is we deem valuable. We find others who accept  our bills of defense, and we spend, spend, spend. If there is any weakness in the human condition, it is that we are prone to find others of our kind  who will tell us exactly what we want to hear. Our ability to lie to ourselves is immense. Never underestimate that little trait. To ignore our propensity for self-delusion is to court destruction, just as surely as Rome fell.

Deep down, we suspect our deceits. We know we’re frauds. But we’re hoping. We’re praying that we’re not. We would be wise to pay attention to that inner voice that challenges all those external voices of accolade, that questions the labels we and others have chosen for us. We would be wise; but most often, we are not.

A very wise adviser once gave me sound advice. He said, “Wende, for every word you put out there, you’ll find people willing to tell you how amazing you are.  And your critics will jump in and tell you otherwise. Don’t be deluded by either.”   I suspect that most of us fall prey to one or the other. We either listen too closely to our fan clubs or absorb too much of our critics. Lord help those of us with inner critics equipped with megaphones. Heaven spare those whose sycophantic friends have elevated them to guru status.

It is an act of immeasurable willpower to strip away the labels, look ourselves in the mirror, and admit to ourselves that perhaps, just maybe, we have not lost our edge. Perhaps, just maybe, we never had an edge at all. Perhaps, just maybe, we’re simply pretty.

Slipping into Fall

Aug 25, 2008 | This Life

I think it’s partly the weather, not just the date, but Autumn is immanent. I can feel it in my joints and the sky is a pathological liar. Sun one moment, but it’s just a tease, rain the next. Gloom and gray are raucous, you hear that party arriving long before you see it. Drunk gods of thunder, deranged beasts clothed in storms; it is no party I’m interested in attending.

Summer, you were fleeting. Dangerously addictive. I miss you already. I would abandon everything to be with you again.

Today was a hard day. And I will confess, that I’m self medicating with Ghirardelli. A whole huge bar of milk chocolate. It didn’t work, so I washed it down with a glass of red wine. Not good stuff, not bad either. Just enough to dull this ache, if this ache could be dulled. I don’t think I can bear this pain alone… so sit with me for awhile, OK?

I said goodbye to the Summer Lunch program today. It is wrapping up this week, and today was my last day. I made a point of saying goodbye to my fierce boy, this child who has stolen my heart. Because he’s autistic and doesn’t really get that I’m not permanent, I needed him to know I wasn’t coming back. Not until next year. He fought the tears, and I fought them too. I told him that I believed in him. That I knew he would be OK. That I would be holding him in my thoughts forever. And that I would see him next year. Promise.

He’s had a hard summer. He’s had a hard life. He has no filter that tells him his emotions should be in check, so everything he feels is so available for you or me to see. Very available to those around him to mock and tease and taunt. He lives a life in full view; I bury mine beneath all my own scars. But I recognize it. I do. He’s just out there on the surface, throwing his head into concrete walls when frustration takes hold. The only real difference between us is that I’ve met the concept of metaphor.

“Tell me something funny,” I say. “Tell Hannah Montana a joke, buddy.”

“Why did the chicken cross the road?” he replies, running in circles, this is how I will remember him. Always running.

“I don’t know, why did the chicken cross the road?” I ask.

“To get some milk.”

We laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because it has to be funny. We are fighting the inevitability of the season, the inevitability of change. Tomorrow, I will not be there.

“Wende, why did the Chicken cross the road?” he begins again. I’m wishing it was that easy, to begin again.

But then it is time to go. Time to really say goodbye, time to pack up our program, time for one last hug. I have become jaded and not capable of being surprised by anything. Abuse and neglect. Hunger and poverty and absolute joy in the midst of it. I cannot be fazed. We pull away, our car in motion, and then he surprises even me. Banging loudly on my window, his little fists flying, flying in my direction not at yet another tormentor. Fumbling with unfamiliar car controls, I roll down the window.

“Goodbye,” he says, “I’ll miss you.” And then he begins to cry, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Kiddo.” I say with as much composure as I can muster.

But I’m not mustering any composure now. I’m just slipping into Fall, holding onto a summer I won’t forget.

I ain’t happy, I’m feeling glad
I got sunshine, in a bag
I’m useless,but not for long
The future is coming on